Except I had maps and guidebooks. Everything on the trip was carefully planned, except reality. And I was on a social media and e-book fast for a week.
I did not miss electronic devices. I was pleased to skip photo ops at crazily huge gloomy castles and beautiful parks. I tried to look at what was in front of me. I’m not used to it.
At night, I read my book. But during the day I saw even more people on their phones than usual. No reading. Lots of selfies I ran into a woman’s selfie stick. Now that’s a little mad.
Not that I’m a Luddite. And I don’t mean to sound preachy. But I started thinking about selfies, e-devices, and the fate of the book.
A few years ago, in the canceled TV show “Selfie, ” Eliza and Henry, near the end of an electronics-free weekend at their boss’s house, find high ground with a phone signal and are immediately relaxed, hunched over their phones.
The characters have modern-day equivalents. Eliza has millions of followers on YouTube but can’t relate to anyone in the real world. Henry, her colleague, has good manners, though he is awkward, and scandalized by her behavior, tutors her in how to behave outside the imaginary worlds of Twitter and Yelp. When Henry learns that Eliza eats lunch standing over a garbage can because no one in high school would sit with her, he buys a special wastebasket for her and they eat lunch in his office standing over their respective wastebaskets. (Yes, “Selfie” is a modern “Pygmalion.”)
However, we are so tuned into e-stuff these days that perhaps we can no longer laugh at “Selfie.” It was both silly and poignant for the few months before the network canceled it. Anyway, I was apprehensive about reading my book at a cafe last week when everyone else is on the phone. Perhaps reading a book is now the equivalent of eating lunch standing over a garbage can. Certainly I made haste to stuff my book into my bag when I saw there were no books in the cafe.
And then this happened. The cover of my old paperback fell off. Yup, I had to buy a book or three to replace it.
I was drinking a soy latte at A La Caffeine, the chic coffeehouse for itinerant readers.And I was lost in the pages of Dickens’s Little Dorrit when one of the regulars dimpled at me, reminding me of Pet Meagles, the kind young woman with whom the hero of this dark novel is infatuated.
“I wish I had a Dickens novel to look forward to,” the regular said, adding she had read several of his books.
“You can always reread your favorites, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t like to waste my time rereading.”
I gasped with dismay, but have recently adopted a laid-back retro-‘70s attitude which precludes my jousting verbally with strangers or comparing my generation to the Millennials. Needless to say, I think rereading is one of the best ways to know an author. And who offers more on a second reading than Dickens, that most elegant, witty, and outrageously satiric of Victorian novelists?
That said, Little Dorrit may not be my favorite, but it is one of Dickens’s more serious novels, a dark fairy tale about prisons and freedom.Every character is imprisoned in some manner, whether in actual prison, by government bureaucracy, greed, or money or lack thereof. The diminutive heroine, Amy Dorrit, also known as Little Dorrit, has lived for 20 years in the Marshalsea prison with her family, because her father lost all his money and could not repay the debts.
Amy’s sheer determination and work ethic have pushed her siblings out of the prison nest to find work: her older sister is a professional dancer, trained by a dancer who was briefly at the Marshalsea; and their unreliable bother Tip works at odd jobs from which he is inevitably fired. Amyherself is a seamstress: her life changes when Mrs. Clennam, a harsh businesswoman who is imprisoned in a wheelchair, takes an interest in her and hires her to do sewing. Mrs. Clennam’s motives, alas, are not altruistic.
The Clennam family is one of the unhappiest of all of Dickens’s unhappy families. Mrs. Clennam’s son Arthur, who has recently returned from China, is gloomy, quiet, decent, and altruistic, but deeply unhappy at 40.He is mentally imprisoned by depression, partly because of his mother’s severity, which is born of religion, a great secret, and crooked business practices.He also is horrified by Flintwich, her servant and partner in crime, who lives in Mrs. Clennam’s house with his terrified wife, Affery.In this gloomy house, Little Dorrit is the only light. Arthur considers Amy a child, though he is paradoxically in love with Pet Meagles, who, like Amy, is 20. It doesn’t occur to him that Amy loves him.
