As for what's the most challenging aspect of teaching, it's convincing younger writers of the importance of reading widely and passionately. |  C-R Lee |
Tomorrow: My Book World | Catherine Raven's Fox and I
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FRIDAY: My Book World | Catherine Raven's Fox and I
FRIDAY: My Book World | Catherine Raven's Fox and I
My Book World Wright, Frank Lloyd. An Autobiography. New York: Barnes and Noble, 1998. First published, Duel, Sloan and Pearce 1943.
I missed out on all the instruction I needed to write my high school research paper because I was in the hospital with a bad case of pneumonia. When I finally did make up the paper, I wrote it on Frank Lloyd Wright. I did not keep the graded copy, and I can only guess that I perhaps did not narrow down my topic enough, but I do recall being very enthusiastic about my research. The great architect had only been gone about six years, and my childhood fascination with him fired up my ambition. I was happy finally to read his autobiography divided into five books, each one perhaps written at the end of a particular era. Some people talented in one area seem to be good at virtually everything they attempt, and some talented people seem to be natural writers. Frank Lloyd Wright appears to be both. He is not only architect but artist, chef, sommelier, pianist, and humanitarian. Book One is titled “Family,” written in the third person, about his childhood and the family members who made it a magical one growing up in Wisconsin. One even gets a good feel for his Welsh ancestry. He begins a book-long examination of “sentiment” vs. “sentimentality.” In this passage he speaks of a summer night just after his father has read to him from Poe’s The Raven: “Sometimes, after all had gone to bed he would hear that nocturnal rehearsal and the walking—was it evermore?—would fill a tender boyish heart with sadness until a head would bury itself in the pillow to shut it out” (50). The passage is moving but contains no “sentimentality” (for Wright that may mean the vestiges of Romanticism). In Book Two, “Fellowship,” Wright begins to write in first person, a young adult looking for and finding work with one of the best architectural firms in Chicago. Either a latent or inherent anti-Semitism seems to influence his thinking at this time as he works alongside others in a crowded drafting room: “Next table to mine Jean Agnas, a clean-faced Norseman. To the right Eisendrath—apparently stupid. Jewish. Behind me to the left Ottenheimer—alert, apparently bright. Jew too. Turned around to survey the group. Isbell, Jew? Gaylord, no—not. Weydert, Jew undoubtedly. Directly behind, Weatherwax. Couldn’t make him out. In the corner Andresen—Swedish. Several more Jewish faces. Of course—I thought, because Mr. Adler [his boss] himself must be a Jew” (96). Why the preoccupation with this issue? It may be part of his upbringing, the fact that he was born in 1867. At any rate, he does begin to build a fellowship of young architects to whom he serves as mentor. A long section, Book Three, covers his life with at least one spouse and a second one in the wings, the building (and burning) of Taliesin I and II in Wisconsin. Wright moves fairly smoothly back and forth through time, including stints in Tokyo, where he builds the Imperial Hotel, innovating construction that will withstand the many earthquakes the region is prone to having. Once again, even though Wright is fond of Asian art and culture, a certain racist language mars the portrayal of his otherwise humanitarian point of view, using terms like “slant and sloe eyes,” (197) even when he may believe he’s being complimentary: “Decorous black eyes slyly slant upon you from every direction as the little artful beings move noiselessly about, grace and refinement in every movement” (209). By Book Four, FLW is building Taliesin West in Scottsdale, Arizona, once again working hard to fit his work into the landscape instead of forcing a structure upon it, always preferring “horizontal” to “vertical” buildings of his Usonian vision. One wonders if even the US wouldn’t run out of land if we built everything horizonal. Book Five seems to be a potpourri of ideas from slamming youth who do not want to work as hard as he did in his youth, Beethoven as a metaphor, a recapitulation of his family ancestry, the introduction of his idea of “gravity heat,” in which, instead of steam registers, heated liquid is piped through concrete floors, and because heat rises, rooms are heated more efficiently. Finally, though, in spite of passages of pomposity and dense abstractions, FLW still remains an interesting figure. I’ve never had a bucket list, per se, but if I were to put one item on it, it would be to visit as many as Wright’s remaining structures as possible. They are that good, that interesting. One sad note: this Barnes and Noble edition has (by my count) at least twenty typographical errors of varying kinds from misspelled words to words omitted, to subject-verb agreement, to using commas when periods were needed. Not cool, B&N. NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | The Complete Stories of Truman Capote
TOMORROW: My Book World | F. L. Wright's An Autobiography
