dual personalities

Category: Books

What are you reading?

by chuckofish

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“These days, Clarissa believes, you measure people first by their kindness and their capacity for devotion. You get tired, sometimes, of wit and intellect; everybody’s little display of genius.”

–Michael Cunningham, The Hours

This is so true, don’t you think?  The Hours, which I read over the weekend, is full of such truth. I liked it very much.

I remember going to see the movie when it came out back in 2002 and liking it very much. There was some major mis-casting, but I liked Meryl Streep as Clarissa a lot.

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“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.”

Not surprisingly, I liked the book better.

Indeed, there are not many instances where the movie is an improvement over the book. Ben-Hur (1959) comes to mind.

Some movies actually measure up to the book: To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) does. And although the author did  not think so, I think Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) is as good as the book.

This would make an interesting blogpost topic no doubt, but…back to what I’m reading.

I picked up Malcolm Cowley’s And I Worked at the Writer’s Trade off a shelf at home–I think it was my father’s copy from 1977–and started that. I like reading about writers. Cowley is one of those guys who knew everybody and has a lot to say about them. He spent most of his career as a literary critic and editor and never really made it as a fiction writer himself. He did win a National Book Award for this book, writing about other writers.

I seem to remember thinking that he had a little chip on his shoulder, that he always managed to cast some aspersion on whomever he is writing about, that he makes himself more important than he probably was. But I have not found that to be the case reading this book now. Perhaps I am thinking of Exiles Return which he wrote in 1933 and then revised in 1951. Perhaps he had mellowed by 1977 when he wrote And I Worked at the Writer’s Trade. We do tend to do that, don’t we?

So what are you reading?

Vocation

by chuckofish

smushed_wishful_thinking

In honor of Labor Day, some wisdom from Frederick Buechner:

IT COMES FROM the Latin vocare, to call, and means the work a man is called to by God. There are all different kinds of voices calling you to all different kinds of work, and the problem is to find out which is the voice of God rather than of Society, say, or the Super-ego, or Self-interest. By and large a good rule for finding out is this. The kind of work God usually calls you to is the kind of work (a) that you need most to do and (b) that the world most needs to have done. If you really get a kick out of your work, you’ve presumably met requirement (a), but if your work is writing TV deodorant commercials, the chances are you’ve missed requirement (b). On the other hand, if your work is being a doctor in a leper colony, you have probably met requirement (b), but if most of the time you’re bored and depressed by it, the chances are you have not only bypassed (a) but probably aren’t helping your patients much either.

Neither the hair shirt nor the soft berth will do. The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.

Wishful Thinking

Discuss among yourselves.

They say that…

by chuckofish

Books make the home

Woodcut by Rockwell Kent

And, as you know, I agree.

more-books-in-the-home-by-jessie-willcox-smith

Here’s what Dylan Thomas said about books:

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

Maybe I have too many books in my house.

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This is a pile of books I backed into and fell over when talking to daughter #1 on the phone recently. No, I’m not kidding.

And I do move books out of my house–just not as quickly as they move in.

“In Naomi’s Eyes we were about as Jewish as Episcopalians.”*

by chuckofish

"Barrow Farm" by William Stott of Oldham (1857--1900)

“Barrow Farm” by William Stott of Oldham (1857–1900)

“The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last for ever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year – the days when summer is changing into autumn – the crickets spread the rumour of sadness and change.”

–E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

As I have mentioned before, summer in our flyover state is hot and muggy and generally pretty terrible. But this summer has been just lovely and I am loathe to see it end. Sigh.

End it shall…but not yet.

This weekend, which followed a long, stressful, sad week, I decided to throw in the towel and leave the rest of my bathroom to the professional who is coming to paint this week. If there’s one thing I know, it’s my limits. I cleaned up the mess I made.

I watched Out of Africa (1985) which is a pretty wonderful movie and one of the few which deserved its Best Picture Oscar.

Out_of_africa_poster

I hadn’t seen it for many years and I think it has certainly held up. Although some may think it over-rated and slow, I think its pace is perfect. It has a smart script and it is beautifully directed and the cinematography is sublime. Good grief, Meryl Streep is perfect. It is very romantic. And who doesn’t love Isak Dinesen? Granted there are no car chases or explosions, but there is a great sequence in a bi-plane.