Dickens’s humor is muted here, but there are many eccentric, endearing characters.Maggy, a 28-year-old woman who is “intellectually disabled” (what used to be called”mentally retarded”), refers to Amy as “Little Mother” and exclaims that she is ten years old. Then there is Tattycoram, Pet’s moody, angry maid, who is indignant that Pet has all the love and advantages and she has none. She is lured away by Miss Wade, another angry person who believes that others condescend to her.
My favorite character is Flora Finching, Arthur’s former fiancée, now the middle-aged widow of “Mr. F.” (Arthur’s mother broke up the match.) Arthur regards Flora as old and fat now, and is repulsed by her flirting. (That’s middle age, Arthur! Too bad!) I adore Flora’s jumbled comic monologues, which surely inspired James Joyce’s monologues.
‘Dear dear,’ said Flora, ‘only to think of the changes at home Arthur—cannot overcome it, and seems so natural, Mr Clennam far more proper—since you became familiar with the Chinese customs and language which I am persuaded you speak like a Native if not better for you were always quick and clever though immensely difficult no doubt, I am sure the tea chests alone would kill me if I tried, such changes Arthur—I am doing it again, seems so natural, most improper—as no one could have believed, who could have ever imagined Mrs Finching when I can’t imagine it myself!'”
I enjoyed Little Dorrit thoroughly. The only problem is that I prefer not to notice common tropes–it interferes with my common reading–and of course one does notice. Dickens’s novels are full of inheritances, ruin by speculation, orphans, altruists, dark Gothic secrets, grotesques, and marriage plots.
One can’t help but compare the sweet, helpful Amy Dorrit with Esther Summerson (Bleak House), the furious jilted Miss Wade with the furious Miss Havisham (Great Expectations), Flora Finching with young silly Dora (David Copperfield)…and so it goes on.
What a great book! I’ll read it again in five or ten years. And I’ll enjoy it.
“I’m not doing that anymore,” I said fiercely. “All that money for this!”
If you’re a woman, you’ll intuit my meaning. Of course I’m talking about hair. Last winter, a stylist gave me a bad haircut, which is difficult to do, since I’m a wash-and-go gal.
Was it the worst haircut I’ve had?That would be hard to say. It was bad.Very bad. But I remember years ago after cutting my beautiful long hair for the first time, I sobbed and went from salon to salon trying to get it fixed. My mother had warned me not to cut it. She said it would never grow back the same. I should have “let my freak flag fly,” as Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young advised in their song, “Almost Cut My Hair.” Even my mother thought so.
There has been crying and devastation in the past. In my twenties, I emerged from a salon with a hairdo that managed to be both poufy and ragged. It was a cross between country and punk, i.e., Loretta Lynn and Joan Jett, and not an ideal look for bicyclists.I arrived everywhere with feral hair that grew wilder as I pedaled. I carried a hairbrush in my bike kit and tried to tame my hair before I entered buildings inhabited by humans. I looked forward to bedhead, because it smooshed my hair down. What I noticed: most people have normal hair. I certainly wish I did.
Here’s how to survive a bad haircut.Wear hairpins and barrettes to tame it. Wait for it to grow out. But this recent bad haircut had magical properties. It just wouldn’t stop growing along the same bad lines. It got worse and more unruly
A couple of months ago, I finally cut it myself, with the blunt scissors we use for opening packages.
It lay down flat on my head. “You mean it could have looked like this all the time?”
But then it started to grow. And guess what? It, too, was unmanageable. I had to snip off sections of hair every couple of days. I obviously do not know how to cut hair.
In August, I finally got a good professional haircut. I am so relieved.
In literature women have complicated experiences with their hair, too. Here are some examples.
1 . “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” by F. Scott Fitzgerald.Bernice gets attention by boasting that she’ll have her hair bobbed, and then loses all attraction for men.Poor Bernice!
2. The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot. The heroine, Maggie, cuts her own hair as a child after her mother and aunt talk about how unruly it is.And she gets into a lot of trouble.
3. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.In one chapter,Jo sells her hair, her “one beauty!”—to pay for her mother’s train ticket to Washington, D.C., after they received a telegram informing them that Father is ill in a military hospital in Washington, D.C. (He is a Chaplain in the Civil War.) In another chapter, Jo accidentally burns off her sister Meg’s bangs with hair tongs before they attend a dance.
4. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy.Anna gets ill and all her beautiful hair has to be cut.What is it about haircuts and illness in the 19th century?
5. The Summer Before the Dark by Doris Lessing.At the end of a summer away from her husband and children, Kate comes to term with aging and stops buying into the consumer culture. She resolves to stop cutting her hair and wear it in a bun, but compromises by continuing to wear “nice” clothes so as to fit in with her family. Her hair is just for her.
HAVE YOU EVER HAD A BAD HAIRCUT? AND WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE BAD “HAIR-DO” EPISODES IN LITERATURE?
The writer Elizabeth Berridge (1919-2009) is little-known in the U.S. If Persephone not published a collection of her short stories, Tell It to a Stranger, I would never have heard of her. I have thoroughly enjoyed her novels, too, and am especially fond of Upon Several Occasions, published in 1953 and reissued as a Faber Finds paperback in 2009. I loved this so much I wanted to go back and start over as soon as I finished it.
This mesmerizing novel begins with elements of coziness that may mislead the readers into thinking this is Barbara Pym territory. The village setting delights us: we Americans imagine knitting, cats, cocoa, and faithful church attendance. And there is much of this. In the first chapter, the tactful rector’s wife, Mrs. Peters, secretary of the Women’s League, coaxes its reticent members to decide on a destination for their annual outing. They finally choose Bristow, and since Mrs. Peters knew this would be the choice, she is relieved when the meeting ends and they bring out the card tables and tea.
But the reader’s preconceptions of cozy village life are broken by Mrs. Peters’s disillusionment. She knows the village too well: she foresees that the fierce rivalry between her husband and Mr. Merrion, the chapel minister, will end in Mr. Merrion’s organizing a rival Youth Club trip to Bristow. (He does.) But Mrs. Peters is not cynical: she is irritated because she is grieving for a son who died in Burma, and her years in the village seem empty without him.
The clarity of Berridge’s understated prose, her quiet but precise descriptions, vivid characters, and sharp dialogue make this novel a near-classic. In just a few paragraphs, she touchingly reveals the nature of Mrs. Peters’s tragedy. When she tells her husband about the trip to Bristow, he says,
“Bristow, eh? We haven’t been there for–let me see…”
“Just after Noddy was born,” his wife said, with a woman’s accuracy for nostalgic dates. “Twenty-five years ago.”
Involuntarily she looked up at the portrait of their son, smiling down from the mantelpiece, but she did not feel the familiar contraction behind the eyes, no tears came. How, as a clergyman’s wife, could she comfort the bereaved if she gained no help from the Christian comfort the Church gave? She was resigned, not joyfully–that was too much to ask from a mother–to the death of her son in Burma.
Mrs. Peters in a way holds the reins, but we also get to know two working-class families. On the trip to Bristow, Berridge reveals the characters in depth. The sweet but long-suffering Mrs. Barnard has arranged to see an old school friend in Bristow: she is thrilled to have time off from her difficult unmarried daughter, Mady, who is over thirty and lives with her. Mady is quite a storyteller, or a pathological liar, depending on your point-of-view: she uses her time in Bristow to pick up two men, giving different names to each and telling tall tales about her life. She is astonished when one of them sees through her, laughs at her, and arranges to meet her again. She is not used to such success.
Meanwhile, Doris Weldon, the snappish mother of three children and wife of a workaholic forester, rediscovers the joys of a day out. Her youngest child has a babysitter, and the two oldest are in Bristow with the Methodist Youth Club. Her only regret is that her husband wouldn’t take the day off and accompany her. But she is ready to embrace her family at the end of a mellow day. Which, alas, does not end as she’d hoped.
The end of the trip brings us back to real life. There are celebrations and tragedies. Upon Several Occasions is a quiet book, but I was riveted by Berridge’s sketches of women’s lives during a hot dry summer, a harvest festival, a wedding, and a flood.