FRIDAY: My Book World | Frank Lloyd Wright's An Autobiography
FRIDAY: My Book World | Frank Lloyd Wright's An Autobiography
My Book World Miller, Olive Beaupré, ed. With illustrations by Maud and Miska Petersham. Tales Told in Holland. Chicago: Book House for Children, 1926. My paternal grandparents immigrated from the Netherlands over a hundred years ago. My father spoke only a little Dutch and visited Holland once. I, a nonspeaker, have been there twice. I’ve always been fascinated with the culture of this tiny country that would fit nearly two times inside the Texas Panhandle where I live, yet its rich cultural history makes it seem larger than life: Hans Brinker; or, the Silver Skates: A Story of Life in Holland is just one fine example. I’m not sure where my parents found this book, but it has been on our family shelves for a long time, I having absconded with it when my parents were no more. And until now, I’m not sure I’ve ever read it, or had it read to me. There are little crayon marks my late sister made when she was little, and it sat on her shelf. The illustrations are quaint and in that sense make it a children’s book. However, some of the tales are a bit gruesome, and some broach the blunt side of history and politics, making it a book for everyone, I should think. One tale that has always intrigued me is “The St. Nicholas Legend,” which begins like this: “Every winter the good old bishop, St. Nicholas, comes in his ship over the sea from Spain. And who is that with him? It is his servant, a little Moor, named Black Pete[r]. They are bringing goodies and toys for the children of Holland” (88).  Illustration from 'Tales Told in Holland' This tale also connects the Netherlands with its Spanish roots, having been subjected for a time to Spain (as well as France): Look, yonder comes the schooner, When I heard this story as a child—it is simply too hard to be good all the time—I fully expected to wake up one Christmas morning and find in my stocking (one year it was a wooden shoe) a switch. Maybe that is where my parents departed from the Old World traditions, and I am glad.
NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | TBD
TOMORROW: My Book World | Tales Told in Holland
FRIDAY: My Book World | Tales Told in Holland
FRIDAY: My Book World | Tales Told in Holland
My Book World Haslett, Adam. Imagine Me Gone: A Novel. New York: Little Brown, 2016.
Having loved Haslett’s previous work (luuvved Union Atlantic), I jumped in with all limbs once again, and I was not disappointed. In this novel, an American woman meets a British man, they marry, and settle down for a time in London. All three of their children are born there but wind up being raised in New England, where the mother is from. The father is apparently normal (wife gets one big hint he is not just prior to the wedding, but she does not change her plans) until he is not—first losing his career and then sinking into a deep depression. He’s a kind man, a good husband and father, but he wanders into the woods and kills himself. One no longer has to imagine him gone. The title become a multifaceted jewel in which each member (as the first-person POV indicates) can imagine such a thing for themselves. Another great feature of the novel is that Haslett passes the narration around from family member to family member, thus lighting every corner of this household (the first person is subjective and messy, but that may be Haslett’s intent). Michael is the eldest child, a brilliant person, who, in one chapter writes letters to his aunt about their transatlantic voyage from America to England, letters parodying perhaps the writing of Oscar Wilde; they are that hilarious. The facts are all there, but he is letting the reader know this is how he expresses himself best—at a sardonic slant. Celia may be the most sensible and peacemaking of the three siblings, winds up being a shrink. Alec, the youngest, finally comes out as gay. I like that his story does not take over the novel, that it is just one of five narratives, yet it is handled as sensitively and fully as the others. The dynamic that sets the tone for this family is how everyone deals with Michael, who has difficulty establishing himself in a career, is always in debt and dependent on his family for help—a family that through the very end is willing to sacrifice everything to save him. Michael is an ultrasensitive person, feeling the hurts of the world yet a bit deaf to the needs of his family. His character is the one who determines the lives of the other four: his actions, his failures, his medical complications, his addictions. The tragic ending is both expected and not. Michael is obviously on a downward spiral, but one hopes, as do all his family, that he will pull out of the dive before it’s too late. NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | TBD
TOMORROW: My Book World | Adam Haslett's Imagine Me Gone
FRIDAY: My Book World | Adam Haslett's Imagine Me Gone
NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | Adam Haslett's Imagine Me Gone
My Book World Brontë, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. With an introduction and Notes by Susan Ostrov Weisser. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2003 (1847).
