Where I’m Calling From by Raymond Carver
I loved this book.
I should probably end my post right now as to avoid embarrassing myself with how much fawning I may (will) do about Where I’m Calling From. I read this book knowing I would like it - I’ve read a few Carver stories in my years. I didn’t know that I would love this book, that I will probably read this book, and other Carver collections, over and over and over again. There is so much to learn. Why didn’t I have to read Carver in college or graduate school? Because I should have known better. Any literature or writing student, especially one with a focus on short stories, worth anything would have already had a deep knowledge and understanding of Carver’s stories. Right? I should have been rewriting his stories like a young Joan Didion copying Hemingway to understand the sentences, rhythm, and trajectory of a master storyteller. I couldn’t tell you now what I was doing instead.
After I finished each story, I wanted desperately to articulate what I loved about each story. And I loved every one. I really can’t say there were any stories that I didn’t like. Yes, there were some stories that seemed similar (and I’m still fawning so I won’t say overplayed) but each character was an individual and true to its own story. My attempts to articulate what made each story good, even to myself, failed. Even now, a week or so after I finished, I am having trouble truly understanding why Carver’s writing is pure and genius.
I do, however, know why I liked it. There was nothing extra in the writing, nothing poetic, just simple storytelling. Each story was intense, the characters often on an emotional precipice yet saying, “What could I say?” The bare, no-nonsense style gives it a masculinity that I’m always attracted to.
It’s funny. I don’t write like this. I will never write like this. I don’t even want to. And yet, I feel compelled to study it. I found myself catching my breath every few pages. So, of course, I wanted to know: Could I ever do that? Could I ever make a reader catch his breath? Fortunately, I let myself go and just read the goddamned thing and enjoy it. I made no notes in the margins or underlines in the paragraphs. There will be another time for me to study it. I just read. And now I want to write.
2012 Reading Resolution
I guess it’s fitting that I write about my goals for 2012 on New Year’s Day. After I’ve had a few too many glasses of Prosecco, I feel the need to cancel out the tired feeling of drink weighing me down, to restart, exercise, eat better*, and do something with myself. That something is to write more.
I can’t be a writer without being a reader or a reader without being a writer. I used to write a lot. I used to read a lot more. And this year I will be working on doing both. I have another hobby that splits my wealth of free time as a stay-at-home mom** but I can’t escape the desire, no, need to write. I have a non-blog project in mind but I’ll be blogging more as a way to get the words out and get my voice back.
My reading may be influenced by my writing project. I can only hope my writing will be influenced by my reading. (Oh, Raymond Carver, you are my new hero!) I’m also going to try to read more non-fiction particularly by women (I’ve got a great reading list from a friend that I’m going to try to tackle). But, for the most part, I’m just going to let the writing take me where I need to go. My current word count is zero. I want to be able to revisit this post a year from now and at least be able to count something.
*After today, of course.
**If you are not a stay-at-home parent, then please reread that last statement with heavy sarcasm. There is rarely free time as a SAHM with two kids under 4.
Design as Art by Bruno Munari
As I am becoming more involved in my other hobby, I am thinking more and more about design. It influences how I plan future projects or patterns I’d like to follow or imitate. As a quilter, the object itself is functional but to create it is (or, in my case, attempts to be) art. The question of form and function are always on my mind.
I think I was led to Bruno Munari by way of children’s books. His children’s books are beautiful.* And Design as Art is beautiful, too. (There are pages and pages of drawings of chairs.) It is a collection of essays, of which I didn’t know what to expect. They were accesible and fun. I thoroughly enjoyed the essay where he explains ordinary objects (orange, pea, rose) in design speak. Yet, what I appreciated most about his philosophy of design is his dedication to ‘form equals function’. In is his essay on “Fancy Goods”, he describes the ridiculousness of decorative objects that have no purpose or contradict the original purpose of an object (e.g. a lighter in the shape of a revolver, etc). He consistently reminds the reader of simplicity in objects and in life and often praises the simplicity of Japanese culture.
I didn’t expect to laugh. I didn’t expect to simply enjoy reading these essays. And I loved this book for its basic principle of simplicity, simplicity, simplicity - something I strive for but don’t always achieve.
