Early Morning Musings

This will hopefully explain my recent absence:

Oh my, oh me,
I've now found reading a luxury.
For what doth my wand'ring eye see,
but a babe--not a book--in my periphery.

The angel I love, that is for sure,
Though from the fatigue of his care there is no cure.
For when the chance presents the page to tour,
The need for shut-eye is much more pure.

And though I miss the story and its ties,
I know my reading will once again be on the rise,
Because, for now, when I see into my eyes,
There's nothing better than baby smiles, sounds, and cries.

So those who find reading a chore, take heed,
Enjoy your time with a book 'til a wee one becomes your creed.

Life's Surprises in Kerouac's On the Road

Okay, I’ll admit it: I prejudged the “Beat” Generation and all of its related literature before reading any of it, and before really knowing too much about it. This is kind of embarrassing to divulge, but I honestly associated them with the’60s hippie subculture; I didn’t really dislike any of it. It was more of an indifference, or the belief that “I know that ‘Beat’ writers and individuals greatly impacted the social, cultural, and literary scene of America during the mid 20th century, but I’m not really interested, so I’m just not going to go there. There are too many other works and movements that I would rather spend my time exploring.” I’ve even visited the Beat Museum in San Francisco with my family, and while I took it all in, I still wasn’t inspired enough to really explore it.


My hesitancy and disinterest was directly associated with some sort of image of the Beat players—Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, etc.—that I had somehow formed in my mind. I saw them clad in all black, in tight black turtlenecks and shades, smoking cigarettes, and spouting off some incoherent poetry. Don’t ask me how this impression of Beats took shape in my mind, but for whatever reason, it did. Obviously, my notion of the Beat Generation was off, which became ever so clear to me when I recently picked up and read Kerouac’s 1957 work On the Road. Now, this is my first foray into Beat literature, so I am by no means any scholar, but I am happy to explain how wrong I was about the Beats, or at least about Jack Kerouac and his 1957 piece.

Like all works of meaningful literature, there are many components that make it important and relevant. In this post, I am just going to focus on one aspect of On the Road that not only touched me, but that also enlightened me about what it means to be “Beat.” Instead of the abstract, alternative text I was expecting, I was pleasantly surprised by the energetic hope and genuine pleasure Sal (the character Kerouac is based on) seeks and has for the experiences his country offers. Whether these experiences involve jazz performances, long, intellectual discussions with Dean (or Cassady), or relishing the beauty and simplicity of the land, Kerouac essentially embraces the genuine and pure moments of life in On the Road. Sal reminds me that all experiences, particularly new experiences, make life more meaningful. Like in life, moments of sadness and pain intermix with moments joy and happiness; there are definitely sad and painful undertones in On the Road, but ultimately, the text is so much more hopeful than I expected it to be. Its excitement in the simplicities of life makes me excited just to be alive, especially with all the freedom I am so lucky to have.

So, I ask you, readers: what text pleasantly surprised you, and why? Also, what about life excites you? Kerouac shared his feelings; what are yours?

Galloway's The Cellist of Sarajevo: War in Your Home and in Your Identity

The following is the first post of our latest roundblog; more intriguing thoughts from Wollstonecraft and Melville are coming soon! For now, here's Shelley's impression:

In Steven Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo, all three main characters in war-torn Sarajevo maintain a deep connection with and pride for their city—for their home and identity. Despite the fear, anger, and doubt that constantly pervade their internal thoughts and actions—feelings understandably arising from trying to survive in a violent and uncertain setting—Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan act with much resolve and conviction (however subtle such behavior is displayed) because of the love and honor they have for Sarajevo. Whether they are nostalgically contemplating the pre-war Sarajevo of old, or reflecting upon the decisive meaning of remaining in or fleeing the city, it’s clear the characters have much difficulty witnessing and experiencing their beloved home and all that it represents being destroyed and brutally altered. At the same time, an undying hope of a beautiful Sarajevo rising from the ashes still persists.


Kenan: “How do you build it all up again? Do the people who destroyed the city also rebuild it…if a city is made anew by men of questionable character, what will it be?” (48-9)

Arrow: “Is there a difference between disappearing and going into a grave…There is, of course, the question of survival. She doesn’t want to die…But the young girl who was overcome by what it means to be alive…doesn’t want to die either. That girl may be gone for now, may have no place in the city of today, but Arrow believes it’s possible that someday she might return. And if Arrow disappears, she knows she’s killing that girl” (173).

Dragan: “Dragan is terrified, has never been so afraid. But he can’t force himself to move any faster. After a while he stops trying. He keeps his eyes on the safe area he’s heading toward, and he tries not to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. He begins to understand why he isn’t running. If he doesn’t run, then he’s alive again. The Sarajevo he wants to live in is alive again” (224).

Even though the characters worry about the future of their city, and essentially, the life of their personal and cultural identity, they all act as Dragan does as he attempts to cross the road amidst targeted gunfire: with a calm, brave determination, echoed in the tone of the language throughout the novel. Subsequently, not only does the old Sarajevo become “alive again,” but the individuals themselves actively live in a city ravaged by violence and death. By vigorously living in such a hostile environment, even if much of this “living” exists within the characters’ mindset, or appears to be understated, Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan illustrate their intense pride as natives of Sarajevo.

Understanding this makes me wonder, how culturally connected am I to my hometown, where I have long-since moved from? If my hometown was being destroyed in war, with defenseless citizens being killed in the streets, would I stay or would I go, if I had the choice? To be honest, for better or worse, I think my desire for survival outweighs any cultural connection or identity to a specific place, however meaningful that place might be, and has been in my life. So why is it different for me than it is for these inhabitants of Sarajevo? Perhaps their relationship with their city is stronger because their families have lived there for much longer, for generations. Consequently, they are more attached to Sarajevo—to a physical place—than I, an American descendant of pioneers, could ever be. But maybe I would be if it came down to it, if my “home” was ever confronted with war, though there’s no way to ever be sure until it happens. In the same vein, it’s extremely difficult (perhaps even futile) to compare the Bosnian Sarajevo to the American California; they are so different, it’s tough to completely understand or identify with the nature of the characters, especially in terms of their relationship with their culture and city.

This text also makes me wonder, how would I behave in such conflictive times? I kept waiting for one of the characters to start sobbing, to scream in fear or anger, or to completely break down and panic, but none of them do. At his worst, Kenan is immobilized by his fear, but even this depiction emphasizes a certain level of composure—a composure highlighted by the courage of the cellist and his beautiful music. From the point of view of the novel, it’s obvious that the characters experience mental and emotional anguish, but none of this angst clearly reveals itself in their actions. Why might this be? How and why do they maintain such a level of control? Is it the means of survival, or are they showing that they will not be overtly intimidated in their beloved city and home? Regardless, Galloway’s account of civilians living in war makes readers consider their own cultural identity, specifically in reference to place. The novel also works to provoke readers’ thoughts concerning their own supposed behavior in times of strife and battle: would you “live” through acts of courage and conviction, or would you act otherwise?

Ode to Mary

After viewing my life from another perspective—a view created by Daisy Hay’s Young Romantics—I have come to realize that I, Percy Bysshe Shelley, have left many things unsaid to my brilliant wife, Mary. Because my life ended so drastically and much too soon, I fear that Mary and I parted ways with many unresolved issues. In short, the deep connection with my wife that was essential to my well-being was momentarily bent when I left her. I want to take this opportunity to express what I should have expressed during my time on earth:

Dear Mary,

There is no doubt that my love for you is immersed in the depths of my soul; anyone who knows us would say the same. You are my one true love, my other half, more than my equal. Whether inspiring, supporting, or promoting my work, I am forever indebted to your intellect, imagination, and genuine devotion. I am certain that without you, my work would not have been so admired. I know I have reciprocated such affection and care to your spirit and work, but during the times when you needed me most, I was more concerned with my own self—my work, my friendships, other female attention, etc. For this, I am truly sorry; no amount of immaturity or false idealism can account for such selfish behavior, particularly when you, my wife and soul, were experiencing such despair at the loss of our three young children, one right after the other. Instead of patiently comforting you during your understandable melancholy, I sometimes believed you were wearing me away, and were being selfish yourself. Perhaps I was ill equipped to help you, but I still could have made you my main priority, as you did me. Upon reflection, you, as a mere teenager, handled yourself quite well, considering the awful pain you must have had to bear as a mother. It severely pains me that directly after my unfortunate death, you worried that you should have been a better wife or a more loyal champion of my work, as others have since suggested. I know now that you were grieving in your own way, and such behavior is only natural. Regardless, as your loving counterpart, please understand that you and all who you are, including your supposed coldness and melancholic ways, make me whole as an individual. We are the ultimate team, so when one claims Shelley, they claim Percy and Mary, not one or the other.

I am, forever yours,
Shelley

The Joys and Foolishness of Indulgence, and the Prosperity of Restraint in Shelley and Jane's Life

As my two fellow bloggers have emphasized in their recent posts, I (obviously) find literature to be absolutely rewarding, mostly because it’s such an amazing, engaging way for me to learn. After finally completing Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, I’ve once again made many discoveries about culture, history, psychology, etc. One of the biggest discoveries I made directly has to do with my own life experience and truths; such a connection between story and reader is what makes many forms of literature appealing/successful, and, on many levels, I found this to be the case in this novel. For the sake of everyone’s time and interest, I’ll just focus on one aspect of Jane Eyre that helped me learn more about life, and particularly, more about my own life.