I’ve always been a sucker for an orphan story. I just can’t seem to pass them up: Dickens. John Irving. And character Jane Eyre’s story is no exception. Only the revered novel isn’t just any orphan story. It begins that way, of course, with the death of both her parents, whose importance will makes itself clear later. No, it is the life this strong, young, independent woman builds for herself that is most important. She learns early to stand up for herself, but her actions get her into trouble first with the Reed family who have been forced by a dead relative’s request to take her in. Then she is hauled off to a school for poor children, where she again stands up to the authorities until she learns that cooperation will take her much farther in life. Having acquired a certain gentility, she becomes a governess for apparently a bachelor’s young charge. From this point on, readers see Jane Eyre struggle to do what she believes is right for her against others who wish to use her for their own designs. Her story is remarkable, and it is easy to see why this novel is one of the most widely read and re-read in the world. No spoilers here. NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | TBD
TOMORROW: My Book World | Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre
FRIDAY: My Book World | Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre
FRIDAY: My Book World | Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre
My Book World Cheever, Benjamin, Ed. The Letters of John Cheever. New York: Simon, 1988.
This collection of letters from the 1930s to 1982 is as much about the editor, John Cheever’s eldest son, as it is about the senior writer. So many times in reading a compendium of letters, one is left alone to solve certain puzzles the letters may contain. For most letters Benjamin Cheever glosses events, dates, but most important, personalities, and by doing so he allows readers a deeper view into his father’s letters, his father’s life, the life of their family: John Cheever’s wife, Mary; daughter Susan, Benjamin, and a second son Fred (born Federico in Italy). Having read Cheever’s journals some years ago, I again encountered his wicked wit, in which he slices humanity a new asshole but also a humane man who loves that very flawed humanity and is kind enough to portray his characters that way. For the wicked sense of humor: “About a month ago Mary took a job teaching English at Sarah Lawrence two days a week and so she journeys out to Bronxville on Tuesday and Fridays and comes home with a briefcase full of themes written by young ladies named Nooky and Pussy” (124). Or this, with a scintilla of rage: “I got back to work on the book about a month ago, but was dealt some crushing financial blows three weeks later and now I’m back in the short story business. I want to write short stories like I want to fuck a chicken” (125). And a sweet cat story: “The cat, after your leaving him, seemed not certain of his character or his place and we changed his name to Delmore which immediately made him more vivid. The first sign of his vividness came when he dumped a load in a Kleenex box while I was suffering from a cold. During a paroxysm of sneezing I grabbed for some kleenex [sic]. I shall not overlook my own failures in this tale but when I got the cat shit off my face and the ceiling I took Delmore to the kitchen door and drop-kicked him into the clothesyard” (235). But ultimately, as I said, Cheever loves humanity and declares as much by way of a Time magazine interview chronicling his career: “My sense of literature is a sense of giving not diminishment. I know almost no pleasure greater than having a piece of fiction draw together disparate incidents so that they relate to one another and confirm that feeling that life itself is a creative process, that one thing is put purposefully upon another, that what is lost in one encounter is replenished in the next, and the we possess some power to make sense of what takes place” (240). Now for the sex part of this profile: Editor Ben, eldest son to Cheever, discovers that his father is not bisexually bicurious in a furtive, shameful sort of way but has had sexual-emotional relationships with many different men over his lifetime. Cheever’s letters attest to having done the deed with (grad student of Cheever’s) Allan Gurganus (about his son’s age) and photographer Walker Evans about whom he tells this story: “When I was twenty-one Walker Evans invited me to spend the night at his apartment. I said yes. I dropped my clothes (Brooks). He hung his (also Brooks) neatly in a closet. When I asked him how to do it he seemed rather put off. He had an enormous cock that showed only the most fleeting signs of life. I was ravening. I came all over the sheets, the Le Corbusier chair, the Matisse Lithograph and hit him under the chin. I gave up at around three, dressed and spent the rest of the night on a park bench near the river” (304). I must say that I admire John Cheever’s zest for life, an enthusiasm he did not relinquish until the day he died. And even then? NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre
TOMORROW: My Book World | The Letters of John Cheever
FRIDAY: My Book World | The Letters of John Cheever
FRIDAY: My Book World | The Letters of John Cheever
My Book World Camus, Albert. The Plague. Translated by Stuart Gilbert. New York: Vintage, 1991 (1948).