I re-read The Wonder Spot by Melissa Bank, which is the follow-up to her best-selling The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing. Bank’s writing, you recall, was one of the first to be labeled “Chick Lit”–so unfortunate. When the Girl’s Guide was published to such acclaim in 1999, I spurned it because it sounded stupid and it was so popular–it couldn’t be good, right?  Then ten years later when I was having a very bad week, I saw it at a rummage sale and thought, “What the heck? I’ll give it a whirl.” (This was one of those shoulder taps from my guardian angel that I have learned to listen to.) When I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down. It was so good–genuinely funny without being vulgar, heart-felt and remarkably kind.

The Wonder Spot was not the giant best-seller of its predecessor, but I like it, and I enjoyed re-reading it. I laughed out loud on numerous occasions. It is both funny and sad–a combination of which I approve.

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“The women are young, young, young, liquidy and sweet-looking; they are batter, and I am the sponge cake they don’t know they’ll become. I stand here, a lone loaf, stuck to the pan. ” (“The Wonder Spot”)

Have a good week!

* “2oth Century Typing”, Melissa Bank

 

The very top of summer

by chuckofish

“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.”

–Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting

How was your weekend? Mine went super fast, starting with my Friday night when, after an exhausting day, I sat down to watch Cat Ballou and promptly fell asleep. No great loss, but there went my Friday night!

Saturday I went to a baby shower-(!)-given by the friend of the first soon-to-be-a-grandma of my friends.

presents

Time marches on–relentlessly.

I watched a good documentary about the Ghost Army in WWII suggested by my dual personality.

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The documentary tells about a 1944 secret U.S. Army unit that was set up in order to misdirect the Nazis. The weapons used included inflatable tanks and specially made sound effects records. Their mission was to use deceit to fool the enemy into thinking there were troops where there were none. It worked to an amazing degree. Fascinating!

I worked on my DIY project in an upstairs bathroom–removing wallpaper and glue. The worst. My career as a hand model is officially over.

I continued to read about Ned Kelly and started a memoir of a pioneer Presbyterian minister who established the first protestant church on the western slope (in Lake City, CO).

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Ned Kelly, as portrayed by the wonderful Peter Carey is an engaging enough character, but the rest of the Australian population, in particular the Irish element, are rather dreadful. I will persevere because Carey writes so well. Unfortunately we all know it will end badly for our anti-hero and there is nothing Kelly can do about it. Oh well.

The Rev. George Darley was truly an amazing man. He ministers to his flock, leads temperance meetings, raises money, conducts funerals for all sorts of characters, and treks back and forth over the San Juan mountains in all kinds of terrible weather. And he has a sense of humor:

“Before going far my swearing acquaintance seemed disposed to enliven the hard ride of almost sixty miles by having some fun at ‘the Parson’s’ expense. He finally called out: ‘Parson, this is not the road to heaven.’ Being already loaded, I answered: ‘No, but there are plenty of such men as you on like trails going to hell, and I am doing what I can to save them.’ That ended his attempts to have fun at the ‘Parson’s’ expense.”

Have a great week!

 

What are you reading?

by chuckofish

girl-reading-758651

Once again I found myself casting about for something to read over the weekend. I picked Susan Cheever’s memoir of her father John Cheever (May 27, 1912 – June 18, 1982) from the bookshelf.  I received it as a Christmas present in 1984.

IMGP1065So I have been reading Home Before Dark again and enjoying it very much. Old John Cheever, the “influential twentieth century fiction writer affectionately known as ‘the Chekhov of the suburbs,'” is such a familiar type of dude to me–the waspy, literate Yankee gentleman who is also a terrible alcoholic.

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I mean look at him in his shetland sweater. He was even a practicing Episcopalian who said grace before every meal! So familiar. Like my own pater, he made to age 70, but just barely.

It’s true that this “brilliant chronicler of American suburbia” led a tortured double life filled with sexual guilt, self-loathing and immense quantities of booze. Unfortunately his bad behavior went way beyond drinking too much. But I really think Susan Cheever could have stopped after writing her first memoir. Did she need to write another? Cheever’s son Ben has edited a collection of his letters. And they sold his journals in an auction. He has been turned inside out. Does anyone deserve this?

Anyway, I bought a used copy of The Stories of John Cheever and I will re-acquaint myself with his writing, which is what we should remember old Cheever for, right? I will resist reading Blake Baily’s 700-page Cheever: A Life which chronicles every sordid detail and secret of his life. Enough already.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless he sees the bright plumage of the bird called courage–Cardinalis virginius, in this case–and oh how his heart leapt.

–John Cheever, Oh What a Paradise it Seems