When in college and in my early twenties, I had a lot of freedom to experience life in a sort of indulgent, carefree way without the harsh judgment attached to such behavior. In other words, since I was still a teenager or in my early twenties, on some occasions, I was pretty much allowed to “find myself” without much consequence, or basically, to act like an idiot if no one got hurt in the process; it is natural to behave in such a way at such a time, and so, my actions weren’t taken too seriously, and were generally accepted. Since I was always a good student, responsible, and mostly sensible, my young age afforded moments of senselessness, which can also be considered moments of fun. I won’t go into detail, but most of these moments were pretty harmless, even though the very thought of them sometimes makes me cringe. As embarrassing, stupid, and crazy as some of these experiences were, I don’t regret them at all, mostly because they were fun, and a part of the process of maturation. If anything, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had acted MORE indulgent like some of my friends and peers did. Would I have experienced life in a deeper way? Would my life have changed in some positive, intriguing way? See, however carefree I was during this time in my life, upon reflection, I was never so carefree and indulgent to permanently plague my life (though there were some close calls; I’m not trying to be heroic or condescending here), which was definitely a conscious decision; I always had the big picture of my life in mind, and didn’t want one moment to have lasting negative effects.

Whenever I think I might have missed out on something because of my sensibility, I always remind myself of the horrible and humiliating consequences that might have resulted from extreme acts of impulsivity. In Bronte’s work, there are several times when Jane acts as such a reminder for me—she makes certain decisions that reassure the ones I’ve made in my own life. Such choices are determined by her propensity to consider the value and respect of her future; instead of being indulgent, which would be a much easier path to take, Jane restrains herself in a mature way that is extremely difficult to do during the moment of her decision-making. Two of these instances directly involve her relationship with men, and more specifically, her choice of whether or not to accept their marriage proposals, and become a wife.

Because of the novel’s first-person narration, it’s clear that Jane’s initial inclination is to attach herself to both Rochester and then St. John, regardless of the dangers that come with such acceptances—dangers that Jane is fully aware of [a life of insubordination (financial and otherwise), lovelessness (in the case of St. John), etc.]. She considers staying with Rochester (the first go-around) and being his mistress even though he has lied to her and is still married because of their strong connection—because they are soul mates. With St. John, Jane considers a loveless marriage and rough life as a missionary’s wife in India because she deeply respects St. John’s abilities, and views him with much awe. Instead of bowing to such desires, Jane is able to control her initial impulses because she contemplates the repercussions of such actions, and keeps in mind the big picture of her life. After St. John nearly persuades her to be his wife for Christ’s work, Jane reveals how her future is always at the forefront of her thoughts. She knows that a previous disagreement with St. John will eventually come back to haunt her, even if he is presently showing her much gentleness and kindness “Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated” (357). However difficult in the moment, and despite the frustration and disappointment her refusals create in these two men, Jane’s restraint eventually pays off in the end (I won’t spoil it for readers who have not read the novel).

So, after reading this work of literature (which I mostly enjoyed and did not find depressing at all, counter to its dominant reputation) and considering this particular subject, I am more reassured about aspects of my own life. Don’t get me wrong: thankfully, my life contains many moments of indulgence and fun, but like Jane, I am careful about the degree of such indulgence, and make sure they don’t negatively scar my future. Some may think such a life is ultimately dull, but I don’t think so; I think if people generally considered the impact of extreme bouts of impulsive pleasure, and instead showed more restraint by considering the big picture, they could avoid much strife and harm in their lives.

Dancing with W.W.

"I wandered lonely as a cloud"

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

I’ve read this beautiful poem by Wordsworth many times before, and I’m sure when I did, I appreciated its imagery, its form, its feeling, and everything else that’s wonderful about it. For some reason, though, when I recently read “I wandered lonely as a cloud” again, it struck me so deeply. Now, I appreciate all different types of poetry, and all genres of literature, but I think part of my renewed fascination with Wordsworth’s work is that I read it in an anthology while also reading other more modern poetry. Compared to these other poems, good ol’ William’s just seemed so much better. Now that I’m writing this, I think this conclusion I’ve come to probably just stems from my personal interest. In other words, maybe Wordsworth isn’t necessarily better than Jack Ridl or Ted Kooser; maybe I just like him more. Maybe my preference for Wordsworth says more about me than it does about the other poets’ work, no? After all, I, Shelley, am Wordsworth’s peer, right? So it only makes sense that I can more closely identify with his work than with that of the others.


I think a big reason why I connected so strongly to “I wandered lonely as a cloud” is because I specifically identified with the speaker. Often times, I will experience the beauty and magnificence of nature, and consequently, I will take the same journey that the speaker of the poem takes. I will wander along, I will notice or observe something stunning about nature—hills blanketed in wildflowers, the lull and might of ocean waves, the sun’s distorted light breaking through white, soft clouds, etc.—I will reflect on the meaning of my observation (or why nature has affected me so deeply, and why it has the power to do so) and never fully grasp the meaning, and then I will joyfully remember my experience with nature after the moment has long since passed. In essence, I guess the speaker and I both wonder what it all means because, like life, nature isn’t always so peaceful and soothing as “A host, of gold daffodils.” When it is, though, such awe and splendor brings a tear to my eye. That has to count for something, right?

I also appreciate this poem because it helps clarify why I love literature so much. Like the journey of reflection upon a moment in nature, we take journeys when we read and analyze great stories: we’re wandering along before we read a great novel or an amazing poem; maybe we’re a bit lost, or maybe we’re right on track; when we start to read something, we initially observe or experience the story for the first time during a first-reading; we reflect on the work of literature, and enjoy the quest to find meaning within it, whether we are successful in doing so or not; and then, “when on my couch I lie/In vacant or in pensive mood” I remember the joy that came from first experiencing the text, “And then my heart with pleasure fills” that such literature exists for my delight. So, whether I’m wandering through the woods or through a good literary work, I am happy to be on such a thoughtful journey; I can thank Wordsworth for bringing the process of such experiences to light.

Now I wonder: what type of journey fills you with delight? Please share!

Round Blog: The Whistling Season and our longing for those simpler times

Melville: I know my comments lately have relied heavily on reader response for this blog and that trend is going to continue yet again today because, frankly, I adore this book. Ivan Doig's "The Whistling Season" was a treat to read. I love any novel that not only celebrates the art of teaching but ALSO manages to allude to Yugoslavians (some of the kids in the school were Slavs -- and frankly, this is the first book I've read in about five years that actually mentions anything remotely related to my Slovenian heritage)!

With that said, Doig is a master of regional literature. He so effortlessly captures a sense of place with turn of the century Montana -- a land of homesteads, open sky, and men with big dreams. To show us this place from a child's perspective also helps make Montana seem like a wondrous adventure -- from the daring backwards horse race to the marvels of a snow day. The older voice of the narrator effectively unmasks the unhappy truth that these small towns are slowly withering away and giving in to the pressures of a globalized (and, consequently, a homogenized) world. The narrator leads us to the conclusion that we must look back and treasure our gifts from the past.

My favorite character, and I'm sure my fellow "Bookers" will agree is Morrie -- the former crooked boxing manager who turns into a master one-room schoolteacher. His scenes in the classroom motivate me to be a better teacher and to want to bring that sense of vast possibilities of life back to my (mostly) already-worldly students. Doig cleverly set the plot of this novel as the same year as Halley's Comet appearance -- 1910. Morrie himself is like the comet, a brilliant visitor who flies through and sparks new life into the community, and disappears just as quickly. After all, what student wouldn't like a teacher who so comfortably fits in among scholars and schoolyard boys? I thought it was very clever that this Latin-spouting, Spat wearing, mustacchioed Morrie was also a man who can slip on a pair of brass knuckles to fight. What a teacher!

Anyway, before I talk about how much I wish Morrie was a flesh and blood man...I better turn this conversation over to Shelley.

Your thoughts Shelley?

Shelley: Great comparison of Morrie to the comet, which, until you so beautifully pointed out, I hadn't really put together. I also think the comet bears some significance in relation to Doig's perspective about memory, which is obviously inextricably bound with the past. Like the comet, the older Paul describes memory as being "magical" and "faithful," and exuding "radiance": "The Rembrandt light of memory, finicky and magical and faithful at the same time, as the cheaper tint of nostalgia never is. Much of the work of my life has been to sort instruction from illusion, and, in the endless picture gallery behind the eye, I have learned to rely on a certain radiance of a detail to bring back the exactitude of a moment" (152). Although viewing the comet (which I remember doing as a wee kindergartner) is vivid and impressionable, it does happen quickly and sparsely (like every 75 years). Such an experience is a memory in itself, but it also mimics the general experience we have while remembering a moment--certain parts are vivid and detailed, while most of the occurrence surrounding the details we remember are not (similar to the many dreams/nightmares Paul has growing up); at the same time, despite the more "illusive" parts of it, aspects of the experience and soon-to-be memory--essentially, our past--hugely influence the rest of our lives.