I read this book, in part, to see what light, if any, it might shed on the world’s 2020-2021 Covid pandemic. I found some interesting parallels. The city of Oran, Algiers, 194_ of Part One seems to echo our country’s actions concerning a local epidemic, the first signal of which is the estimated death of 40,000 rats: lack of clarity about what the disease is and what needs to be done. In Part Two, the gates of Oran close: “One of the most striking consequences of the closing of the gates was, in fact, this sudden deprivation befalling people who were completely unprepared for it” (67). The natural impulse seems to be to shut out the rest of the world. People, indeed, do not know what is happening. Go to work or not? Keep my children out of school? Oh, the schools have been closed. “The Prefect’s riposte to criticisms echoed by the press—Could not the regulations be modified and made less stringent?—was somewhat unexpected” (78). In 2020, we demonstrate similar behavior: “At first the fact of being cut off from the outside world was accepted with a more or less good grace, much as people would have put up with any other temporary inconvenience that interfered with only a few of their habits. But, now they had abruptly become aware that they were undergoing a sort of incarceration under that blue dome of sky, already beginning to sizzle in the fires of summer, they had a vague sensation that their whole lives were threatened by the present turn of events, and in the evening, when the cooler air revived their energy, this feeling of being locked in like criminals prompted them sometimes to foolhardy acts” (100). Indeed. Partying at crowded bars and restaurants? Attending large political gatherings? In Oran, the number of deaths seem to increase exponentially day by day. There is conflict about how to handle their situation: “Cottard stared at him in a puzzled manner, and Tarrou went on to say that there were far too many slackers, that their plague was everybody’s business, and everyone should do his duty. For instance, any able-bodied man was welcome in the sanitary squads” (157). Sounds similar to 2020: Just wear the damn mask. Or, You can’t tell me what to do, you’re infringing on my freedom. By Part III the people of Oran, Algeria realize that the plague has swallowed up “everything and everyone.” There are no longer individual destinies, only a collective destiny, burying the dead, recycling coffins because enough new ones cannot be manufactured fast enough. Cemeteries are outgrown as it were. In 2020, CNN and MSNBC mount graphics each day of the number of Covid cases, the number of deaths. People of Oran become apathetic: Que sera, sera. If I die I die. Sound familiar in 2020? Part IV of the novel depicts the exhaustion—physical, mental, and emotional—that the people of Oran are now experiencing after months of trauma. “Whenever any of them spoke through the mask, the muslin bulged and grew moist over the lips. This gave a sort of unreality to the conversation; it was like a colloquy of statues” (209). No wonder everyone becomes sick of masks! We can’t always understand one another, can’t see other’s expressions as to what they are thinking. Though protected by the mask, we are dehumanized by it as well. Part IV is highlighted with a touching moment between Dr. Rieux and his friend and patient, a Father Paneloux, after a child dies by way of an excruciating but tender description by Camus. You know more death is coming. Yes, the priest, too, dies. It is in Part IV that the plague becomes a larger thing, a metaphor for the decay potentially inherent in all humans. Provided for readers in Part V is a sad denouement in which the plague whimpers to an end, but not before the good doctor who has worked tirelessly experiences the loss of his wife (who is caught in another town throughout the entire epidemic) as well as a close friend. Dr. Rieux ends the novel’s narrative with these thoughts: “And, indeed, as he listened to the cries of joy rising from the town, Rieux remembered that such joy is always imperiled. He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city” (308). Whoa! What? you say. We could face more pandemics in the future? Simply, yes, if the rats shop with us. NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | The Letters of John Cheever
TOMORROW: My Book World | Albert Camus's The Plague
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AUTHOR
Richard Jespers is a writer living in Lubbock, Texas, USA. See my profile at Author Central:
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