*I am continually amazed by the differences in taste between me and my children. Most of the books that I love (for them) are ignored (by them). There are some children’s authors who have retained the mind of a child, who can completely empathize with their development. These books, to me, are usually the least appealing to my adult senses and random. There are few exceptions: George and Martha books by James Marshall (my favorite), Madeline, and just about anything by Eric Carle and Leo Lionni.
My year in reading
I used to relish end of year lists, but now I just skim the NYT 100 book list and do my best to keep up with all of the excellent ‘A Year in Reading’ posts at The Millions. I decided to check out my goodreads page and take a look at the books I’ve read this year - a shameful few. And now, because I can’t help myself, I’ve been thinking of that typical December question: what has been the best book I’ve read all year?
I didn’t read many books this year. I started 13 and finished 10 (although, to be fair I’ve got two books I’ll probably finish before the year’s end*). Despite so few books, I read some really great books. A Handmaid’s Tale vs. Invisible Man? Blue Has No South vs. Someday This Will Be Funny vs. The Boat? Then where does that leave Fair Play? And if I finish Where I’m Calling From, I’ll be forced to choose between classics and new classics and then I realize that there are too many to choose.
So will I choose?
No. I can’t. My year in reading this year has been a restoration in my faith, yes, faith in books. I’ve enjoyed my reading. I read for pleasure. Shouldn’t I always? Yes. But I easily get caught in the trap of the Internet, the reviews, the twitter, the whatever. This year, I (mostly) kept to my reading resolution and rediscovered books on my bookshelf that have been waiting patiently to be read - there are quite a few left. I’ve relished this discovery. I enjoy choosing the next one and not thinking about it, letting the leftover emotions guide my choice. Invisible Man was beautiful and intense and I was grateful to follow it with Someday This Will Be Funny but even more grateful to find Fair Play at the library after that. I needed some calmness. And I enjoyed every minute of this ebb and flow.
Now, I’m back with some intensity in Carver’s Where I’m Calling From** and I’ve got some books lined up after that but maybe I’ll read those or maybe I’ll read something else. I’ll see where Carver takes me. And there, in that movement, is my joy.
*That leaves a lonely book I did not finish this year (sorry, Big Machine). I’ve decided that I will not waste my time reading books that I don’t like. That may limit my reading landscape but it makes for a much happier reader.
**Holy shit, this book is awesome. I’ve read a few Carver stories here and there but never a full collection. This book is rekindling the writer in me. I do not want this book to end. It will. I know it will. And then I know I will have to write again.
The ones I will keep
As I reflected on my previous post, I started thinking about the books that I will never give up. What makes them shelf-worthy? This isn’t a list of my favorite books. Some of the reasons I would keep books are purely sentimental: books that I read as a child or, later, books that opened my reading (and sometimes myself) to adulthood.
- my childhood Roald Dahl collection
- my high school copy of The Great Gatsby. I kept it through undergrad and highlighted so many times in so many colors that to read it again, I think I’ll have to get a new copy. Maybe one of those beautiful Penguin classics.
- My William Faulkner collection. I don’t have all of his books, although it’s pretty close. Some day I will have them all and I won’t get rid of those either. Reading Faulkner for me is like listening to Charlie Parker - there is always a moment when I think Holy shit, I didn’t know that could be done. Beautifully.
- Just about anything I have by Joan Didion. If I had to choose it would be my copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem that I bought at a used bookstore in London on my honeymoon (you know you’ve married the right man when he’ll travel to another country with you to go into used bookstores to buy American authors) and The White Album (of course).
- Ulysses
- Infinite Jest
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I have so many of his books but I would choose this one for sentimental reasons.
- On the Road (also for sentimental reasons)
- From Here to Eternity by James Jones because it will always remind me of Bill and Pat.
- My Norton anthologies. I have a few from undergrad and there is just so, so much in these texts.
- My Eudora Welty and Flannery O’Connor collections from Library of America
I may be missing some. I know it would be hard to part with my old Granta magazines but I think I could if I had to.
I know this list will say a lot about me. There are no rare gems here - all blockbusters (but maybe they’re that way for a reason). No matter, these are the ones that mean the most to me.
Book Purge
For most of my life I’ve been collecting books. Maybe collecting books isn’t the right word - it’s more like hoarding them. My collection of books isn’t too bad, not in the thousands, but definitely in the hundreds. I still have some of the books that first made me a reader: a real, ‘this is who I am’ kind of reader. A faded Matilda by Roald Dahl is patiently waiting in my three year old’s closet for when she gets to be a bit older.* If only I still had all of my old Babysitters’ Club books! (See, it’s a sickness!) Why do I need all of these books when most of them I’ll never open again. (See aforementioned Babysitter’s Club books.)