And this brings me to one of the most significant themes of The Whistling Season: the experience of our past as children growing up--and more particularly, the memory of that experience (the feelings and emotions associated with it)--greatly shape who we are for the rest of our lives, during the time in which we are "being introduced to ourselves" (5). This may seem like an obvious statement, but, as Melville mentions, Doig is a beautiful regional writer; as such, he emphasizes the importance of place--specifically, the schoolhouse--in the significance of our experience, the memory of that experience, and then the ultimate construction of who we are and how we contribute to society as adults because of that experience and memory. The happenings of the country school is not only central to the novel, but it is central to all of the students' lives: because they live so far apart on their homesteads and such, the school is not only where they learn their subjects, but it is also where they learn to socially interact, and become educated about the morals enveloped within such interaction. Take Eddie, for instance: without the aid of his experience at school, there would be no doubt he'd end up with the same destructive and selfish tendencies of his dangerous father; it would be difficult for him to know differently. Although his circumstances might not prevent Eddie from following in his father's footsteps, Doig stresses the beneficial effect the schoolhouse has had on this apparent bully: he sways his father to not beat up (kill?) Morrie because doing so would be unfair and illogical. In this way, Doig not only celebrates the actual place of the schoolhouse, but the leader within it (a leader who affects Eddie in such a way): "All points of the plains: without my ever having said a word to him about it, Morrie was conjuring paths beneath the paths that had arrived to my eyes back there at the schoolhouse pump" (127). Like Paul, the reader's eyes, or perspective, are led to the importance of the schoolhouse and the teacher within it. Consequently, Doig honors the significance of being educated at a school, as well as the monumental power and impact teachers hold; but, as older Paul's title as school inspector implies, Doig is concerned about how society is progressing, perhaps about the loss of memory in relation to a time long since past, or the loss of a simplified life and place which could shape individuals so beautifully. What do other readers of this text think? Paul is obviously remembering his education and how his beliefs were shaped, but is he worried about the future of education, progression, or a loss of place (as emphasized by the older Paul's point of view)?

Like Paul, I remember moments of my childhood schooling in extreme detail, and can see how it has contributed to my present self. Like Paul and Doig, I also remember the beautiful region that is Montana: "the pesky...whistling" (1) wind that would wake me in the summer mornings, a "homestead etiquette" (97) that most citizens abide by, the ever-present dust following fields of wildflowers and green meadows, and the starriest, clearest skies I've ever seen. Now, as someone experiencing and greatly enjoying Montana summers throughout her entire life, these memories might be more nostalgic in nature, however true they really are. One thing is for certain: Doig captures how beautiful simple homestead (family) life can be and was in the American West, with all of the Millirons' sorrows, struggles, and complications. They are intelligent, honest, mature, and caring natives of the country, not slow hillbillies or backcountry neanderthrals. Like the land they inhibit, and like the pace of the novel, the Millirons nurture and embrace their simple, faithful, magical, and radiant lives.

Your thoughts, Wollstonecraft?

Wollstonecraft: I mostly agree with my fellow bookers. My favorite character was Morrie and I found his character inspiring. Today, because we all experience so much media and so much of the world through the internet and television, it is hard to feel that wonder he created in his students for the comet. I think most teachers can agree that it seems harder and harder to get students amazed by anything because they have seen so much already. Even though the lights of the city block out the stars, they can go online and see pictures of the Milky Way. They can watch Gladiator and gain a version of history more exciting than the one I can tell them. Our visual media and wealth of information take away from our ability to give students something they’ve never seen before. And, I think this can be applied to adults as well; we all live in such a “seen it” age, it is harder to find that sense of wonder in our everyday lives. And, in this sense the book made me nostalgic for a piece of that “simple” past.

However, once I realized I like my right to vote, I like that more kids have a chance at education, and I like running water, I no longer feel nostalgic for the past.

Though, for the most part, I did enjoy reading the book, I felt torn about Doig’s longing for this era. The book champions these one-room school houses as a piece of not just the character’s past but that of America, and a piece that we need to remember. However, the problems of this nostalgia that bubble under the surface are left unexplored. Although Morrie was ultimately able to diffuse Eddie’s violence, the fact that it existed points to a problem with this kind of simple past: the lack of access to a quality education and knowledge. Before Morrie, the students were not getting that great of an education and many of the students will just be recycled through the small town. And, the lack of education produces the ignorance and violence of Eddie’s father. With the simple life of the past also come the problems of the past: ignorance, racism, inequality, etc. The only female character in the novel was the “perfect” Rose: charming, sweet, pretty, but oh so stupid. I may be taking the book too seriously, but I couldn’t help but feel annoyed that part of her charm that captured all the men in the novel was that she was a little bit stupid.

Doig also seems to vacillate between advocating the simple life of the “honest laborer” and supporting a life of the mind, or the intellectual. And, I do not think the book decides if there is a “better” way; perhaps he seems to say we need to appreciate both. (The book felt like it was written by an intellectual who wanted to find “real” life in the hard-working small town citizen.)

That said, I liked how the book criticized the education system today. Our schools are in no way perfect, and the current obsession with standards and statistics is diverting attention away from the real problems in our system (as Doig demonstrates in the novel). The book begins and ends as we enter this era of standardized testing, which comes with a different set of issues. We label all changes as "progress" without really understanding if this progression is any more effective. I also think it is interesting how he criticizes the unfortunate relationship between politics and education; the narrator is superintendent during the cold war where “science will be king, elected by panic.” And, the loss of the schoolhouse the narrator feels is all the more poignant with such a terrible setting as the McCarthy era.

However, education is only a small piece in the complex experience of Paul, our narrator. He is coming of age, and the book shows how seemingly small moments impact us and our characters forever, as Shelley has already discussed. More than anything this book is about childhood, the confusion inherent in growing up, the wonder at new adventures, the realization that adults aren’t always what they seem, the feeling that this moment will change the rest of your life—everything that comes with discovering where you fit in, which transcends the place and time of the novel. In a sense, even though times have changed, “childhood is the one story that stands by itself in every soul.”

Lastly, looking back through my notes, I wonder how nostalgic the book is meant to be about the past. I am always skeptical of hoping for the “good old days” (unless I was a white rich male), and there are moments in the text that show perhaps Doig is too. It is always dangerous to wish for previous moments in times of nostalgia because we gloss over too many of the problems and only see the good. We tend to romanticize these moments, which skews the reality of it.

Overall, I thought it was prettily written, though I wish he further explored some of his themes. For me, it is hard to long for the days Doig writes about, though I see the value of them as a piece of our history. I am too much of the information, blogging and Facebook age to really wish to live in the time and place he writes about.

Why Did Jo Get Married? Realism and Fairytale in Alcott's Little Women

(Melville and I decided to switch days this week; she'll give us a fabulous post on Wednesday! --Shelley)

There are many things to love about Louisa May Alcott’s children’s novel Little Women: its endearing characters, who naturally make mistakes, indulging their selfishness and certain temptations, but who, more often than not, are remorseful for their wrongdoing, and strive to be better, to be “good”; its joys and gratitude in the simplicities of life, particularly family life, despite the burdens of poverty; constantly turning negative situations/attributes into positive ones: “Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity, is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world”; the blessings and payoffs that come as the result of personal determination and concentrated work (especially for the disadvantaged 19th century female); its depiction of respectful, powerful, intelligent, hardworking, and amiable women; and a genuine celebration of all things American, including its faults: “[Amy’s] old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.”

These aspects of the novel, including many others, reflect the novel’s strength: its sense of realism. We can identify with the characters on many levels: they are flawed individuals who are constantly learning as they mature and gain more experience; they have hopes and dreams that involve careers and romance; they have a deep love and connection with family and friends; most importantly, they must constantly overcome roadblocks and struggles as they proceed through life, which sometimes means making a serious life-change. Such changes and adjustments make these characters complex, and as the world and its inhabitants are complex, the text exudes reality in many forms.

And yet, I am ultimately reminded that this is a children’s novel (especially the first half) because, with all of the realism, the text also greatly succeeds because of the nostalgia Alcott creates. She makes stitching and mending by the fireside, sharing and writing stories, putting on plays, befriending neighbors, housework and domestic life, raising children, teaching, and battling poverty sound pretty enjoyable, despite the difficulties inherent within such activities. It seems as if Alcott celebrates joys and hardships alike, creating a paradoxical fairytale-like aspect to the story while it is at the same time entrenched in realism. I mostly get this sense from the fact that every conflict eventually works itself out **SPOILER ALERT**: Mr. March recovers from pneumonia and makes it home from the war safely; Beth recovers from her scarlet fever, and even when she suffers an early death, she willingly accepts her hard fate with hope and grace; all the girls find happiness in a marriage of their choosing; Meg and Brooke’s early marital woes are pretty normal and are easily overcome (their marriage eventually thrives with the addition of vivacious twins); Laurie and Mr. Laurence’s relationship persists stronger than ever after several instances where Laurie’s “manliness” is threatened; Laurie graduates from college with honors after many distractions jeopardize his earning a diploma at all; Amy’s early selfishness and vanity blossom into social tact and grace (she is the traditional belle of the ball in all aspects); after Laurie’s devastating rejection from Jo, he and Amy are neatly paired together in a most romantic coupling; and the March family ultimately stays together despite three marriages because they all live close to each other, and regularly interact. Most importantly, Jo—the seeming outcast who identifies more as a boy than a girl, who has much trouble holding her tongue and controlling her temper, who basically feels unlucky and out of place—finds a suitable partner in the Professor (quenching her fear of loneliness), and even more, is able to live her dream of helping and schooling young lads. In the end, everything just seems to work itself out; it seems too perfect in spite of all the difficulties the March family faces.