There were three pokes before the phlebotomist could draw blood, but he/she left no bruises, which indicated a degree of professional competence. Bemused, weary, and bandaged, I biked home and decided to escape into pop fiction. Will I find refuge in a historical novel?
Here is the stack of books I am considering.
1 . The Hollow Hills by Mary Stewart. I enjoyed The Crystal Cave, the first of the Merlin trilogy, and though I prefer Stewart’s charming Gothics, her writing is on a higher level here. The trilogy is categorized as fantasy, but they are really historical novels about mythic characters. As always, Stewart meticulously researches the background, and the details about political conflicts and Merlin’s protecting Arthur are fascinating. I hope The Hollow Hills is as good.
3. Hilary Bailey’s Cassandra, Princess of Troy. I can’t remember who recommended this, but Bailey is an excellent writer. Here is an excerpt from the Bloomsbury Reader description: “Hilary Bailey re-invents the history of the Trojan Wars and tells a new story of Cassandra. Legend has it that Cassandra died at the hand of Clytemnestra, but in this novel she escapes to a farm in Thessaly, and writes her own account of the fall of Troy.”
The New Yorker said in 2007: “This immense, robustly imagined novel was whittled down by more than five hundred pages when it was first published, in 1951. Powys’s original conception is here restored, a dense, complex merging of modern psychology and ancient mythology. In Wales in the year 499, the ruling Celts learn that the Saxons and the forest people are advancing against them; Porius, the son of the Celt prince, awaits the coming battle while ruminating on the eternal conflicts between male and female, nature and humankind, pagan and Christian.”
5. Mary Renault’s Alexander trilogy: Fire from Heaven, The Persian Boy, and Funeral Games. I read Fire from Heaven after the TLS published the introduction to the Folio Society edition of the trilogy. I have two to go. From the Goodreads book description: “This is Mary Renault’s masterly evocation of ancient Greece and Alexander the conqueror, beautiful, beloved – and flawed. ”
WHERE DOES THE SLANG GO?
My mother used the following slang expressions. Were they dialect, I wonder? Or were they American idioms? They are long obsolete.
crooked as a dog’s hind leg, as in “Your part is crooked as a dog’s hind leg.” (This was said to me often.)
fussbudget – someone fussy
slow as molasses
cute as a bug
old as Methuselah
Darn!(instead of damn)
too old for you (Mom said this mostly of clothes)
quick as a wink
don’t count your chickens… [before they’re hatched]
tickled pink – happy, amused, and surprised
happy as a clam
THERE ARE MORE, BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER THEM. That’s the trouble with disused slang.
I wandered around the house, looking for a great book. I was near tears after wasting time on a couple of lousy books. It’s a literary cycle—kind of like a washing-machine cycle—of book addiction and despair.
We finicky readers have great expectations and are devastated when we’re led astray. Despite what the reviewers tell you, there is no new Jane Austen. Remember that.
I expect books to inspire, to breathe ideas, language, and comfort into my soul. Last week I returned to the 20th century and rediscovered the charming Laurie Colwin (1944-1992), whose novels and short stories are as pertinent now as they were when they were first published. Her brilliant short stories appeared in The New Yorker and she was a columnist for Gourmet magazine.
I decided to reread my favorite Colwin novel, Family Happiness (1982), which is so witty and lucid that I experienced linguistic uplift.The title, of course, refers to the first line of Anna Karenina:“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
The charming, funny heroine, Polly Solo-Miller Demerast, is almost perfect. She is the loving wife of a workaholic lawyer, Henry Demerast, the perfect mother of Pete and Didi, the devoted daughter of eccentric, difficult parents, Wendy and Henry, Sr., and the hard-working Coordinator of Research in Reading Projects and Methods for the information arm of the Board of Education.
Colwin wittily begins the novel:
Polly Solo-Miller Demerast was the perfect flower of the Solo-Miller family.This family had everything:looks, brains, money, a strong, fortified sense of clan, and branches in Boston, Philadelphia, and New York, as well as London, just like a banking house.The patriarch of the New York gang was Henry Solo-Miller, husband of the former Constanzia Hendricks, nicknamed Wendy.Both were of old, old Jewish families, the sort that are more identifiably old American than Jewish.Solo-Millers and Hendrickses had come from Holland via Spain before the American Revolution, and which they had either taken part in or raised money for.
