The Attack of the Cars on Bicyclists & Pedestrians

 I made a decision years ago not to drive. I have never needed to drive.  I have never regretted not driving.  I do not have a driver’s license. People find this mysterious. “Were you in an accident?”

 I don’t overexplain, because they will not get it anyway.  “No, it’s because fossil fuel emissions pollute the air.”

According to the EPA, “the transportation sector generates the largest share of greenhouse gas emissions (27% of 2020 greenhouse gas emissions). Greenhouse gas emissions from transportation primarily come from burning fossil fuel for our cars, trucks, ships, trains, and planes.”

Bicycling, walking, and mass transit are viable alternatives to driving in a city or large town.  Americans, however, regard their cars as giant purses, mechanical nomad tents, or, in the case of the pathological, as weapons.  Raise the price of gas and there will be rioting and weaponizing.

Today I took a bike ride.It was not exactly a beautiful day, but it was below 90 degrees, and there was a breeze.  Good weather for bicycling after what we’ve seen this summer.  I rode along shady, tree-lined streets, and lush green bicycle trails.

And then on the trip home a car tried to kill me.   

At an intersection I looked to the right:  no cars.  I looked to the left:  no cars. “Head on a swivel,” as a friend says. I was about to cross when in my peripheral vision I saw a low-slung dark gray car racing down a short slope. When the driver saw me, he or she accelerated.  I slammed on the brakes and barely had time to yank the bike out of the intersection. I seem to have escaped an attempted hit-and-run in a peaceful park-like neighborhood where there is little traffic, hence no traffic security cameras.

I leaned against my bike and drank most of a bottle of water before continuing.  Perhaps I will write a letter to the state’s bicycling organization. There have been incidents where drivers have deliberately run bicyclists off the road.  And every year bicyclists are killed by drivers.

Here is a heart-rending example of one of the bicycling obits:

“Lorna Moss, age 69, of Sioux Center, was killed when hit from behind on September 3, at 5:53 p.m., on Hickory Avenue, two miles north of Hull, IA. Moss was traveling northbound on a bicycle in the northbound lane on Hickory Avenue. Seth De Jong, age 27, of Doon, IA was driving a 2006 Dodge Grand Caravan northbound on Hickory Avenue behind Moss when he struck the bicycle. Upon further investigation, deputies suspected that De Jong was under the influence of alcohol. De Jong was transported to the Sioux County Jail where he was charged with homicide by vehicle caused by operating while intoxicated and homicide by vehicle caused by reckless driving.”
Aggressive drivers are also dangerous to pedestrians. The other day a friend almost got killed crossing the street.  When the light turned green and the walk sign was on, she stepped into the street.  Suddenly an old beater car turned right almost on top of her, barely missing her, and then broke another law by veering across a traffic lane, narrowly missing another car.
According to Outside magazine, almost 47,000 bicyclists a year are hit by cars in the U.S.  The article informs us, “Cyclist fatalities have been on the rise since 2010 and are now at 30-year highs. Pedestrian crash rates show an almost identical pattern. (Vehicle-occupant deaths, meanwhile, have dropped around 25 percent since peaking in the early 2000s.) According to a 2018 report from the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS), the rate of pedestrian involvement in crashes rose 13 percent from 2009 to 2016, accounting for population change. But the percentage of pedestrians killed rose at more than twice that rate.”

 If the weaponization of cars is the new road rage, a syndrome which apparently is on the rise since the pandemic began, I can only speculate that insanity is the primary symptom of American aggression.

Musings on Summer Days & Six Summer Reading Suggestions

The twentieth century was cooler, metaphorically as well as literally.  It used to cool off at night.

But my mother loved her air conditioning:  “Don’t cool the outdoors” was her favorite imperative as people ran in and out.

We found many ways to escape the heat, since we didn’t like AC. We drank lemon Coke at Woolworths, or went to Things and Things and Things for frozen yogurt.  Sometimes we perched on the steps of the limestone buildings on the Pentacrest on the tree-lined campus.  The limestone was cool to the touch on hot days.  On the hottest days, we went to McBride Hall, which had a natural history museum, glass cases of stuffed wild animals lining the halls on three floors. Or we headed to the River Room at the Union, where we could sit all day without buying anything.

  And so as we head into a hot July, let me stop my musings, pray for  cool days, and  celebrate summer with some good escape books.  Here are some suggestions:

1.  I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith.  “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink” is the first sentence of this charming English novel.  The observant narrator, Cassandra Mortmain, writes a lively diary of family life in a run-down castle:  her famous father, author of a Joycean masterpiece,  is either blocked or lazy; her stepmother, Topaz, a former model, communes with nature in the nude;  romantic Rose, the older sister,  longs for romance but knows no men; and the younger brother Thomas is still at school.   Naturally, comic romance drives the plot.  N.B. You can read about Cassandra’s Midsummer’s Eve rites in Chapter XII (p. 199 in the St. Martin’s paperback edition).

