dual personalities

Tag: writers

February 3, 2016

Playing along with the farce

by chuckofish

I’m not saying I will, but I could go on for hours escorting the reader–forcibly, if necessary–back and forth across the Paris-Chinese border. I happen to regard the Laughing Man as some kind of super-distinguished ancestor of mine–a sort of Robert E. Lee, say, with the ascribed virtues held under water or blood. And this illusion is only a moderate one compared to the one I had in 1928, when I regarded myself not only as the Laughing Man’s direct descendant but as his only legitimate living one. I was not even my parents’ son in 1928 but a devilishly smooth imposter, awaiting their slightest blunder as an excuse to move in–preferably without violence, but not necessarily–to assert my true identity. As a precaution against breaking my bogus mother’s heart, I planned to take her into my underworld employ in some undefined but appropriately regal capacity. But the main thing I had to do in 1928 was watch my step. Play along with the farce. Brush my teeth. Comb my hair. At all costs, stifle my natural hideous laughter.

–J.D. Salinger, The Laughing Man

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January 6, 2016

“Arise, shine; for your light has come”*

by chuckofish

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“He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that he could, from day to day. He had been true to the light that had been given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best that was possible. He had not seen the revelation of “life everlasting, incorruptible and immortal.” But he knew that even if he could live his earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.”

–Henry Van Dyke, The Story of the Other Wise Man

Today is the feast of Epiphany, celebrating the ‘shining forth’ or revelation of God to mankind in human form, in the person of Jesus Christ. The observance had its origins in the eastern Christian church, and included the birth of Jesus Christ, the visit of the three Magi who arrived in Bethlehem, and all of Jesus’ childhood events, up to his baptism in the Jordan by John the Baptist. The visit of the Magi is traditionally interpreted as symbolic of God’s revelation of himself to the Gentiles.

I think I will re-read the short book The Story of the Other Wise Man written in 1896 by Henry Van Dyke, Presbyterian minister and Princeton graduate. It was a great favorite of our mother. It is a wonderful of story of the fourth wise man, who sets out to see the newborn king, carrying treasures to give as gifts–a sapphire, a ruby, and a “pearl of great price.”  But he gets side-tracked on the way to Bethlehem. His journey lengthens and he finally finds Jesus as he is crucified.

“I do not know where this little story came from,” said Van Dyke, “out of the air, perhaps. One thing is certain, it is not written in any other book, nor is it to be found among the ancient lore of the East. And yet I have never felt as if it were my own. It was a gift, and it seemed to me as if I knew the Giver.”

*Isaiah 60:1

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January 4, 2016

“It’s alright, Ma”*

by chuckofish

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Well, the holidays are officially over.

It was a busy long weekend. First I took down the little tree.

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Then the mantle.

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Then I moved on to the big tree.

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Soon all that was left was a pile of pine needles, some of which will still be around next year when we put up the next tree.

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In between we celebrated the New Year with friends and had the boy and daughter #3 over for dinner on New Year’s Day. We watched 3 Godfathers (1947), my favorite movie about the three wisemen, with them.

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I also watched Bridge of Spies (2015)–pretty average–and A Walk In the Woods (2015)–pretty disappointing.  I was hoping it would cheer me up, but considering it is based on a book by Bill Bryson, it was remarkably devoid of humor. Furthermore, Robert Redford is way too old and tired looking to play Bill Bryson, who wrote the book when he was 47. Redford is 79 and, despite what he may think, he looks it. His boyishly cut, dyed red hair looks ridiculous. Nick Nolte looks every one of his 74 years and more. Indeed, he appears to be at death’s door and like he wouldn’t make it 100 yards on the Appalachian Trail in real life. Cleary their backpacks were filled with bubble wrap.

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There was a lot of great scenery, which I appreciated, and the music featured songs by the band Lord Huron. (My dual personality gave me one of their CDs for Christmas and I had coincidentally been listening to it a lot over the weekend during my clean up efforts. BTW the CD is really good.) But, boy, it could have been so much better if it had been cast differently.

Anyway, I am now ready to face the new year at work today. The holidays were great fun, and I will miss my girls. But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only.

*Bob Dylan. (Yes, I would have spelled it “all right”…)

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December 29, 2015

The party’s over

by chuckofish

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“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”

–Henry David Thoreau, Walden

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December 16, 2015

“Xmas all grown ups sa is the season for the kiddies but this do not prevent them from taking a tot or 2 from the bot and having, it may seme, a better time than us.”*

by chuckofish

Let us pause mid-week and take a deep breath.