Polly does everything for everybody, but nobody praises her or notices her accomplishments. She retains the appearance of family happiness until she falls in love with Lincoln, a brilliant artist who grew up with her brother Henry, Jr., and is unimpressed by the Solo-Millers. Their love affair is charming and sweet, but it stirs up uncertainty and anxiety.
This beautifully-written novel is not much like Anna Karenina, but Polly did read Anna Karenina on her honeymoon. That is not a good sign.
What a terrific book.I recommend it:it will make you chortle, and you will also empathize with Polly’s angst in love. Colwin understands it all. Which is more important: family or romantic love? Tolstoy and Colwin consider both points-of-view.
I kept exclaiming last week over the fascinating lore in Leah Price’s new book, What We Talk About When We TalkAbout Books. And I know you’ll enjoy the following anecdote: in the nineteenth century, novelist Elizabeth Gaskell read her neighbor’s book over his shoulder on a horse-drawn omnibus.
Eyeing the first installment of Dickens’s Little Dorrit over the shoulder of a passenger on a Manchester bus in 1855, Elizabeth Gaskell complained that her fellow traveler “was such a slow reader… you’ll sympathize.… [with] my impatience at his never getting to the bottom of the page.”
1 . The Willa Cather Centerannounced that actors Paul Giamatti and Clara Wong recently visited Red Cloud, Nebraska, where Cather grew up. They toured the Cather Center, her childhood home, the Willa Cather Prairie, and other historic sites and stayed overnight in the Cather Second Home guest house.
“My mother was a high school English teacher,” Giamatti said. “My Ántonia was something she taught a lot, and so Cather was always around.” Giamatti was an English major before becoming an actor and shared that he was currently reading Cather’s The Song of the Lark and had particularly enjoyed Death Comes for the Archbishop, a novel he would love to see adapted for the big screen. For Wong, a native of Illinois, this visit marked her first Cather experiences. Both actors live and work in Brooklyn, New York, and appreciated their quiet visit to Red Cloud, eating at local restaurants and exploring on their own.
2. At Bustle, Kerri Jarema writes about the popularity of vlogs at BookTube.
Reading vlogs — in which YouTube users, often called BookTubers, read and review books while sharing tidbits from their every day lives — are growing in popularity among readers. These videos usually run anywhere between 15 and 45 minutes. The more popular accounts, like PeruseProject (which boasts over 271,000 subscribers), can fetch up to 50,000 views per video. Reading those numbers, you might be asking yourself, “Why would someone enjoy watching someone else… read?”
Well, it turns out there are some fascinating psychological reasons why readers love BookTube.
Happy Reading, everybody! It’s so hot I sat outside in my pajamas tonight and read. I hope you have better reading weather where you are.
I’m notorious for loving tan-paged classics published in earlier centuries, but this year I’ve ventured into the manic-depressive world of new books. Too many new books can bewilder you. You’re dazed by the quantity and unexceptional quality. Sometimes you wake up and think, Did So-and-So at the East Coast Buzz really review that?
And so I’m taking a short break from my wobbling TBR of new books, but first let me share my list of Stunning Reads and Stinkers of the year so far.
Klotsvog by Margarita Khemlin, translated by Lisa C. Hayden. A translation of this brilliant 2009 Russian novel was recently published by Columbia University Press. The Jewish narrator, Maya Klotsvog, dismisses the impact of Soviet history on her character, despite her tragic past. Absorbed in love affairs and multiple marriages that ultimately hurt her family, she has a psychological explanation for other people’s errors, but does not examine her own. The most extraordinary novel I’ve read this year.
The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley. A stunning, lyrical modern feminist retelling of Beowulf.
Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson. This retelling of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein alternates two narratives, a fictional history of Mary Shelley and a narrative by a near-future doctor about the future of A.I.. This was longlisted for the Booker Prize.
We Are All Good PeopleHere by Susan Rebecca White. In this beautifully-written novel, two friends deal with political and social changes of the 1960s. I recommend this to fans of Mary McCarthy’s The Group and Marge Piercy’s Vida.