So, how real is Little Women? After Amy and Laurie’s marriage and return from Europe, Bhaer magically appears to save Jo from the horrid loneliness and boredom she envisions for her future: “She opened it with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her,—for there stood a stout, bearded gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.” The professor is imagined as a “ghost” and a “midnight sun,” two very magical, abstract qualifications. And then Jo, who all her life swore off marriage, and with immense restraint repeatedly rejected her best friend’s marriage proposals, ends up becoming Bhaer’s wife, all the result of her own desires. Is Alcott’s decision to marry Jo off a reflection of reality—a reflection of the compromise many 19th century women made in order live less lonely and financially depraved lives, or maybe a reflection of Jo’s “tender, womanly half of” her nature that has finally blossomed in adulthood—or is Jo’s fate unrealistic and more mythical, compared to her independent actions and tendencies throughout the lengthy text? In other words, is her fate more magical because it’s a happily constructed Victorian ending for a female character who, throughout the whole of the text, would rather not be married? Can Jo—the persona of Alcott and the main protagonist of the story—still be considered the heroine of the text for contradicting herself, and being married in the end?

I find Jo’s situation at the end the most fascinating aspect of the text because it sparks so many questions about the purpose and meaning of the text, and subsequently provides many reasonable possibilities as answers. On one level, one could argue that Jo makes a powerful and artful decision to marry Bhaer: he will help her “bear” two boys in addition to serving as the instructor for her all-boys school, thereby allowing her to fulfill her dream to always live and be surrounded by young lads, whom Jo claims to more closely identify with. By marrying the Professor, then, Jo uses her husband as the means to her true happiness and career goal. And yet, I feel like Jo’s desire to be with Bhaer is more of an emotional one, as Alcott intends: “Was it all self-pity, loneliness, low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say.” The narrator purposefully puts doubt into the reader’s mind as to Jo’s desire for Bhaer’s partnership, but it’s clear that her desire is spun from emotion. For example, when the Professor does not show up for three days after spending two straight weeks with Jo, she “become[s] pensive, at first, and then,—alas for romance,—very cross.” Her reaction to Bhaer’s absence seems to be a romantic one, not a deceitfully constructed one. Jo’s emotions strongly reveal themselves again when she tears up after finding out that Bhaer will move across the country, and possibly crush her wish to be with him. Evidence from the text, then, more strongly suggests that Jo really loves Bhaer, and does not want to just use him for her own personal gain (business-wise).

Still, this ending seems too perfect for Jo, as it does for the rest of the family who care about her, making Little Women somewhat mythical. Is Alcott’s perspective just a positive one? Why did Jo have to be married? Her decision and desire to marry leaves me a bit unsettled because it seemingly contradicts her previous depiction as an independent woman dead-set on not being married. Obviously, people can change as they grow older, as Jo very well might have, but from a narrative standpoint, why does Alcott marry Jo off? Is it enough for Alcott that Jo does not give in to Laurie’s advances, and end up as Mrs. Laurence? After all, Bhaer is an unconventional match for a Victorian heroine, regardless of Jo’s unconventionality herself. Was upsetting Victorian’s readers’ desire for Jo and Laurie’s marriage enough to satisfy Alcott’s will to make Jo the independent heroine that she seems to be? I’m not sure, mostly because she seems to satisfy the rest of the story with Amy’s marriage to Laurie (pretty romantic in itself) and Jo’s ultimate marriage to Bhaer. So, I ask you this: why is Jo married off in the end? Is Alcott merely looking out for herself financially, trying to sell a successful novel that pleases the Victorian public’s appetite for a conclusion marked by three happy marriages? Or does she really think all sorts of women, even independent women like Jo, will find true happiness in marriage, if that marriage is decided freely by both man and woman? Or is she merely illustrating—realistically—that people are complicated beings who, through life experience, alter their attitude and beliefs toward certain subjects and ideas? Would Little Women be as successful and celebrated as it is if Jo stayed unmarried and possibly lonely for the rest of her life, even if she was independent? Is Alcott claiming that too much independence breeds loneliness and unhappiness, or maybe that one’s true happiness is through their relationship with others, especially with a spouse and children? What do you think? I would love to know!!


**Please note: our September book of the month is Ivan Doig's The Whistling Season, which we'll be discussing in a couple of weeks. Try and read it if you can! http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/02/books/review/02birkets.html

Are You a Good Neighbor? Is Anyone These Days? Little Women and Neighborly Affection

I don't know if it's a California thing, or maybe it's just me, but in terms of being neighborly, things have changed since I was a young girl (roughly 20-25 years ago). I remember playing in front yards and in the street with all of the kids on our block, whether it was during an intense game of snake-in-the grass, or during an exciting version of hide-and-go-seek on roller skates. Those days, those memories, seem like they belong to a world long since past: to a world where being kidnapped by a creep in a car was a distant threat, or where video games, cell phones, and the Internet didn't steal our sole attention. Obviously, there were dangers back then, and my parents took preventative measures; we weren't able to just roam all over the place with random people. But now, with as much as we know, it seems so unsafe to be neighborly! Or at the very least, it seems much more formal. Of course there are introductions, hellos, how are yous, etc., but I haven't been friends with my neighbors since I was younger, and I don't think it's just a kid thing. My parents became really close friends with their neighbors over 20 years ago, but aren't close with their current ones. They're courteous or whatever, like most of us, but not true friends. What's behind this? Is this a California thing, where there are just so many people around, we don't really need to be close with our neighbors because they won't necessarily consist of our only human interaction of the day? Maybe we don't need to rely on our neighbors as much as we used to since we now have access to so much aid, entertainment, etc. Or is it a technological thing, where we're more enveloped with worldly information and news than with what's going on right in our front yard? Please note: I'm clearly generalizing here, and writing about my personal experience, and what I've witnessed in terms of my family and friends. I'm sure this neighborly distance and mistrust isn't occurring across the country; I'd like to think that in smaller towns and communities, it's not. But anyways! How does this relate to literature?

Well, I'm finally reading Louisa M. Alcott's Little Women, which takes place during the Civil War in Concord, Massachusetts. I'm only a third of the way through, but I can't help but be won over by the March family, in spite of the overt sentimentality taking place. I'll have much more to reflect upon once I finish the novel, but for this week, one of the major realities that the text explores is the generosity, kindness, and graciousness that results from the hands of neighbors--from the hands of one's community. Indeed, one's "blessings" seem to be supplied by merely interacting with one's neighbors, but importantly, by doing so in a respectful way. The March family seems to be blessed emotionally, socially, and even materialistically for their manners and unselfish tendencies while interacting with others (including with other members of their own family), particularly with Laurie and Mr. Laurence, the wealthy teenager and his grandfather who live next door. By sharing company with each other, both families benefit from their neighbor's gender, which would have remained absent in their own home if their neighborly friendship/courtesy did not exist (Mr. March is away at war, while Laurie's parents are no longer living). Up to this point in the novel, it seems as if individuals in the text gain the most by acting as such--by being consciously aware of what it means to be a good neighbor. For example, Jo and the rest of her family gladly provide personal items and goods for Laurie in order to comfort him when he is sick, thereby establishing a strong friendship and bond with the young gentleman. Giving such things is actually a sacrifice for the family since they are struggling financially. The men in this text play their part, as well: Mr. Laurence goes out of his way to ensure Beth's happiness by allowing her to enter his home unattended in order to play on his piano; he eventually gives her--this young girl he's not related to--a piano once belonging to his beloved granddaughter, who has since passed away. Doing so is obviously not required, but Mr. Laurence recognizes the girl's modest dreams to play on a piano, and does what he can in order to please her because he sees her humility as an unassuming "little woman." Thus far, then, the characters in Little Women are super cool neighbors, and through this display of friendly affection, I think Alcott emphasizes that such thoughtful and selfless behavior creates the most happiness and joy in one's life. Luckily, I am able to share in such a way with my friends and family, even though they do not happen to be my physical neighbors. In addition to my neighbors, I always try to be nice to strangers and coworkers, but not AS NICE as the Marches and Laurences are with each other. I don't know; maybe if I lived in Massachusetts 150 years ago, I would experience life differently. Well, I know I would because only 25 years ago I did experience life differently in California, in terms of my association with neighbors. So now we're back: what's changed since Alcott's time and locale? What's changed over the past 25 years just in California? Must we experience such displays of respect, courtesy, and friendliness only in books written years ago? Please share your thoughts!

