Bookstagram hypnotizes me. Photos of pretty books, photos of pretty books and pretty tea cups, photos of pretty bookshelves, photos of manicured hands holding pretty books… Pretty feminine.
And so I decided to color-coordinate my TBR.
“You won’t. You’re not fun,” said my cousin. She is fun when she’s not in rehab. And she curates the library’s Instagram account.
“I am fun.”
“You took a picture of the books in the library dumpster.”
“That’s fun undercover reporting!”
I am not posting a fun pic of the perfectly fine set of Encyclopedia Britannica I found in the dumpster. You know why? Because I am fun.
I yanked some matching books off my shelves, but everything in my photo looks rumpled. Julie Berry’s Y.A. novel, Lovely War, and Japanese novelist Minae Mizumura’s The Fall of Language in the Age of English, a book about English language dominance, obviously belong together. The colors!
I bought Julie Berry’s Lovely War, because Entertainment Weekly described it as “a retelling of the Aeneid.” In the first 65 pages, there are references to Homer and Hesiod but none to Virgil. (Perhaps the reviewer got her poems mixed up.) But the gods pull the strings in human relationships: the goddess Aphrodite, caught in flagrante delicto with Ares and “bagged like a chicken” by her husband Hephasetus, explains she is the source of love but never in love. And she tells the story of bringing together three musicians and a soldier during World War I.
Minae Mizumura is the author of one of my favorite books, A True Novel, a brilliant Japanese retelling of Wuthering Heights. Fandom is why I bought The Fall of Language in the Age of English. So far I am mesmerized by the essay “Under the Blue Sky of Iowa,” which revolves around her month in Iowa City on some kind of International Writers’ Workshop fellowship. I know Iowa City well, so would be fascinated even if it weren’t for her description sof the other international authors. And many are writing in languages with few readers.
I found more matching books on my shelves: the 19th-century novel Eve’s Ransom by George Gissing, an olive green Dover, and the muted brown 40th-Anniversary edition of Joy Williams’s novel The Changeling.
“Why did I say I’d do this?” I wondered as I sipped a soy latte at À la Caffeine.
À la Caffeine is the chic coffee boutique for itinerant writers in our uncharted provincial city. Managed by a library school dropout who has posted “Shh” signs on the wall, it is a nearly silent cafe.
“Shh” isn’t everybody’s favorite word. And so the clientele tend to be Renaissance Fair organizers designing Celtic Clan flyers, nervous Ph.D. students writing snappy dissertations on Sexuality in Small Towns in Willa Cather’s Later Fiction, and freelancers desperately polishing reviews of “The Ten Best Homeless Shelters in Town”–for the alternative paper.
I often write such things myself, but today I’m editing a pulp SF novel about a race of “Uplifted” animals– animals who are biologically modified in labs to have human intelligence.
I am doing this as a favor for an editor friend who is forced to publish this thing.
Wow! This is ineffably bad. I asked in an email, “Did you know the hero is a lemur whose ancestors are blue ponies?”
She wrote, “Yeah. Delete ALL adjectives and adverbs and cut to 30,000 words. Then we hide it in an anthology, submit it for an SF novella prize, and call it done.”
But where to start? Here is the astonishing first paragraph.
And so it came to be that Hal the Lemur flew through the tall green trees of Madagascar Not-on-Earth on the morning that Mam was attacked by the Madagascar Hawk. Hal bravely fought it. His Mam was not alive…not dead. He could get help from the blue Ponies who’d trained him in Rhetoric and Medicine. And then he saw the Pony Ship was gone. Gone through space……time was a concept…time and space beyond Ponies beyond Earth…beyond…and he was alone.
I have a new line on my face. It is vertical, on my forehead.
I am still mourning my cat, Helen. Torrents of tears. In her last moments, my husband said, “Kat, she’s still looking for you.” I quickly moved my face to the side where she had moved her darling face.
We picked up Helen’s ashes this week. The box is so tiny, wrapped in bubble wrap. And yet it’s still a connection to her. It’s what’s left, and we’ll bury her in the spring.
Crying is what we women are told not to do. We stifle our emotions because wrinkles will spoil our looks. After a certain age, we don’t care.
I do feel sad. And this week I have experimented with not smiling in public. Why should I smile at clerks, cashiers, dog-walkers (though the dogs are adorable), mammography technicians, or rude Millennials and iGens hogging the sidewalk as they text while walking? The only time I see people smiling in public these days is when they’re trying to “hook up” with someone (and isn’t that a distasteful phrase? Like a phone!)
And guess what I learned? Smile or don’t smile, it doesn’t matter.
People barely look up from their phones anyway.