Deep Creek: Finding Hope in the High Country by Pam Houston. A collection of reflective essays on living on a ranch in Colorado with affectionate Irish wolfhounds, miniature donkeys, no electricity, and dealing with climate change.
The Only Woman in the Room by Marie Benedict. A very slight novel about actress Hedy Lamar. A disappointing Barnes and Noble book club selection.
The Grammarians by Cathleen Schine. This bon-bon of a book about intellectual identical red-haired twins who feud about grammar must be meant for the big screen. To be read and forgotten.
The used Penguin copy of Trollope’s The Eustace Diamonds has chocolate stains on the pages.I think they’re chocolate stains.
And that is not the only book in disgraceful condition.Three pages of The Grapes of Wrath are dotted with holes, apparently from a paperpunch. Then there is a slightly foxed paperback of Hesiod’s Theogony, with a confused family tree of the creation myth scribbled in purple ink on the back page.
Ecce, as they say in Latin.Lo! These all came from the same decaying store. It reeks of mustiness and dirt, like a basement rec room or a rag shop in Dickens. The name is The Bookstore, or perhaps Books, Books, Books!We suggest it be changed to Acceptable Condition, which of course means the opposite.
“The problem with M’s store,” said a friend, “is he/she will buy any book in any condition to have a conversation.”
There are some lonely-heart bookstore owners, but I have observed mostly crusty anti-social types.My impression is they are sick of humanity and just want to read the books.
I was pondering this the other day while considering my long history and complex relationship with used bookstores.
In graduate school, we occasionally sold books. I sold them so I could afford tampons for too-frequent periods. My husband also sometimes sold books. A cockroach once crawled out of a copy of Derrida’s Of Grammatology he was trying to sell. (It wasn’t his fault:the cockroach was a southern thing.) As you can imagine, the store owner found it unacceptable.
There are some extraordinary used bookstores.I had good luck in a chilly (now defunct) bookshop called Linda’s, located in a dilapidated concrete building in Dubuque. In this quasi-garage, I found a Penguin of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Sylvia’s Lovers, a Barbara Pym I didn’t have, even a pristine set of Paul Scott’s The Raj Quartet, published by University of Chicago.
There used to be countless good-to-great used bookstores and there are still some: Jackson Street Booksellers in Omaha, Paperbacks and Pieces in Winona, and Magers and Quinn in Minneapolis. I would also love to visit The Frugal Muse in Wisconsin, because of the name.
What are your favorite used bookstores? And have you found anything untoward in the less good ones? Bacon as bookmarks?
The book is dead. Portable electronic devices have killed it.
But Leah Price’s new book, What We Talk About When We Talk About Books, reassures those of us with an apocalyptic point of view that the book will survive. Price, a Harvard professor and a book historian, says people through the ages have worried about the future of reading.
It’s true enough that print experienced a golden age between the rise of mass audiences in the eighteenth century to the Cold War–era triumph of the paperback, by way of public school systems, cheap wood-pulp paper, browsable bookstores, and taxpayer-funded libraries. Parts of this story, though, began to strike me as unhelpful or even untrue. One is what I’ll call the myth of exceptionalism—that is, twenty-first-century readers’ sense of living through an unprecedented change. The more I tried to figure out how much time different societies had actually carved out for reading, the more the data confirmed that successive audiovisual media did indeed chip away at the dead time once filled by books. I was surprised, though, to find that the strongest proof of print’s vulnerability to competition wasn’t the smartphone. The best-documented such competitor turned out to be TV, whose arrival in the Netherlands in the 1950s, for instance, coincided with a dramatic and elegantly charted drop in rates of pleasure reading.
This smart, well-written history is almost as diverting as a 19th-century penny dreadful. Fingerprints on pages, coffee stains, marginalia, and the texture of the much-read or little-read page provide clues about a reader’s preferences. Price chronicles the history of books from papyrus scrolls to paperbacks, e-books and smart phones, libraries and bookstores. And did you know that 19th-century servants often read aloud to ladies who were having their hair done? And the ladies themselves didn’t always read the books straight through: they skipped around.