"Lady at the tea table" by Mary Cassatt

“Lady at the tea table” by Mary Cassatt

Yes, it is less than ten days until Christmas, but all will be well.

All will be wonderful.

Maybe not perfect…but perfection, I think, is highly overrated.

(c) Northampton Museums & Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Juriaen van Streeck, Northampton Museums & Art Gallery

Make yourself a cup of tea (or coffee) and take a few minutes to sit by the window and think.

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“Woman Sitting by the Window” by Pablo Picasso

Think about those Christmases of long ago.

“Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: “It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”**

Feel better now? This is how my brain works.

Have a great Wednesday. Daughter #2 is flying in from the east coast today. Tra la, tra la.

*From How to Be Topp by Geoffrey Willans

**From A Child’s Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas

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December 15, 2015

“The world was hers for the reading.”*

by chuckofish

Today is the birthday of Betty Smith (December 15, 1896 – January 17, 1972), who wrote A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, a classic about a sensitive young girl who escapes the grim realities of her tenement life through reading.

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I always thought the author was Irish-American, but she was born Elisabeth Wehner, the daughter of German immigrants. I guess I am thinking of the movie based on her famous book–the characters are all so Irish. It is a good movie and Peggy Ann Garner as Francie Nolan is quite affecting. James Dunn won an Academy Award for best supporting actor as Francie’s pathetic drunk of a father (whom she loves very much nevertheless.) He deserved the award, although I always had the feeling he was playing himself.

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The characters are very real and the movie does not gloss over the hard realities of the book. This is probably due to the fact that the film is directed by the great Elia Kazan–in his directorial debut.

Anyway, a good book, a good movie–hat’s off and happy birthday to Betty Smith!

“People always think that happiness is a faraway thing,” thought Francie, “something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains – a cup of strong hot coffee when you’re blue; for a man, a cigarette for contentment; a book to read when you’re alone – just to be with someone you love. Those things make happiness.”

I should also mention that yesterday was the birthday of one of my most favorite writers, Shirley Jackson (December 14, 1916 – August 8, 1965). I will happily toast both ladies. How about you?

*A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

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November 17, 2015

Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining*

by chuckofish

Over the weekend I went to a couple of good estate sales where I picked up several good books.

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I was happy to see the book by Janice Holt Giles. Chances are you have never heard of her, but she was a popular mid-range author in the 1950s-70s. She never got rich from her writing, but she was able to support herself, and that is saying something.

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Janice Holt was born in Arkansas in 1905. As a child she moved to Indian Territory (Oklahoma) where her parents were both teachers. She grew up with books and music and went to college. When her first marriage ended, she and her daughter moved to Louisville, Kentucky where Janice worked for Dr. Lewis Sherrill, Dean of the Presbyterian Seminary.

On a trip to visit family in 1943, Janice happened to share a 40-hour bus ride with Henry Giles, a soldier on his way to a new assignment. In two days on the bus they became such good friends that they corresponded throughout the rest of the war while Henry was in Europe. When he returned from active duty in 1945—although they had not seen each other since the bus ride—they married immediately. Henry was 11 years her junior.

After a year in Louisville, Henry could not bear the big city any longer, and the couple moved to Adair County, KY, living on Henry’s family land. Janice, as I recall, had quite a lot to adapt to–no indoor plumbing for one thing–but love will conquer all. Janice wrote and Henry farmed.

I always thought they must have been a very interesting pair. Their unusual romance and life together is the stuff of good fiction. Indeed, some of her earliest books have a strong autobiographical flavor.

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Anyway, I was interested to discover, while checking Holt out on the internet, that the Janice Holt Giles and Henry Giles Society was established in 1996 to preserve the literary legacy of Janice and Henry Giles and to restore their log home.

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Their home is now open to the public, June-October on Saturday and Sunday.

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Every year there is an arts and crafts fair in early October, and I am thinking of adding this event to my calendar for 2016. The OM’s family is from Kentucky and I have long wanted to investigate the Bluegrass State.

In the meantime I am reading The Six-Horse Hitch and enjoying it very much. She is a thorough researcher and she always knows her subject. If you are interested, I recommend you check out some of her other books. The Piney Woods trilogy, consisting of The Enduring Hills (1950), Miss Willie (1951), and Tara’s Healing (1952), though not as famous as, say, Catherine Marshall’s Christy, is just as good. I have not read all of the Kentucky trilogy, but I have read Hannah Fowler (1956) and thought it excellent.