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER’S DESIRE AND DELUSION: THREE NOVELLAS, TRANSLATED BY MARGRET SCHAEFER.
I am a fan of the neglected Arthur Schnitzler (1862-1930), a Modernist playwright and fiction writer who was a member of a circle of artists and writers in fin-de-siècle Vienna. He was a doctor who graduated from the University of Vienna School of Medicine, and his special areas of interest were psychology and psychiatry.
His fiction is strangely modern, and his quiet style an effective underpinning of psychological realism and a contrast to the violence. I recommend Vienna 1900: Games of Life and Death, a Penguin collection of four short stories published in the 1970s.
Recently I discovered Margaret Schaefer’s modern translations, which are published by Ivan R. Dee, and are more accessible. I love long-form fiction, so I was eager to read Desire and Delusion: Three Novellas. These superb novellas, Flight into Darkness, Dying, and Fräulein Else, are linked by the theme of death and delusion.
In the Dostoevskian novella, Flight into Darkness, the antihero, Robert, a commissioner, struggles with paranoia at the end of the six-month trip which a doctor prescribed as a cure for a nervous breakdown. The story begins at a hotel after Robert breaks up with his girlfriend Alberta, who fell in love and left him for an American tourist. He second-guesses himself : was he right to let her go? Was that crazy? Should he have fought for her? Would it have made a difference? But he feels quite calm as he says goodbye to his acquaintances at the hotel. On the train, however, he loses “his pleasant feeling of anticipation.”
Schnitzler’s interior monologue captures his horrifying psychological imbalance.
What he found…was no longer delight but rather a strange anxiety, as though he were being carried toward a crisis involving a significant, serious decision…. Would he now, after the many restful and easy moments of the last few months, be overcome once more by that incomprehensible something that could hardly be captured in thought–let alone words–and that seemed ominously to threaten something worse.
As Robert descends into madness, he wonders if his ex-girlfriend Alberta really left him for another man, or if he killed her in the woods. He is relieved to get a letter saying she has gotten married in Chicago. Thank God! He was delusional! But then he begins to fixate on his brother Otto, who years ago agreed to kill Robert if he ever went out of his mind. He thinks Robert is planning to kill him.
This does not end well!
In the second novella, Dying, Felix and Marie are lovers who have been happy until Felix consults a doctor who says he has only a year to live. Felix’s best friend Alfred, also a doctor, says his colleague was only trying to scare Felix so he would take better care of himself. But Felix fixates on death, and allows it to dictate his emotions–and perhaps the future. And Marie is terrified when he tries to get her to agree to a suicide pact. Fortunately, the sanity of Marie and Alfred balances Felix’s madness. In Flight into Darkness, the horror was unremitting.
In Fräulein Else, Schnitzler employs elegant stream-of-consciousness as he explores the thoughts and associations of a sensitive young woman at a hotel with her aunt. In the preface, the translator Margaret Schaefer compares Else to a teenage Mrs. Dalloway. Through Else’s reflections, we comprehend her horror and rage when her mother telegrams her with a request that she borrow a huge sum of money to keep her embezzler father out of jail. She is told to approach a lecherous old man who has been leering at her. He says he will lend the money if she has sex with him.. But Else decides on a proto-feminist act, which is not recognized as such by the conventional guests.
Masterful, realistic, and beautifully-written psychological fiction.
Helen, our 18-year-old tortoiseshell, died last week. It has been hard on me, harder than any other pet’s death. Helen and I were like bonded cats at the pound. We did everything together: played string, read books (sometimes aloud), watched birds, had elevenses, watched six seasons of The Americans, prepared dinner (hers came in a can), napped, and listened to music. She was fond of “You’re so Vain” (Carly Simon), “Year of the Cat” (Al Stewart), and “Mellow Yellow (Donovan). Cats like simple songs.
As she got older, she spent most of her waking hours sitting with me (or on top of me) as I reclined and read. She carefully marked the books by rubbing against the corners. She was fond of books, because I’d read poetry to her as a kitten. She enjoyed Edward Lear’s “The Jumblies: “Far and few, far and few,/Are the lands where the Jumblies live…”
She didn’t meow, she chirped. It was so sweet. She was also a survivalist: she liked to hop in the tub and lick the faucet. And she had a strong will. She dominated the household. She was a fascinating person! She ignored other cats, but they followed her around the house.
I had so much fun with her. But In the last few years she had health problems and surgeries. She lost too much weight, shed clumps of fur, her kidneys were failing. All the problems of aging cats.
I miss her.
In Helen’s honor, I have translated and adapted the Roman poet Martial’s poem on the death of a pet dog, Issa. In the first line, Martial refers to Catullus’s famous poem about the dead pet sparrow of his girlfriend, Lesbia.