Loving Life and Exploring Death in America

Several years ago, a remark attributed to Osama bin Laden (yes, THAT bin Laden) has stayed with me, something to the effect of “We love death. The U.S. loves life. That is the difference between us two.” Take this for what you will, but I know there is a lot of truth to this statement, at least the part about the U.S. loving life. Compared to a lot of other countries and cultures, many Americans have a lot of reasons to love life, in the sense that being an American or living in America generally affords many opportunities. Obviously, crime, hate, poverty, and other negativities afflict this country, but the degree of this hardship pales in comparison to troubles existent in other nations: we are not a war-ravaged country, or wholly destitute; our legal system is set up to avoid governmental corruption, and our media is so fierce, any wrongdoing or sketchiness will be accounted for. Though injustices are inevitable, programs are set up in this country so that justice can for the most part reign; basically, our constitution gives us basic rights that many other countries don’t have, and we have the freedom to speak up about anything without the fear of persecution, and even death.

Anyway, I think you get my drift. America is not a third world country run by a corrupt government, drug lords, or by no government at all. Our culture, then, highly values life because our lives are capable of being enjoyable; at the very least, the possibility of a pleasant, worldly existence makes the idea of living in America promising. The American Dream, right? So, on one level, enjoying a worldly life in America may end up sounding materialistic and superficial, but the consumerism in this country makes this undoubtedly true, to some extent, at least. Regardless, a lot of people in America can live relatively peaceful lives, making life more appealing than death. I think it’s safe to assert, then, that most Americans don’t LOVE death; some might be fascinated with it, but for the most part, death is something to be avoided (by medications, treatments, etc.), youth is highly valued (I think this is obvious), and dying is ultimately a negative, scary thing we don’t really want to get into or think about. Although I don’t think other less fortunate nations love death, either, I think they are more familiar with it because their everyday lives tend to be surrounded by it. They are less removed from death, so (sadly?) they understand it to be a part of life; it ends up not being as terrible. Maybe (warning: generalization forthcoming) death even becomes a release, a sort of freedom from the atrocities they are continuously faced with, or maybe just their upbringing and religious views make death less scary. I’m not sure, but I know young people in America don’t really grow up with the elderly in their homes (which, in many cultures, was a common occurrence back in the day); they are usually outside of the home in assisted living homes, retirement communities, etc., so they are separate from a child or teenager’s daily life. This is significant because individuals then become unfamiliar with the normal process of dying; instead, death is something frightening and horrific that they can only experience through television crime shows, medical shows, the news, horror movies, etc. So, when death does affect us, when death does enter our daily lives, when someone we love and care for does die (especially when their passing is sudden and seemingly too early), we are left in a troubled, confused state. The grieving process and subsequent continued existence for the living become the ultimate unknown, a sort of nightmare. We, being American, are geared for everything vibrant, everything that produces something, for progress; we are not, for the most part, prepared to handle the realities of death. At the very least, the realities of death for the living in the 21st century aren’t usual or preferred topics of conversation.

Ayelet Waldman, though, explores the grieving process in her latest novel and our August book club selection Red Hook Road, delving into how unexpected deaths affect the personal lives of the living, how they affect families and marriage, and how humans recoup so that their existence isn’t wholly destroyed by the loss of loved ones. She takes on this uncomfortable and painful topic for the benefit, I think, of her readers. Stay tuned for our weekend post, which will further reflect upon the aforementioned topics and other intriguing issues Waldman goes into in Red Hook Road.

They're So Popular: Teenage Readers and Writers

As Melville skillfully reminds us in her last post “To LoL or not to Lol?” technology doesn’t merely operate as a distraction from self-improvement and the like. If used properly and moderately, it can offer a world of learning and enhancement. “Line-by-line online” by Chuck Furlong http://www.kansascity.com/2010/08/06/2134175/young-writers-spin-on-the-web.html illustrates an instance of how beneficial technology and the Internet can be, specifically for teenage writers. Sites like www.inkpop.com allow young writers to self publish their work, allowing them to expose their writing to their peers. In addition, “Inkpop’s owner, HarperCollins, keeps a close eye out for potentially publishable titles”—titles which ultimately end up being the most popular with the most online viewings. So, everyone benefits, right? Aspiring young writers, interested readers, and big-time publishers? And pretty much all for free because of the beauty of the Web.

But is there a cost for doing this? Is there a cost for rewarding young writers for being popular? Obviously, popularity doesn’t always necessitate superficiality and mediocrity if viewed through a literary lens, but a lot of times it does. Don’t get me wrong; I think sites like Inkpop that encourage young people to use their creativity to write and read is a good thing, especially considering other mischievous things they could be getting into. But at the same time, most of their topics revolve around romance, relationships, suicide, and vampires; these are all worthy topics, and they’re obviously meaningful to teenagers, but from the snippets and summaries I’ve read, they seem to be explored in a self-indulgent way, similar to a lot of popular adult fiction. As someone who values the impact literature can have, I am now a bit worried about what American teens find popular in “literature.” I don’t want to be a downer, or anything; I’m not above the “pleasure” read once in a while; I love mixing a silly romantic comedy into my bowl of films that tend to be epic, complex, and artsy. But as Melville points out in her previous post, does a healthy balance exist in terms of what teens are reading these days? Beyond school requirements, are many teens interested in well-structured forms of “literature,” or no? (Shout out to my Mom, who made my sister and I read a classic text in between our unhealthy appetite for the Baby-Sitters Club books back in the fourth grade. Thanks, Mom!)

Obviously, there is always the exception; I’m sure there are some young readers who prefer less indulgent texts, but hopefully those in touch with young adult literature out there can help me out: can young adult literature really be considered “literature?” Do you think what they’re reading now will eventually develop into a taste for more complex texts, or do you think this audience will just continue to read popular adult fiction when they grow older? Considering that they are developing their critical reading skills and such, is it okay for teen fiction to be more superficial in nature? Will popularity always reign? In a country where we think we are progressive, will popularity always be the way of the world? Can authentic literature ever be popular?

Good Ol' America: Who is Her Shakespeare? Does She Even Have One?

Sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I despair about the lack of focus in my life. During such grumblings, I wish I had a more defined identity, or, in other words, I think about how great I could have been, or could have excelled, at one thing IF I would have focused on just one of my interests. Instead, because I seem to be fascinated with a multitude of things (reading, writing, teaching, biking, hiking, cooking, wine, socializing, family, movies, theatre, sports, dogs, etc.), I feel as if I’m pretty good at a lot of things, but not excellent at one major thing. Now, don’t get me wrong: this isn’t a pity party; there are much worse things to be worried about, and I have long ago accepted that I am easily distracted (I like to think of myself as a Renaissance woman). I am just exploring who I am, and what factors in to my identity. Am I the quintessential American—a fortunate individual who has been allowed so many freedoms that I take advantage of them, but in the process, occasionally feel sidetracked from reaching my full potential? Well, I guess to answer this question, what it means to be “American” needs to be defined. What comprises our nation’s identity (a seemingly impossible question to adequately answer, but I’ll give it a go)?

My thoughts regarding the character of America developed from a book review of Stuart Kelly’s Scott-land: The Man who Invented a Nation in The Economist (http://www.economist.com/node/16690869?story_id=16690869). Although the reviewer found the text unfocused and a bit amateurish, he does come to a clear conclusion after his assessment: Sir Walter Scott, a prolific Scottish poet and novelist of the early 19th century, was a “genius” responsible for shaping Scotland’s national identity. All of this man’s work, his authorship—particularly his historical novels—played an enormous role in giving Scotland a distinct sense of self, a collective uniqueness, just as Shakespeare had done for England. Understandably, there are naysayers who repudiate Scott, believing his impact was not as significant (Twain and Ruskin among them), but nonetheless, Scott’s immense popularity extended beyond Scotland, and can hardly be denied.

Regardless of Scott’s actual amount of influence, this notion of how literature and authorship define a nation’s identity struck home. Which author(s) best characterizes America, land of the free and home of the brave? How has American literature shaped the country’s identity, if you believe it has? Who is our Shakespeare? When trying to answer this question, it was extremely difficult for me to narrow down the choices to one or even two authors. Washington? Jefferson? Hmmm. It was easy to come up with regional authors who most appropriately formulated a certain area’s uniqueness: East, Hawthorne; South, Twain, Stowe, and Faulkner; Midwest, Hemingway and Fitzgerald (though I don’t know if that would really be applicable; France and Spain might be more accurate); West, Steinbeck and Stegner; where do you fit in, Melville? ;) The East? The wild sea? I guess that “leaves” me with Walt Whitman, the “poet of democracy,” who I think is actually a pretty good choice, in terms of how he changed how America thought of herself; if I had to pick one author, he’s the one. I’m sure there a ton of other authors who I have not listed here that seem more appropriate to you (Emerson, Dickinson, Kerouac, McCarthy, etc.), but I think that’s the point: we are a nation comprised of many authors, and everyone will have a different idea of who has influenced America’s nationhood the most. Our identity, then, is an amalgamation of lots of things. We are a melting pot of cultures, correct, so a lack of a strict sense of self practically seems normal. Instead of fighting my many interests and tendency towards distraction, maybe I should celebrate my freedom and ability to actually pursue my intrigues. I think Whitman put it best when he claimed “Be curious, not judgmental.” Maybe I should stop judging myself so harshly, and allow my curiousity to thrive.