Reading historical fiction, especially about American pioneers, is for me a good escape from today’s Modern Problems.

(Photos are from the Janice Holt Giles and Henry Giles Society website.)

*Blue Moon of Kentucky by Bill Monroe

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November 10, 2015

“Open your eyes and see what you can with them before they close forever.” *

by chuckofish

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These are the days to take long walks and savor all that blue sky and colorful autumn flora and crisp fall temperatures. Until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes…at 5:00 p.m.!

For those of us who work from 9 to 5, it  means we come home in the near-dark and our evenings seem so much shorter! No walks.  It seems like we eat dinner, watch something, read, and go to bed.

Well, c’est comme ça. Lately I have been watching Sons of Anarchy (2008-2014)–the show about a motorcycle club that operates both illegal and legal businesses in the small town of Charming, CA. It has a good cast headed up by the very appealing Charlie Hunnam charlie-hunnam-sons-of-anarchy-600-370

(an English actor), Katey Sagal and Ron Perlman.

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So far in season one, they are developing interesting and three-dimensional characters–the guys in the MC are pretty great–so we’ll see if I can hang in there despite a good amount of (you can imagine) violence.

I do love watching shows on Netflix without commercials. (I had to laugh when Castiel, the angel on Supernatural, in response to someone asking what he was doing while recovering from nearly dying, said, “I’ve been binge-watching the first season of The Wire.”)

On the book front, I am reading All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 2015.

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Set in occupied France during WWII, the novel moves back and forth in time, centering on a blind French girl and a German boy whose paths eventually cross. It is excellent. Sometimes “highly acclaimed, multiple award-winning” authors actually deserve the accolades.

Carpe diem!

*Anthony Doerr

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October 21, 2015

Way back Wednesday

by chuckofish

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Outside the study hall the next fall, the fall of our senior year, the Nabisco plant baked sweet white bread twice a week. If I sharpened a pencil at the back of the room I could smell the baking bread and the cedar shavings from the pencil. I could see the oaks turning brown on the edge of the hockey field, and see the scoured silver sky above shining a secret, true light into everything, into the black cars and red brick apartment buildings of Shadyside glimpsed beyond the trees. Pretty soon all twenty of us–our class–would be leaving. A core of my classmates had been together since kindergarten. I’d been there eight years. We twenty knew by bored heart the very weave of each other’s socks. I thought, unfairly, of the Polyphemus moth crawling down the school’s driveway. Now we’d go, too.

–Annie Dillard, An American Childhood

This time of year always makes me take a wistful look backward at my schooldays. I have always been an observer, watching other people do things. Sometimes I was taking pictures, sometimes writing about it. Sometimes I was just listening. Whatever.

I was never as cool as Annie Dillard, that’s for sure, never as connected. But we both felt the same desire to get the heck out of Dodge and move on.

Speaking of moving on, I re-read Dillard’s short memoir looking for a quote and I didn’t think it was as great as the first time I read it. Time and age again.  Sigh.

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October 19, 2015

“The outermost suburbs of the Truth”*

by chuckofish

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I didn’t do a whole lot this weekend. I went to a few estate sales and I puttered around the house. I walked around my neighborhood. It is the perfect weather for that.

I watched Furious 7 (2015) with Vin Diesel et al.

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It was ridiculous but highly entertaining. Indeed, the movie deserves an Oscar for special effects, because I certainly could not tell you where the real Paul Walker began and ended. Those Weta Digital people are pretty amazing.

I didn’t go to church but stayed home and re-read Telling Secrets by Frederick Buechner, the third in his trilogy of memoir. It was the first book I ever read by Buechner and I was sold for life. But I guess he is not for everyone. When I first discovered him over twenty years ago, I recommended him to everyone I knew. One friend read The Sacred Journey (the first book of memoir) and thought he was a whiner. That is the last way I would describe him, but to each his own.

“The passage from Genesis points to a mystery greater still. It says that we came from farther away than space and longer ago than time. It says that evolution and genetics and environment explain a lot about us but they don’t explain all about us or even the most important thing about us. It says that though we live in the world, we can never really be at home in the world. It says in short not only that we were created by God but also that we were created in God’s image and likeness. We have something of God within us the way we have something of the stars.”

Buechner is the Man as far as I’m concerned.

And now it’s Monday again. Tra la la.

*Telling Secrets by Frederick Buechner

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