2.  The Portable Greek Reader, edited by W. H. Auden.  This anthology of ancient Greek literature, philosophy and history includes excerpts from Hesiod, Homer, Plato, the Greek tragedians, Aristophanes, Thucydides, all of Aeschylus’s Oresteia, but I keep it mainly for Auden’s introduction, which I reread.  I’m surprised by how many of these selections I read in Greek in my youth.  Auden does make a few odd choices, though.  Why include Plato’s little-read Timaeus in its entirety?  But it was fun to reread excerpts from Hesiod, and to rediscover Pindar. 

3.  Margery Allingham’s Flowers for the Judge.  Allingham is one of the greatest Golden Age Detective Novel writers, and I love this one because it is set in a publishing house.  Amateur sleuth Albert Campion, who is rather like Peter Wimsey, is called in when one of the directors is murdered.  The suspect couldn’t possibly have done it. He’s simply too naive.  But then who…?

4.  The Murder of My Aunt, by Richard Hull. In this slight but entertaining Golden Age mystery, published in the British Library Crime Classics series, the crazed narrator, grumpy Edwin Powell, decides to murder his controlling aunt.

5.  The Shivering Sands, by Victoria Holt. In this mediocre 1969 novel, which I read when I was revisiting ’60s Gothics, Caroline investigates the disappearance of her sister, an archaeologist, by taking a job at the estate where she was last seen.  A bit formulaic, and certainly not to be read for style – but the last suspenseful 100 pages are truly Gothic!

6.  Darling Girl, by Liz Michaelski. I read an enthusiastic review of this modern retelling of Peter Pan.  I wish I were enjoying it more. The story is sinister, but it could do with some stylistic dazzle.  The basic plot: Holly Darling, the granddaughter of Wendy Darling – who knew Peter Pan – is a scientist and the CEO of a cosmetics company, with a complicated personal history. She was driving the car when she had an accident that killed her husband and one of her twin sons.  The surviving son has a rare blood condition.  And then her daughter, who has been in a coma for years, disappears.  Even if I don’t finish this, I assure you the daughter’s disappearance will be connected with Peter Pan.

Happy July 4 Weekend Reading!

A Neglected Classic: Fredrick Exley’s “Pages from a Cold Island”

Is Frederick Exley’s neglected novel, Pages from a Cold Island, one of the great American classics of the 1970s?  It is out of print, so it has few fans.  It is one of the best novels I’ve read this summer, along with such wildly disparate selections as Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge, Balzac’s Cousin Pons, and Seneca’s De Otio (On Leisure). Did the critics give Exley a break?  Not at The New York Times, where  Alfred Kazin droned on about how much he loathes the non-fiction novel (which is known as autofiction now.)

I am a great fan of Exley’s acclaimed novel, A Fan’s Notes, and  Pages from a Cold Island is a brilliant, if unconventional, sequel.  Much of it takes the form of a homage to Edmund Wilson, who died in 1972. 

At the time of Wilson’s death,  Exley is sobering up at his mother’s house in upstate New York and preparing to teach for a semester in Iowa City at the Writers’ Workshop.  He almost misses Wilson’s obituary in The Watertown Gazette, his hometown paper, because  he is riveted to an  article about the arrest of one of his ex-pupils for possession of unprescribed amphetamines.  The ex-pupil had once called him a cocksucker:  “we’d been reading Shakespeare and apparently his diseased mind had equated an appreciation for the Bard with a yearning to envelop inflamed penises with  my oral cavity.” (Exley then slammed the boy against the blackboard and slapped him.)

Exley is depressed by the brief death notice.  He considers Wilson, who grew up near Exley’s hometown, the greatest American writer.  Exley is indignant about the TV news coverage:  both the local news anchor and Walter Cronkite give Wilson only three or four sentences.  And Exley becomes obsessed with Wilson, as he tries to make a syllabus for his workshop students.  Should he assign Hecate County or To the Finland Station?  And then, while rereading Nabokov’s Pale Fire, he becomes convinced that the model for  Nabokov’s “‘shaggy’-headed, downhome, and aging poet John Shade was Wilson!”  