I have substituted the name Helen for Issa.
My adapted translation of Martial, Epigrams, I.109
Helen is more mischievous than Catullus’s sparrow,
Helen is purer than the kiss of a dove,
Helen is lovelier than all the maidens,
Helen is more precious than Indian stones,
Helen the cat is my darling.
If she meows, you will think she speaks;
She feels both sadness and joy.
Resting in my lap she stretches and snatches sleep
so that no breath is sensed.
In order that the last light may not wholly steal her,
I am painting a picture
In which you will see a cat so like Helen
That she herself is not more like herself.
Compare Helen with her picture
And you will think each one is real,
Or you will think each one is painted.
We are mourning the death of our cat, whose personality was so strong the house seems empty. I can’t even bear to throw away her hairy pillow. Nothing seemed right this week, until I read Amy Hempel’s lyrical short story, “A Full-Service Shelter,” about a volunteer at an animal shelter in Spanish Harlem.
They knew us as the ones who checked the day’s euth list for the names of the dogs scheduled to be killed the next morning, who came to take the death-row dogs, who were mostly pit bulls, for a last long walk, brought them good dinners, cleaned out their kennels, and made their beds with beach towels and bath mats and Scooby-Doo fleece blankets still warm from industrial dryers. They knew me as one who made their beds less neatly over the course of a difficult evening, who thought of the artist whose young daughter came to visit his studio, pointed to the painting she liked, and asked, “Why didn’t you make them all good?”
You can read this poignant story in Hempel’s new collection of short stories, Sing to It.
Has anyone read Ann Goldstein’s new translation of Elsa Morante’s Arturo’s Island? Reviewers love it. And I already have this 1962 paperback of Arturo’s Island in a translation by Isabel Quigly. Is it worth trying?
At first glance, “Territory of Light” seems part of the same cultural moment that has produced recent novels exploring, with unapologetic honesty, the raw interior of the female psyche. Could the Japanese novelist Yuko Tsushima have been inspired by the works of Jenny Offill and Elena Ferrante, whose protagonists — young mothers negotiating life in the wake of marital betrayal — mirror that of Tsushima’s own book?
The answer is no. Tsushima, who died in 2016, first published monthly installments of what would become “Territory of Light” a full four decades ago, when she too was a single mother struggling to eke out an existence in Tokyo. The fact that the novel, which has been elegantly translated into English by Geraldine Harcourt, seems to be in direct dialogue with contemporary novels of motherhood, however, suggests both its deep prescience and the enduring relevance of its insights.
In the summer of 1900, Eva Palmer was reading the lines of Sappho in the company of her friends Renée Vivien and Natalie Clifford Barney, preparing for a series of Sapphic performances in Bar Harbor, a summer island resort on Mount Desert Island off the coast of Maine. Of the three women, Barney and Vivien (who was later christened, in a portrait, “Sapho 1900”) are well known as formative members of a Paris-based literary subculture of self-described women lovers, or “Sapphics.”
In a period that scholars have identified as “pivotal” in delineating modern lesbian identity, they interwove the fragmented texts of Sappho in their life and work, making the archaic Greek poet Sappho of Lesbos the quintessential figure of female same-sex desire and Sapphism, or lesbianism. They appear in the history of gay and lesbian sexuality as the women who contributed substantially to the turn-of-the-century decadent rewriting of Baudelaire’s lexicon of the sexualized woman.
Eva Palmer is largely absent from this history. She has made cameo appearances as the “pre-Raphaelite” beauty with “the most miraculous long red hair” who performed in two of Barney’s garden theatricals in Paris. Yet Eva’s correspondence, along with such sources as photographs and newspaper coverage, indicate that she participated in many more performances. From 1900 to the summer of 1907, the years when she moved with Barney between the United States and Paris, she developed a performance style that complemented the poetic language of Vivien and Barney by implicating Sappho in the practice of modern life. Eva’s acts helped transform the fragmented Sapphic poetic corpus into a new way of thinking and creating, before her differences with Barney propelled her to move to Greece to live a different version of the Sapphic life.
Did you know that Felicity Huffman, an actress I’ve never heard of, and Lori Loughlin, another actress I’ve never heard of, have been “accused of spending or laundering millions of dollars to falsify school records of high school students so they could be admitted to elite universities” (Source: NBC news)? Their names are followed by a long list of millionaires.
I’d like to say I’m outraged. But if you’ve worked at an elite private school, you know what’s riding on college admissions.
Parents are mad to get their kids into college. They will hire expensive consultants to guide them through the system. They will make unreasonable demands on the school’s college counselor. They will hire experts to write or edit their kids’ college essays.