I keep them because they are old friends. Books started out as an escape. They were trusted friends and then stayed that way for the rest of my life. I can’t remember living in a room that didn’t have some books with me. Why is it, then, that I would want to part with the warmth and comfort that my books provide?
I am in a state of transition. Yes, these old books are old friends, good friends. But I must move on. First and logistically, I just have too many of them. I even have some in storage. I don’t know what books they are. I don’t know why I have them. Maybe some day I’ll look at them again. Maybe my kids will. Or neither will happen. Currently my house is filled with the kids’ toys. It’s a happy and chaotic filled; but it’s still filled. I don’t need books to add to my daily chaos. Especially that book by that author, the one that I liked a few years ago, that had a decent book about that guy, that I’ll never read again. I don’t need it. Therefore, I don’t want it. Second, my style of reading has changed. There was a time when I read what I was supposed to read (i.e. in school or books that were undoubtedly good, probably recommended and blogged and hyped about) and did or didn’t read. I can’t (won’t) count how many books I have that I haven’t read. Therefore, I’m starting to choose books that I want to read. Meaning, if it sounds good, I’ll read it. If I get 50-70 pages into it and I don’t like it, it goes.
At first my inclination to purge my books felt like a bit of a betrayal. Who am I to make such decisions about literature? I’m a failed (so far) writer, ex-English teacher, and lover of words and art who just wants to enjoy reading again. I find I get so much more out of reading and writing when it’s for myself right now. The immediate connection or drive to write or read certain books makes my literary journey of sorts much more enjoyable and worthwhile. My old books are not where I’m at right now. In a sense, I’m starting my reading journey over. Who knows, I may even write again.
*Will my kids treasure books as much as I do? I hope but that is a question that I’m not sure I want the answer to. However, I have three full bookshelves in our living room (also their play space, which is quite limited in our Seattle apartment), and Claire’s new hobby is taking down books and ‘reading’ me stories from them. Her favorites: my old Granta copies with the white and color blocked spines. I am starting to believe that just having books in the house is a good influence for a love of reading.
Some thoughts on Seattle after reading In Utopia by J.C. Hallman
In October of 2009 my family and I moved from Philadelphia to Seattle. It’s been two years and I still feel a bit in limbo, as though it’s been my first day here for years. I was excited to move to Seattle because of the novelty, its newness. Although, I’m not sure why I wanted to leave Philadelphia. I loved Philly - I still love Philly - although it’s very easy to say that when you are 2800 miles away from home. And yet where is my home? Home is such a strong word, rife with cliche, metaphor, and too much sentimentality. Shouldn’t it be simpler than that? Shouldn’t it be where you are now? Does it have to be fabricated? Or even intellectualized? Seattle was my idea of utopia. It was exciting that Seattle was not Philadelphia. Seattle was thousands of miles away. Moving to Seattle felt like moving to a new country without having to learn a new language and I moved here with only seeing Seattle once for about 24 hours. I spent the six weeks we had between deciding to move and actually moving creating my own Seattle Utopia. When I got here, I realized I wasn’t the only one.
I couldn’t help but think of my transatlantic move when reading J.C. Hallman’s In Utopia, which describes six different modern utopias. From pleistocene rewilding, which intrigued me the most especially because Ted Turner was indirectly involved, to Front Sight, a civilian combat training facility, as well as a few less extreme utopias: a megacity in Korea; the origins of the Slow Food movement, which is not only a novel way to approach the idea of a modern utopia (through food) but also just a fantastic piece of travel writing; a cruise ship where you can own your own apartment; and Twin Oaks, a 40 year old ‘intentional community’. What stuck with me is the idea of an intentional community and left me with a lot of questions: What exactly makes a community intentional? Why should a community be intentional? Can it be a community if it is intentional? What, then, is a community? I am no anthropologist (although I took an anthropology course in college from a professor who looked eerily like Kevin Costner) and I haven’t read More’s Utopia and, therefore, may not be the best person to answer my own questions.