But Exley gets a grip and fussily explains his mania:  “Well aware of their celebrated feuds over Eugene Onegin and Wilson’s by no means that uncomplimentary portraits of ‘Volodya’ and his wife Vera in Upstate (both of which feuds, frankly, were carried to distasteful extremes suggesting both men were playing games), I thought that so gratuitously injecting Wilson into Nabokov’s novel resulted from nothing more than the guilt I felt that so hard by his death I had determined to read Pale Fire and hadn’t yet decided on the Wilson fiction.”

At Singer Island, Florida, where Exley lives in a beach hotel and spends most of his time drinking, he becomes obsessed with Gloria Steinem, the celebrity feminist writer who founded Ms. magazine and co-founded and organized famous feminist organizations and events.  He spends days preparing for what turns out to be an uncomfortable four-hour interview with Steinem, who is not the angry feminist he’d expected, but a charming, outspoken, well-informed woman.  But the interview doesn’t go well: there isn’t much connection between them, which he blames on using a tape recorder instead of taking notes.  She does not answer his final questions bu mail, as she’d promised, because someone told her nasty things about Exley.

He also describes his semester at Iowa, which he does not enjoy. The talented workshop students turn out to be such brutal critics of each other’s work that he dreads the mayhem.  The literature class goes well, because he teaches his beloved Wilson and Nabokov, and is accepted as an authority. However, Exley spends most of his free time drinking at Donnelly’s, a bar for hardcore alcoholics, or a dive called the Deadwood with the Epstein brothers, owners of a bookstore, and their store manager, Danny.  That apparently is great fun, but even so Exley cancels his seminars a week early and heads back to Florida – where nothing is expected of him.

Living in Dystopia: The Overturning of Roe V. Wade

A rally in the ’70s

The signs of dysfunction were all there – the rise of the Christian right, the closing of Planned Parenthood clinics in red states, the near-ban of abortions in Oklahoma – but I did not expect the U.S. Supreme Court to overturn Roe v. Wade.

If I may say so, I am not tactfully pro-Choice:  I strongly favor birth control and abortion. In our polluted, overpopulated world, it would be more sensible to limit the number of children to two per family than to criminalize abortion.  Now that would be another violation of a woman’s right to choose – but at least it would be good for the environment.  I’m just saying, Justices of the Supreme Court! 

One summer I worked for NARAL (the National Abortion Rights Action League), and, after arranging our flyers on a trestle table, I would call out to passers-by, “Keep abortion safe and legal!” Hundreds of people signed postcards and petitions that asserted I’M PRO-CHOICE AND I VOTE! (These were delivered to Congress and the Senate.) 

Despite the polls that say the majority of Americans support legal abortion, where are we now?


The Sports Injury: Richard Ford’s “The Sportswriter” & Frederick Exley’s “A Fan’s Notes”

There is nothing more tedious than a sports injury.

I have been limping because of a sports injury. (I hurt my back during power yoga).  And so I have been thinking about sports in literature. The male protagonists tend to watch sports rather than play them, so their injuries are mental rather than physical. 

Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter (1986), the first volume in the Frank Bascombe tetralogy, is an American sports classic. Frank accepts a job as a sportswriter because he has become indifferent to fiction writing.  He wants desperately to live on the surface, to feel nothing, since his oldest son died; he and his wife, X, a golfer and voracious reader, are divorced and unhappy.  But X must keep it together and raise their two younger children, while Frank sets out to be the most superficial man in the world.

He takes his girlfriend, a nubile young nurse, Vicki, to Detroit, which she pronounces DEE-troit.  Frank seems to regard Vicki as a pet, which she figures out eventually. 

And Frank is too cheap to pay for the weekend, so he arranges to interview  Herb Wallagher, a paraplegic ex-ball player in Detroit.  But Herb is so bitter that Frank’s interview will prove unusable.  And we can’t really blame Frank or Herb. 

“Do you ever miss athletics?”

Herb stares at me reproachfully.  “You’re an asshole, Frank, you know that?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don’t know me.” 

“That’s what I’m doing here, Herb.  I’d like to get to know you and write a good story about you.  Paint you as you are.  Because I think that’s pretty interesting and complex in itself.”

“You’re just an asshole, yep, and you’re not going to get any inspiration out of me.  I dropped all that.  I don’t have to do for anybody, and that means you.  Especially you, you asshole.  I don’t play ball anymore.”

Frank’s attitude towards sportswriting is comparable to Herb’s attitude toward sports.  There will be no joy in the interview for Frank.  In the next volume of the tetralogy, Independence Day, Frank has given up sportswriting and gone into real estate.

Frederick Exley’s A Fan’s Notes, a fictional memoir published in 1968,  is an early example of autofiction.  The narrator, Exley, an alcoholic, is anxious before every Giants game. His personal life is also anxious: he is in and out of mental hospitals, sponges off his parents, or occasionally lives at a bachelor friend’s apartment.  