But is this lack of a clear American identity a good thing? Aren’t many countries considered melting pots these days? What do you think? If it’s clearer to you, please lend me your thoughts. After all, I think the relevance of a nation’s quality and characterization is always relevant and meaningful, and should not be taken for granted. Entities across the globe are constantly fighting to identify themselves, to stand for something in particular that’s separate from other countries/groups (Kosovo and Catalonia, for example); can we—can literature—shape and appropriately define America, or is her identity always in flux?

--Shelley

BlogTalk: My Life in France

In honor of Julia’s memory and our book selection, we decided to have lunch at a French bistro, Patisserie Boissiere, nestled in the heart of downtown Carmel. We had the most beautiful lunch of brioche and croissant sandwiches and French onion soup, finishing it off with a delectable chocolate éclair. As we ate, we reminisced about Julia’s own amazing meals, wishing desperately for our chance to eat meals in France, in Julia’s France, and especially in Julia’s Paris. 

But does her world exist anymore? We couldn’t help but notice the bustle of tourists overwhelming the small streets of downtown. What many years ago used to be a quiet hamlet is now a commercialized tourist trap. Carmel seems to be a façade, a shadow of the quiet little community it used to be. We wonder how tourism and this amazing access to travel have affected quintessential places like Paris. Even though this access is a positive, there seems to be a cost, a loss of sorts. We seem to lose a bit of the cultural experience as tourism starts to reshape the culture and the country/city/attraction tries to accommodate to tourism. 

So, we decided maybe to get around this, we need to make choices about how we travel. When Julia and Paul traveled, they decided to take the time and effort to really see and know the place they were visiting. She applies this philosophy to cooking; you need to take your time to become a great chef. We feel like this philosophy can be applied to anything we do. In order to be good, in order to really enjoy, in order to really see and know, you need to take your time and apply yourself. If you want the quality of experience, you need to take the time to do it right.

So, ultimately, why was she successful? 

As Melville would say, “one word: Paul.”

As inspirational and driven as Julia Child was, the support and encouragement of her husband Paul was a key component to her success. As a man, he didn’t let his own ego get in the way of his wife’s success. To the contrary, he was her number one fan, genuinely interested in her cooking and professional endeavors, and more importantly, was her best friend throughout her entire career. Whenever someone has a goal, one needs an outside source—a compassionate, logical supporter to help ease the pressure, offer some much needed perspective, or basically instill some confidence that allows one to believe that what she is doing is worthwhile, important, and feasible. Paul faithfully championed Julia throughout their lives; he helped her in the kitchen (prepping, cooking, or eating); he encouraged her culinary learning; he assisted her career in numerous ways, illustrating foods/ingredients for her cookbooks, taking pictures of Julia in action, etc.  Most importantly, he loved food and the arts, and so, his commitment to Julia’s fascination with cooking reaffirmed her own passion for it; his love of food and of what she was doing seemed essential to Julia’s persistence—to her many years of tedious work. Paul’s attitude and actions confirmed that what she was doing was meaningful, groundbreaking, and ultimately, fun!  Ultimately, My Life in France serves as a big thank-you to Paul, a big recognition that what Julia Child achieved was more of collaboration than an individual triumph.

But this memoir also brings up another point for us – this idea of fate.  One cannot help but realize that Julia’s success is well-deserved but also extraordinary.  How many other people, as talented, as charismatic, and as supported as Julia have struggled without the same recognition she received?  Julia’s experiences in the kitchen and in front of the camera lens have certainly paved the way for the celebrity chefs we know and worship today.  But, her chance was certainly a slim one.  The stars truly did have to align.  If Julia had not married a wonderful man like Paul, had not ended up in France, had not started dabbling in hobbies out of sheer boredom, had not tenaciously fought her way into advanced classes and pushed herself to be the best, would we be reading this book today?  As much as we applaud Julia’s own efforts, we also, by the end of her tale, felt a sense of awe that she was meant to discover her talent, because the universe wouldn’t have had it any other way.  With all these circumstances molding her, there is truly no doubt left that she truly was one of the rare geniuses that only come along every few decades.      

Of course, as good academics, we teach ourselves to fight the impulse to author worship.  After all, as brilliantly as she appears during her successful years, Julia was also a human being and flawed just like the rest of us.  Her grand-nephew, the ghost-writer of the memoir, does give readers a rather full sense of Julia as she aged and perhaps withdrew a bit into herself.  Her open heart and excitement dwindled as first fame and then loss of many of her old friends and collaborators slowly crept into her life. Sadly, Paul, in his later years, was in a nursing home while Julia continued to work across the country, and in France.  With only casual references to these reduced circumstances for Paul, readers are left wondering about Julia’s seeming reluctance to care for her ailing husband during those final years.  Julia’s professional break with her good friend Simca also made a reader ponder if fame and growing ego had altered her open personality.  But her rather reluctant, closed-lipped reflections on these final years simply helped to emphasize the real focus of Julia’s life, and, by extension, her memoirs – the joy of cooking fabulous meals, imagining many more in the future, and her life in France. 

So in the end, with all these ingredients mixed together, you’ve got a delectable book to devour!  Whether you marvel at Paul’s passion and support for his wife, swoon at the delectable references to recipes, or wonder at the twists of fate (and determination) that help Julia take over the cooking world, there should be something in this memoir for everybody.  Bon Appetit!

-----

Our next book choice is Red Hook Road by Ayelet Waldman, a pick by Melville.  

Here’s an excerpt from the BN.com Review: “Waldman unfurls her story with a pace befitting grief’s peculiar one-step-forward-two-steps-back progress, narrative and road merge to form a complex conduit for healing and an elegiac meditation on what within us remains after the tempest has undone an orderly life.”  

So read along with us and comment with us on the last Sunday of the month!  Keep checking “Thrice Booked” to find out how!

Tour de Greed? Artistic Integrity and Audience

In the past couple of weeks around dinnertime, Chopin and I tried to regularly watch replays of the Tour de France, probably the most famous professional bicycling race in the world. Despite owning a mountain bike and biking myself, and despite having a cyclist dad who belongs to a cycling club and relishes his time on two wheels, I have to admit that I don't quite understand the rules and strategy of the Tour. Well, I guess I haven't really sat down and studied it all, so it's not really that surprising I don't get it. Nevertheless, I comprehend enough to enjoy the competition; the beautiful scenery of France depicted throughout is enough entertainment in itself. From my limited experience as a bicyclist, I sat in wonder at these amazing athletes' abilities; what they're doing is extremely difficult...probably more mentally straining than anything. I also think it's safe to say they're the best conditioned athletes in the world, from a cardiovascular standpoint, anyway. To be at their level of strength, will, and commitment would be incredible!


Well, my admiration for these cyclists is sadly waning. With the coverage of the Tour comes the controversies of its players: numerous stories about riders "doping," or using illegal substances to enhance their athletic prowess, are in abundance, particularly ones focusing on Lance Armstrong, 7-time Tour winner, cancer survivor, and American "hero" (http://www.sbnation.com/2010/7/27/1590204/lance-armstrong-ped-doping-federal-prosecutors-probe, http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/cycling/news/story?id=5387363) He is currently being investigated by the feds, who are trying to figure out if he cheated by using performance enhancing drugs when winning the coveted yellow jersey. Sigh. I am not going to get into all of the details, but from what I've read and seen, and even though the media cannot ultimately be trusted, Lance's legacy seems tainted to me. I REALLY hope I'm wrong; I really hope the accuser (Floyd Landis) just has some jealous vendetta against his former teammate; I really hope that Lance did not use drugs when he displayed such athletic power, and I really hope that all of these amazing cyclists are in fact clean, but something tells me Lance and some others are guilty (multiple riders have already confessed). The feds probably won't uncover enough evidence to prove Lance's guilt, but with all of the hoopla, I think the damage is done, and the sport is somewhat scarred.

But Lance is the most drug tested cyclist out there, right? And he's tested clean every single time, right? So there's no way he's doping, you say. Well, that's where things get interesting. Apparently, the theory is that international cycling officials believe Lance is so important to the sport, has brought so much attention to it in a positive way, they're willing to look the other way (http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/floyd-landis-nightline-interview/story?id=11226456). In other words, these officials, who are in charge of testing for performance enhancing drugs, let Lance slide--basically let him cheat--in order to popularize the sport. Lance's defense isn't helped by the shady fact that he donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to the UCI, cycling's governing body which overlooks testing, or that most of the cyclists who stood on the podium next to him have already admitted to doping.

So, how does this relate to reading, writing, literature, and the like? Well, what strikes me the most is the role the audience has played in this whole scenario. UCI has allegedly allowed Lance to cheat, maybe even encouraged him to, in order to greatly widen their audience, which essentially means those involved with the sport are greatly widening their pockets, as well. Unsurprisingly, money seems to be the motivating factor behind all of this. The more successful Lance is, the more famous he gets, which in turn garners more interest in the sport. With more interest comes more spending from cycling's audience (fan base), so there you go. Obviously, it's not a bad thing to develop and cater to your audience, or your customers, but at what price, and by what ethical standards?