Hallman wants to believe in the intentional community, that a utopia can and should exist. And, yet, in the end he questions whether More’s Utopia was a joke for those who wanted a utopia. For shame if you wanted to believe in a utopia! (Shame on me for not reading it!) While I like the idea of an idealized community - a happy, cohesive lifestyle - I don’t believe in it. Maybe I’m too much of a cynic but ‘intentional’ communities, and I don’t just mean Twin Oaks but all utopias, lack authenticity. Twin Oaks has been around 40 years; you could imagine some authenticity, history, roots in a thriving commune. But intentional communities don’t make room for the two most important aspects of a community: freedom and diversity. Free will - diverse free wills - lead to the organic growth of a community which, in time, makes it cohesive. While that may seem an obvious conclusion, it doesn’t seem apparent to those within ‘intentional’ communities. To me, the idea of an intentional community is an oxymoron.
How is that related to my moving to Seattle? It may not be related at all. And then maybe I just can’t get my head out of the East Coast. Seattle seems like a young city. Everything is new: homes, architecture, infrastructure, laws, sports teams, even much of the populace. Many of the city dwellers are transplants like myself. We’ve moved here to create a different or better life for ourselves and families. For me it feels as though everyone had the same feelings as I did before we moved: a new place, a fresh start, with like minded people. Sounds nice and safe. Instead it can be very isolating (Seattleites know all too well the infamous “Seattle Freeze”.)
I do think that since Seattle is a city of transplants, it creates a city with short roots. We came to this beautiful city (I will always be amazed at how beautiful Seattle is) with similar ideals but I don’t feel like I’m a part of anything greater than my own ideals. (Key word, here, being *greater*. I have a wonderful circle of friends - people I’d like to stay friends with even if we (or they) don’t stay in Seattle.) But I’m not sure how to become a part of the collective ‘Seattle’. I recently read an op-ed piece in the NYT about how individual actions (i.e. using reusable grocery bags, etc.) will not help the environment only collective actions (i.e. changes in economics, Congress, etc.) will. The article reminded me of my conflict with Seattle: “So why bother recycling or riding your bike to the store? Because we all want to do something, anything. Call it “action bias.” But, sadly, individual action does not work. It distracts us from the need for collective action, and it doesn’t add up to enough.” This is why I don’t believe in utopias. Individuals create utopias where as people - collectives, if you will - create communities.
Reading Round-Up
It’s been so long since I’ve read these books that I can’t quite give them a proper review. In fact, I’m not sure why I’m writing about them at all. Two reasons, really. One: I need to write. About anything. I’ve fallen out of the habit of writing and I need to force myself back in. I don’t want to lose my sense of language and its connection with my hands. (Is it strange that I find writing to be so physical?) Two: I read some really good books. If there’s anyone reading this, which I highly doubt, I know you’ve already heard of these books. But there comes a time when you read something and you just have to tell someone about them. Isn’t that why I have you, dear blog? So, here you have it, truncated notes for books that deserve much, much more.
Blue Has No South by Alex Epstein is a lovely little book. It is a collection of short shorts or flash fiction. It was an impulse loan from my library - I wanted something short and sweet - something to just get through (I’m not sure why but I think Freedom had something to do with it). This tiny collection took me at least two weeks to read. Each story, which may have been only a paragraph or even a sentence or two, was so rich, thoughtful, and lovely. I’m making them sound like a Hallmark card but I was left with a feeling from the collection: empathy, tenderness, and - most importantly - depth.
I had such a long post planned forThe Jokers by Albert Cossery. What a wonderful, wonderful library find! Of course, had I been paying attention to the Internet, I would have already known about the brilliant Cossery and his band of jokers. Set in an unnamed Middle Eastern city, The Jokers tells the story of a group of men who plot against their government through ridicule. They do this through sarcastic praise instead of traditional revolutionary tactics. The revolutionaries think they’re being mocked, the government doesn’t realize they are, and we discover how naive we all can be. Let’s just say I wish I had read this book in 2004.
Finally, The Handmaid’s Tale. What can I say about Margaret Atwood’s brilliant novel that probably hasn’t already been said before? I will say that it has become one of my favorite books - one that I will reread. I can still replay scenes in my head and my stomach still turns at the prospect of such a dystopian life. Yet, the book was beautiful. Oh, the sentences! However, reading it a few weeks after having a baby was probably not a good idea. With hormones running high, there were many nights of tears and nightmares. (I am, unfortunately, prone to literary inspired nightmares.)