His obsession with sports is almost manic-depressive. His father was a local high-school and college football star. And then Exley went to USC with Frank Gifford, who became a player for the Giants.   Exley never knew Gifford. He partly identifies with him, but also hates him. 

When Exley lands a teaching job at a high school, we hope he’ll prosper. But he is disturbed by the limitations and ignorance of the English faculty.  One of the teachers tells him not to talk during meetings:  it takes up too much  time.  Exley pities the  chair of the department, who talks into a void.

Unsure of our ability to read (our ability to talk hadn’t encouraged him), he read each and every item [on a mimeographed sheet] to us….  Matchlessly vapid, the items were such that I remember only one of them, and that only because to this day I have no notion what he meant by it:  The best place to make out your lesson plans is at your desk.

It’s no wonder that Frank drives every weekend to another town so he can sit in the bar, drink too much, and watch the Giants games.  This novel is unflaggingly male, teeming with beer, gin, football, TV, depression, hospitalizations, and bachelor’s pads. The obsession with a sport he’ll never play seems to be part of Exley’s mental illness.

 You have to read past  Exley’s sexist attitudes, because this is an American classic.

We need a revival of Exley’s work.  A Fan’s Notes is the first of a trilogy. Perhaps a Library of America edition?

These brilliant sports novels are not just for men. I wish I could think of one by a woman, but nothing comes to mind.

Charm and Nuisance: The Trouble with Pool Parties

If you live in a northern town or city, you will see few private swimming pools.  Private pools are for people in Hollywood, we used to think.  

That may have changed in our backwater in the last fifteen or twenty years. According to several websites, the accuracy of which I don’t vouch for, there are 10.4 million private pools in the U.S., and 40 percent are in California and Florida.  

Private pools have not caught on in flyover country, even with global warming. But my friend Cassandra has gone insane about her neighbors’ swimming pool, on the patio of which she expects Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin to break out singing and dancing.   She claims that the young pool owners are “tacky nouveau riche riffraff.”

I did guffaw at her nouveau idiom.  Indeed, I haven’t heard the phrase nouveau riche since I taught at a fancy private school.  The more sophisticated, experienced teachers criticized the students’ parents’ nouveau riche life-style, of which I was oblivious.  And that was the first time I heard the phrase outside of a Henry James novel.

But the nouveau riche – whoever they may be – have occupied our backwater.  According to my friend, the neighbors’ pool parties are so Dionysian that Jay Gatsby’s wild parties seem tame.  They play their music so loudly that the foundations of all the houses in the neighborhood shake.  For fun my friend looks up city ordinances about pools. And I must say, the pool parties are obnoxious.

My experience with pool parties is strictly cinematic and literary. I vaguely remember pool party scenes in movies set in Hollywood. I  can’t remember the names of any of these films, so perhaps I read these scenes in some novel.  Anyway, glamorous aspiring actors and actresses drink cocktails and mingle charmingly with the well-known guests, hoping to meet the pool owner – a director or producer.

And so I began to wonder:  What happens at pool parties in literature? Well, mostly drinking.  In John Cheever’s well-known short story, “The Swimmer,” which was made into an excellent film with Burt Lancaster in 1968, Neddy Merrill attends a pool party. After drinking a lot of gin, he begins a journey swimming through all the neighborhood pools, planning eventually to circle  back home.  Along the way he crashes pool parties and meets interesting, difficult people. 
 Vivid and suburban, Cheever’s writing hooks you from the first sentence.  (You can read the whole story at the Library of America website.)

It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, “I drank too much last night.”  You might have heard it whispered by the parishioners leaving church, heard it from the lips of the priest himself, struggling with his cassock in the vestiarium, heard it from the golf links and the tennis courts, heard it from the wildlife preserve where the Audubon group was suffering from a terrible hangover.  “I drank too much,” said Donald Westerhazy.  “We all drank too much,” said Lucinda Merrill.  “It must have been the wine,” said Helen Westerhazy.  “I drank too much of that claret.”

This was at the edge of the Westerhazy’s pool.  … The sun was hot.  Neddy Merrill sat by the green water, one hand in it, one around a glass of gin.

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic, The Great Gatsby, which was adapted as a movie in 2013, starring Leonard DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan, the pool is part of lonely nouveau riche Gatsby’s  ostentatious life-style.  He entertains people he barely knows at his wild parties.  He himself rarely uses the pool. There is eventually a shooting of a swimmer in the pool.