As a writer, one must also be consider her audience, but to what degree? Creative writers constantly face the decision to cater to their audience--maybe write popular, more superficially inclined stuff--or write what they really want to, from the heart, whether it's popular or not. I'm sure some are lucky and don't have to choose between popularity/$$$ and artistic integrity; they are writing what they want to, and it just happens to be fluffier, or more popular in scope. Good for them. But what about the others? What about the writers who confront issues that are uncomfortable to deal with, are experimental, or are intellectually challenging? What about the writers who must decide between a paycheck (popular, more mainstream stuff) and staying true to themselves and their explorations? They must have audiences, too, they just haven't found them yet, or they are smaller, or they will exist after the writer has died. Some of the most respected artists' audiences have been created after they are long gone; what if all we are ever exposed to is the popular stuff? Yikes. No thank you. So, in a world where popularity reigns, to what degree should an artist/writer consider her audience? I guess I just want to emphasize that writers/artists have a choice; when it comes down to it, what would you do if money and choice of work don't really mesh (especially in a work that is so personal)? As for Lance and the sport of cycling, I hope I am wrong; I hope money, fame, and popularity haven't motivated their actions. I guess we can speculate about others, and only control the decisions we make in our own lives.

Shelley

Violent Laughter in McDonagh's The Lieutenant of Inishmore

If you have a chance to get down to L.A. in the next month, I recommend seeing the Mark Taper Forum’s production of Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore (2001) www.centertheatregroup.org/ Here’s a summary from the website:

“Padraic (Chris Pine), a hard-boiled terrorist, has been away in Northern Ireland with his busy schedule of torture and assorted nationalist mayhem, but he is lured home to Inishmore by the news that his beloved cat, Wee Thomas, is doing poorly. When Padraic finds out Wee Thomas has been murdered, he initiates a cycle of revenge-killing that threatens everyone in his path, except perhaps the love-struck Mairead (Zoe Perry), a 16-year-old terrorist groupie with a BB gun.”

I enjoyed this play because it is laugh-out-loud funny—a feat that’s pretty difficult to accomplish these days (I remember laughing out loud during one of McDonagh’s other works, In Bruges, as well). Yes, this black comedy involves a mad Irish terrorist (so mad, he was rejected by the I.R.A.) willing to kill his own father for letting his pet cat die, and yes, the gore and twisted moral universe are extreme, but, instead of having a knee-jerk reaction which might deem the work gratuitously violent, I think McDonagh is carefully purposeful. In fact, incorporating such bloody disregard makes the play even funnier, just as much as it makes it “black”; that’s how black comedies work, right? To hold back on the absurdity would make the play less comedic and more black, which might then yield the performance unwatchable (for some, at least) as a dark, depressing work of art.

The Lieutenant of Inishmore also succeeds because of the truth underlying its humor. In other words, we find aspects of the play hilarious because the playwright effectively confronts his audience with realities of situations, cultures, and human nature that we are familiar with and can relate to because we’ve experienced them in our own lives. Many of us probably do not personally know an Irish terrorist or (hopefully) a torturous murderer, but we more likely have come into contact with irrational, short-tempered family members, frustrated, love-sick teenagers, or unfairly accusatory individuals. At the very least, we are aware of the seemingly endless violence taking place in Northern Ireland, which seems strongly attached to its historical identity. McDonagh exposes these truths with witty banter and circumstances that are so ridiculous, they leave us chuckling aloud with amusement.

Like all real comedies, though, disaster and heartbreak lurk just beneath the surface; categorizing this play as a kind of tragicomedy would also be accurate. On one level, we laugh at the horrors McDonagh addresses—the violence, the indifference—because of the extreme and clever way they are presented, but on another level, we are laughing because we recognize what McDonagh speaks of—we know that these horrors exist; the playwright’s twisted humor when exploring these horrors makes us laugh, though, instead of cry. So, after enjoying the performance, I wonder: would this play be as successful as it is—would it have the same impact—if the tone was different, or if it was not comedic? Would McDonagh’s vision of the world— in this case, his observations regarding the endless and senseless violence of terrorism—influence his audience as effectively if it was, let’s say, a straightforward, serious drama? Obviously, we wouldn’t be laughing, but would we be as willing to listen to his take, or as willing to consider the reasons motivating the characters’ words and actions? Or would the majority of viewers/readers shut down because, if seriously contemplated, it’s just all too depressing?

Regardless, the play provoked some significant thought in me (I don’t know if it’s just my personality, which is always trying to find, or at least hope for, some meaning in experience, or if it’s the play itself; probably both): is violence endless in our world? Even if most people really try to give peace a chance, is it inevitable that violence will persist? I hate to ask it, but is hoping for world peace pointless? Should we just laugh, as The Lieutenant of Inishmore and McDonagh do, at the absurdity of it all? Should we just laugh at the fact that, despite what history tells us—that senseless violence pretty much gets us nowhere, and ends badly—certain people and entities still believe in and utilize its force?

Well, even with the overwhelming logic favoring continual violence, I am not ready to give up on peace. And although forms of hate, hostility, injustice, and bloodshed will probably exist to some degree, I think we should all strive for peace, so that it at least outweighs the cruelty, the vehemence, the carnage. As my following words about nature reflect, my faith in beauty and hopeful possibility has to outweigh my doubt in the goodness of humans; otherwise, it’s all just too depressing, and unwatchable.

The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be
But for such faith with nature reconciled; (76-9, “Mont Blanc”)


--Shelley

Shakespeare in the Summer

First of all, we of thrice booked would like to apologize for not having the comment button enabled for Melville’s last post. We are working on fixing it, and hope to have it enabled soon so we can continue her intriguing discussion on summer reading.


That being said, this post will entail a response to Melville’s inquiries regarding summer reading, just because it’s a fun/wonderful topic that definitely warrants a reply, even in the form of a post 

Soooooo, on one level, even years later, mandatory high school reading reminds me of the summertime (I’m so glad it was required, though, because I probably wouldn’t have read certain texts at that age if it wasn’t). I still remember experiencing Great Expectations on my parents’ living room couch in Southern California, and Crime and Punishment while vacationing in the Rocky Mountains—strange environmental associations, I know, but existent correlations, nonetheless.

Most of all, though, when I imagine the warm, relaxing summertime, who so courteously lengthens the days’ promises, Shakespeare naturally appears, mostly in the park, among the trees, and under the sunny or starry sky. Summertime is the perfect time for some Shakespeare in the park! Yes, one can argue that Shakespeare isn’t exactly lighter fare, but I don’t think one has to fully comprehend his work to enjoy the atmosphere and tone he creates: his foreign lands, unforgettably engaging characters, and beautiful language. I mean, I must have been 10 or 11 when my parents took me to my first Shakespearean performance, and I guarantee I wasn’t accurately following the plot, or completely aware of the complexities occurring, but it didn’t really matter. I was hooked, and I have my parents to thank for it. I was transported in time and space, maybe to an English countryside, a Roman street, or a Scottish kingdom, but essentially, to a world created by Shakespeare’s captivating words and artful structure. Now, many Shakespeare in the Parks later, reading one of his plays before its production (which sometimes qualifies as a reread!) is one of my favorite and most meaningful summer pastimes. Last year it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I anxiously await this year’s selection. There’s just something that’s so alluring and ethereal about Shakespeare and the summer—a space that, whether comic, tragic, or both, offers something bigger than our personal world, something other-worldly that entertains, engages, and inspires, both in text and in performance. This is why Shakespeare is my favorite summer read!

Musings on The Road: My Story of Sadness and Beauty

Several nights ago, my husband and I were sorting through the Video On Demand movie options, trying to predict which film would best entertain us. I have several on my short list (Alice in Wonderland, The Blind Side, Broken Embraces, etc.), but, as I expected, they aren’t really “guy” material, or at the very least, they weren’t my hubby’s first choices. The last time we sat down together to watch a new movie, my husband, Chopin, had the privilege of making the final decision (The Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day), so I knew I slightly held the upper hand for this night’s pick.


“How about The Road?” I suggested. “I think you’ll like it.” I had finished Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel back in January, and was anxious to see its interpretation on screen, especially with Viggo Mortenson (Strider!) as the leading man. And, despite the self-interest imbibed within my proposition, I really did think Chopin would enjoy the film. He had enjoyed watching No Country for Old Men, however much it unsettled him, so I figured this flick would be right up his alley. Chopin went with it.

Well, I just loved the movie. Obviously, it rearranged and edited aspects of the novel, but I think it brilliantly captured the desperately haunting atmosphere, the characters’ intensely honest emotions, and the beautiful love families are capable of sharing. These are just a couple of leaves from the entire tree; I could go on and on about how successful I think the movie is. It actually makes me like the book even more because I think it helped me better understand McCarthy’s intentions on a deeper lever (though most aspects of the work(s) are still floating around in my brain, unable to completely take shape). I love it when separate art forms can help each other out, when they make each other shine brighter. A big thumbs up for me, including the countless crying episodes and all.