Private college prep schools provide a top-notch education ($15,000-$45,000 a year). But it’s not always about the education. Parents want the connections. Even if the administrators can’t guarantee acceptance at Brown University or Mount Holyoke, they have connections to prestigious “fallback schools,” like the University of Notre Dame, Pomona College, or the University of Michigan.
Elite universities automatically accept “legacy students” (the children of rich alumni). And it doesn’t hurt if a parent donates money for a building: the school will respond in kind. Jared Kushner’s father Charles Kushner pledged $2.5 million to Harvard. Jared was then accepted at Harvard , though his grades and SAT scores were mediocre, according to Daniel Golden, author of The Price of Admission. But the Kushners are hardly the only family to do this.
The best and brightest do occasionally get into elite schools. One of my best students, God bless his/her heart, wrote the college essay in Latin and was accepted at an Ivy League school. Another equally bright student did not get into Princeton and screamed that it was all my fault. Was it the straight A’s I’d given him/her? Or the glowing recommendation? In retrospect, the student came to me because I didn’t give a shit about Princeton.
Some of my best students did NOT apply to Ivy League schools. Who had the money? Not their parents. Their parents scraped together the money for private high schools because they genuinely valued a good education. But their well-educated kids went on to affordable, excellent state universities. Fun fact: the professors at state universities have often been educated at Yale, Princeton, Smith, Wellesley, etc. (Which is not to say that these are the only excellent professors.)
You don’t have to spend a million dollars for a first-rate education. But it isn’t about the education, is it? It’s about connections and money. And making more money.
Shame on the universities that make it ABOUT the money.
The educational system is corrupt, but it’s hard to sympathize with students who have a nervous breakdown because an admissions department randomly accepted or rejected their application. The older you get, the more random you know these acts are.
Whatever happened to mass market paperbacks? Do you ever wonder?
Over the years I’ve gone from a cheap Signet mass market paperback edition of Pride and Prejudice to a more attractive Penguin trade paperback to an oversized Folio Society illustrated hardback–and the latter was unnecessary.
In the mid-20th century, anybody could acquire an inexpensive library of classics. At bookstores you could opt for rival brands: a Penguin, a Signet, a Bantam, a Dell, a Washington Square classic, or a Pocket Book. We carried around copies of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina (the David Magarshack translation), Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Orwell’s Animal Farm, D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love, Trollope’s Phineas Finn (a BBC tie-in), George Eliot’s Middlemarch, and Dickens’ Hard Times. Books were the cheapest entertainment. No wonder we were all so well-read.
But the accessibility of cheap mass market paperbacks has declined, according to Publishers Weekly. Publishers originally considered mass market paperbacks the “gateway” editions to entice readers, and these small books began to dominate the market after World War II. The publication of this format has declined, partly because publishers are cutting out the midlist writers, partly because of e-books. Walmart is the biggest seller of mass market paperbacks these days. Genre books like romances and mysteries are often published as trade paperbacks. PW says, “According to NPD BookScan, which tracks roughly 80% of print sales, mass market titles accounted for 13% of total print units sold in 2013; that figure dropped to 9% last year.”
In college we moved away from mass market paperbacks. The more scholarly the books, the more expensive. And we developed expensive tastes.
Imagine a town of backpacking undergraduates burdened with hardcover chemistry tomes and anthropology textbooks. As a freshman I lugged The Complete Pelican Shakespeare to a class where a chain-smoking professor squinted at the small print in columns and made dry allusions to poets I had not yet read. At home I “cheated ” with comfortably compact Pelican paperbacks, because I had an aversion to reading text in columns. But the hardback accompanied me to class, in case the professor suddenly called on me, which he never did. Perhaps I imagined he would ask me to recite a footnote!
Professors of other literature classes often assigned inexpensive Penguins, which until the ’90s (?) were still mass market paperbacks. They also assigned Signets, Modern Library paperbacks, and others I don’t remember. And so we pored over Elizabeth Gaskell’s The Life of Charlotte Bronte, Cervantes’s Don Quixote, Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, Chekhov’s plays, Tolstoy’s The Cossacks, Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Margaret Mead’s Coming of Age in Samoa, and Machiavelli’s The Prince.
Mind you, my classics (Greek and Latin books) were hardbacks. But in my other literature classes, we read paperbacks. I became hooked on trade paperbacks with footnotes.
Most of my books are trade paperbacks. I have to say, mass market paperbacks don’t hold up well over the years. The paper gets very brittle. They’re for one-time reads. Of course many trade paperbacks are printed on cheap paper, too.
I wonder if people read as many classics now that so few mass market paperbacks are available. In my world, everybody’s a reader, but that may not be the same in THE world.