2011 Reading Resolution: A little late to the party
So I’m two months late, which shows you how dedicated I am to resolutions. When I get to them, I’ll get to the them. I am somewhat determined to keep my 2011 reading resolution, however. For quite some time I was a book hoarder. I have since given up on buying books for the sake of buying them. In fact, I’ve given away a lot of my old books (sorry, non-fiction, your always the first to go when space is needed). In my recent purges I’ve realized how many books I own that I haven’t read. Many books that I’ve recently read have been library books, which is good for my bank account but not so good for my backlog. So that is my reading resolution for 2011, to whittle down the backlog of books that have been waiting patiently to be read like sad kittens in an old pet shop.
This means that I will be reading a lot books that I missed out on when they were first published or classics that I should have read in grad school, college, high school - even. Yes, that means you, Moby Dick! This also means that I will not be jumping on the literary bandwagon this year (after Freedom, I’m glad for it). I know I’ll miss out on some good books this year. But there are always new, good books. Although a few years from now, I’m sure I’ll be revisiting the “A little late to the party” section of my bookshelves because I know I won’t be able to resist buying at least one new book this year.
First up is The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood - it’s not my first reading of Atwood but it should have been.
Freedom by Jonathan Frazen
Ahh, Freedom! What to say about Freedom that hasn’t been said already? Truthfully, I don’t really know what was said about it since I’ve given up on reading book reviews. (I barely have time to read books let alone articles about books.) But I do have this to say about the book: I didn’t not like it. Yes, I know, quite passive - a non-statement, really just a state of ambivalence. I don’t regret reading it; but, if I hadn’t read it, I wouldn’t be upset. (That’s a telling statement since I wouldn’t be able to say that without reading it.) All in all, I think my most definitive feeling about it was that I thought it could have used a more discerning editor. Does that mean I didn’t like it? Yes and no.
While the novel is seemingly the story of the Burglands, it is really a story about Walter and a story about Joey. More simply, a story about two men and the women they love. Yet, how or why they love the women they love is elusive. Of course, there is no rhyme or reason for why people fall in love (that’s why there’s literature). Franzen’s characters just seem to be in love. As readers we must accept it. (In great novels, it shouldn’t matter. We happily accept it.) But in these cases, Walter with Patty and Joey with Connie, love plagues the men and left me wondering why - what is it about these women? Franzen had a word for it: interesting. I wish I had the energy to count how many times interesting was used to describe women. The editor in me almost did until I realized what interesting really meant. Sexy. So the women are sexy? That’s it? That’s it? Thinking back on the novel, I could be willing to accept that - chemistry is hard to explain. However, Franzen spends two sections from Patty’s point of view in an attempt to round out her character. Unfortunately, most of that leaves Patty an empty character not knowing who she is, which is acceptable, but ultimately leads her to becoming even more sexy through her affair with Richard. And this I found weak.
Admittedly, I’m overanalyzing these fictional characters. They are there to drive the story, and they do; but to what end? Reading Freedom has me questioning what it means to be a literary novel. Franzen is considered a literary author. But why? I can’t recall a sentence from the novel that moved me. I did feel for some of the characters but not as much as I could have. I found Freedom to be a missed opportunity. It is certainly not the novel of our time. Throwing in some popular band names and mentioning the iPod makes the text sound like it has product placements rather than being entrenched in our culture. Add some references to 9/11 and the war in Iraq and the 2000s are covered. I wonder why Franzen treated differently than, say, Nick Hornby.
Yet, it was easy to get sucked into the hype that is Franzen. I fell for it with The Corrections and again with Freedom. (My thoughts on The Corrections are similar to those on Freedom.) I enjoyed the hype. It was fun to buy the book in hardcover. It was fun to avoid the reviews. It was fun to actually read a book right after I purchased it. My apologies to the dozens of books on my shelves that I purchased years ago and still have not read*. It was fun to just read the book. And that’s what I liked about it. It was fun to read. It felt like one step above a beach read: easy, light, interesting story - a little sex, a little politics (but not too much of either). But that is also one thing I didn’t like about it. For a novel over five hundred pages, I was expecting a little more depth. Although, to be fair, maybe I was just hoping for it.
*I’m hoping to change that soon with a 2011 reading resolution.