Unlike his wife, Chopin had not read The Road before viewing it in its film form, so, unsurprisingly, he was a bit unnerved after being lambasted with it. “That was the saddest movie I’ve ever seen.” Huh? Really? I mean, you’ve seen a ton of war movies; this was sadder than Platoon? “Really?” I asked. “It was a great movie,” Chopin reassured me, “but it was just really depressing.” Well, yes, I had to agree; part of the movie is sad and depressing, which is why I had a little sobfest throughout it. But, at the same time, I think it distresses us because it moves us so deeply. In other words, because The Road addresses the love and goodness existent within dire, catastrophic circumstances, the work can definitely be described as sad and depressing, but also beautifully hopeful. Yes, the world’s environment has gone to hell, families are viciously torn a part, and children are left frightened without their parents, but at the same time, the goodness, love, courtesy, and generosity that persist create a higher level of magnificence and meaning. I know some don’t see it this way; I think Chopin does more so, though, after time allowed his initial reaction to settle. Regardless, McCarthy gives us a story that is ultimately real: one that is tortured as much as it is splendid. This excerpt from the novel, one that depicts one of the many conversations shared between the boy and his father, helps expound upon this point:


“[Man] Why dont you tell me a story?

[Boy] I dont want to.

Okay.

I dont have any stories to tell.

You could tell me a story about yourself.

You already know all the stories about me. You were there.

You have stories inside I dont know about.

You mean like dreams?

Like dreams. Or just things that you think about.

Yeah, but stories are supposed to be happy.

They dont have to be.

You always tell happy stories.

You dont have any happy ones?

They’re more like real life.

But my stories are not.

Your stories are not. No.

The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad?

What do you think?

Well, I think we’re still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we’re still here.

Yeah.

You dont think that’s so great.

It’s okay.”


McCarthy illustrates that “real life” stories need to be told, even if they aren’t initially perceived as “happy ones.” So, maybe this story isn’t happy, but it’s definitely beautiful. Must beauty coexist with happiness, or can they operate separately? I think they can exist separately from each other, despite all of the “bad things” surrounding beauty. Okay, I’m going to stop the philosophizing right now, before I become completely incoherent. Anyway, after reading and viewing The Road, I am confronted with my own story—something I think McCarthy aims to do to his audience with his text. How am I existing within the world right now, with all of the good and bad within it? How am I preparing for the future of my story, and of my children’s (the future’s) story? For indeed, sadness, destruction, and violence—all things that are “bad”—pervade our world, but in order to temper it, it is our job to recognize, encourage, and create beauty—the love and goodness that’s definitely possible within us, so that our world is more than just “okay.”

As I Lay Reading...Faulkner and the American South

For some reason, I’ve always been fascinated with the American South, though the closest I’ve ever gotten to its parts was during a layover in St. Louis (unless you count New Orleans Square at Disneyland, which, I have to admit, I thoroughly enjoy, especially the Dixie jam sessions). I don’t know; for me, an intense, almost frightening mystery seems attached to it; something beautiful, but also dark. Maybe it’s all of the historical drama that has taken place there, or the extreme characters, ways of life, and events that have sprouted from its soil, and have subsequently shaped/affected our American identity. Or maybe it’s much simpler; maybe it’s because it’s so foreign, just really different than my California surroundings, and as such, I find everything about it to be interesting. Of course, my feelings toward the South are mostly second-hand generalizations based on movies (Interview with a Vampire, Gone with the Wind, The Color Purple, Fried Green Tomatoes, Cape Fear, Cold Mountain, etc.), television (“True Blood”), history books, the media, and literature (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Awakening, To Kill a Mockingbird, Faulkner, O’Connor, Beloved, etc.). But at the same time, I trust that there’s some truth to these representations, and will continue to allow them to indulge and inform my thirst for the enigma that is the American South.

So, in an effort to be close to this region, I recently looked to one of its most insightful citizens: William Faulkner. To be honest with you, I really haven’t read that much of this literary giant. I’ve taught and studied his gothic short story “A Rose for Emily,” which I love and respect, and have completed two distracted, unsuccessful readings of The Sound and the Fury, but that’s about it. But now, with my MA in tow, I’m determined to become familiar with Faulkner’s works so that I can better understand why I’m so drawn to southern culture. What does my attraction to the South say about me? What is so alluring about the South, and how/why is this enthrallment important, if it is at all? Obviously, I may never fully answer these questions, and I could create an encyclopedia set trying to, but I want to explore a bit of what I discovered while reading As I Lay Dying, Faulkner’s 1930 novel.

Addie Bundren has died. Her son Cash has built her a wooden coffin, and the rest of her immediate family, including her husband, is fulfilling her wishes by taking her to Jefferson, Mississippi to be buried. During their trek across the countryside, the Bundrens’ wagon, muscled by mules and including Addie in her coffin, must cross a river at its shallowest part. The risks are high, but this passage is their only choice if they want to carry out Addie’s request. Before they make this attempt, Addie’s son Darl describes the effect the river has upon him:

“Before us the thick dark current runs. It talks up to us in a murmur become ceaseless and myriad, the yellow surface dimpled monstrously into fading swirls travelling along the surface for an instant, silent, impermanent and profoundly significant, as though just beneath the surface something huge and alive waked for a moment of lazy alertness out of and into light slumber again.
It clucks and murmurs among the spokes and about the mules’ knees, yellow, skummed with flotsam and with thick soiled gouts of foam as though it had sweat, lathering, like a driven horse. Through the undergrowth it goes with a plaintive sound, a musing sound; in it the unwinded cane and saplings lean as before a little gale, swaying without reflections as though suspended on invisible wires from the branches overhead. Above the ceaseless surface they stand—trees, cane, vines—rootless, severed from the earth, spectral above a scene of immense yet circumscribed desolation filled with the voice of the waste and mournful water,” (141-2, Vintage International).

Now, my mind swirls when I read this passage because there is so much within it; I don’t know where to start. I knew for sure that these paragraphs were special, that they had impacted me, but I didn’t know exactly why. A wondrous anticipation underlies Darl’s words—a respectful fear regarding the river’s power. He thinks the surface appears “monstrously,” and imagines “something huge and alive” lives “just beneath the surface,” like an animal, “like a driven horse.” Basically, no one should trifle with such an “impermanent” and “ceaseless” force. While reading this portion of the novel, though, I found Faulkner’s sentence structure and rhythm to be beautifully intoxicating, almost hypnotic. The sentences are drawn out, and alliterative phrases like “Above the ceaseless surface they stand” exist so naturally and sound so pretty (poetic), even if what he’s referring to may be haunting and terribly dangerous. Faulkner seems to take his time expressing Darl’s awe and concern, too, slowing down the natural force while at the same time building up and creating its impressive strength. Pretty suspenseful stuff. I guess you could say it’s like a slow motion sequence in an epic film, like during a battle scene in one of the Lord of the Rings movies, or in Gladiator, or something. The resulting effect is hugely dramatic, but I think in a good way because it emphasizes that what we are taking in is important. It’s a signifier that we need to especially focus on this part because it’ll give us some insight to the work as a whole, to one of its themes.

Okay, so the river and its personification is frightening because of its might and unpredictability (after all, it’s a natural force that humans cannot completely control), but is also magnificent. For me, the “thick dark current” is a way of conceptualizing life and death and our experience with them (I know this is kinda heavy to get into, and there’s a tendency to get all dark and depressed, but I think exploring death actually makes it less scary…or maybe that’s just me…anyway! Ultimately, it’s a reality that we have to deal with, so I guess I’m trying to make the most of it): I mean, death is everywhere in this book: As I Lay Dying?? They are transporting the body of their dead mother and wife, so yah. The description of the river current, then, just reminds us that live beings and things die everyday, that death is always a possibility since one is alive. It’s a natural reality that is “ceaseless” and always there, lurking just beneath the surface. But, the concept of death cannot be separated from life, for obviously, one must be alive in order to die. So, though the river has the power to be destructive, it vibrantly exists; its presence is strongly felt, just like Addie’s presence is strongly felt throughout the whole of the text, even though she is dead. Her family remains affected by her life regardless of her death.

And this thought makes me think that Faulkner is highlighting how attached our present and future lives are to our past, even if the past has already occurred, and seems to be long gone. For the characters in the novel, Addie being alive is a part of their past, yet her life and death determine the family’s present actions, which will in turn affect their future ones. Everything and everyone is “ceaseless,” then, existing without the limits of time, in one form or another. I guess these concepts reveal an aspect of why I find southerners so alluring: they seem to really identify with their past, with their history and legacy, and take an immense amount of pride in them, and in tradition. I’m not saying this is good or bad; I just think their strong connection with their past—with the formation of their selves, and their presence of mind to recognize how meaningful one’s cultural history is—creates an otherworldliness I find intriguing, a sort of face-to-face confrontation with the journey of time, or with things/people/concepts that are long-gone.

And though As I Lay Dying is a difficult book that deals with intense issues and relationships, it has created some comfort for me. On one level, I’m reminded that my loved ones who have passed away aren’t completely and utterly gone. Their beings live on through the people they have touched, and the thoughts they have sparked. Even though they have died, their lives have a “ceaseless” impact that time cannot crush. On another level, Faulkner’s emphasis on our connection to the past makes me cherish my own past a bit more. More often than not, I overanalyze the decisions I’ve made, concluding that they could have been a little wiser. This text is a good reminder that my past has helped shaped who I am today; within it lie tools and experiences that I can learn from to better my present and future state. All of this relieves some anxiety, and creates more comfort in my life.

Shelley