In Chapter 3,  the narrator, Nick Carraway, observes Gatsby’s parties from his nearby house;  finally he is invited to a party.  Here is the exquisite first paragraph of this chapter, which does not feature the pool but gives you a sense of Fitzgerald’s exquisite style.

There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.

Is it time to reread Gatsby? I had forgotten how remarkable Fitzgerald is.

What are your favorite pool parties in literature or the movies?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Gaslighting in Balzac’s “Cousin Pons” and a Reread of G. S. Kirk’s “The Nature of Greek Myths”

I am reading eclectically this summer.  It began with a little-known classic by Balzac, Cousin Pons, which is perhaps the greatest 19th-century novel about an inheritance scandal – greater than Middlemarch.  Then I hunkered down with G. S. Kirk’s The Nature of Greek Myths,  a definitive work first published in 1974.  Kirk takes an intellectual approach: he explores the difference between myths and folktales;  subdivides myths into categories; skewers psychoanalytic and anthropological theories of myth; compares literary versions of myths by Homer, Hesiod, Herodotus, Callimachus, and the tragedians; and describes the transformation of  a myth-dominated culture into one which valued philosophy.

That is enough about Kirk, whom few of you will read. 

Let me unreservedly praise Balzac’s Cousin Pons (1847), which he paired with Cousin Bette, his brilliant novel about greed, money, art, and family revenge. Unlike the scheming, vengeful Cousin Bette, Cousin Pons is a good, generous man, an impoverished theater orchestra conductor whose wealthy distant cousins no longer welcome him to dinner as he grows shabbier and older. Then he falls ill, and is circled by human vultures who have discovered that his collection of  rare paintings,  fans painted by Watteau, snuff boxes, and bric-a-brac is priceless. He has spent years searching shops for masterpieces. and spent what little money he has on his collection.

People love people with money – especially people who want to take it from you!  Suddenly everybody wants to be Pons’s friend – or should I say” friend”? – though he hasn’t a franc in actual money. The wicked concierge, Madame Cibot, one of the most memorable liars and villains in French literature, “gaslights” Pons by admitting ghoulish antique dealers into the flat at night to pick over what they want. (She gets a percentage.)   Pons awakens and sees them, though Madame Cibot says he is dreaming.  But he hobbles with great difficulty into the front room after her departure and is appalled to see that minor paintings from a back room have now replaced his masterpieces. Pons’s guileless German musician roommate, Wilhelm Schmucke, an old man, approved the sales because Madame Cibot bullied him and claimed he and Pons were in debt to her. As Pons puts together what is going on, he determines to stay alive long enough to take care of sweet, silly, Schmucke – and make sure Schmucke inherits his  fortune, rather than the greedy dealers and his cousins.And vultures they are!  An unscrupulous lawyer, Monsieur Fraisier, and an unethical doctor, Poulaine, descend upon  Pons with a plot to hasten his death and  to prove him non compos mentis to win the inheritance for  Pons’s aristocratic cousins –  in return for prestigious jobs for themselves.   

Are there any good people in Balzac’s world?  Well, yes, there  are.  The people of the small theater, whose morals might not stand up to those vaunted by Pons’s cruel, hypocritical, rich cousins,  are loyal and unselfish, if not especially interested in the old man Pons.  They willingly help him trick Madame Cibot and Monsieur Fraisier by witnessing a will that leaves everything to the Louvre – which the deceitful Cibot and Fraisier read with horror and purloin in the night. But in the morning Pons makes  a second foolproof will with a different notary, which also is witnessed by friends, making Schmucke his sole heir.

.Does it work out?  I was breathless till the end.   It doesn’t end as I had hoped,  but it  does not end without hope.  It’s not that people are VERY good – Balzac certainly vilifies most of the characters in Cousin Pons – but a few are incorruptible.  And it fascinated me that these few are actors and musicians involved with a small theater, where they must struggle to make ends meet. 

N.B.  I very much enjoyed Herbert J. Hunt’s translation of  Cousin Pons (Penguin)

Thomas Hardy’s Masterpiece, “The Mayor of Casterbridge”

Writers have radically different views on Thomas Hardy.  D. H. Lawrence considered Hardy the best novelist of the 19th century; Stella Gibbons criticized Hardy’s (and Lawrence’s) “loam-and-lovechild” novels and satirized them in Cold Comfort Farm.  Hardy’s fans have their differences:  some prefer his reputed masterpieces,  Tess of the d’Urbervilles (one of my favorites) and Jude the Obscure (too melodramatic even for me), while I dally with The Woodlanders and A Laodicean.

My favorite is The Mayor of Casterbridge, an almost- perfect Greek tragedy set in England in the 19th century.  The prose is exquisite, the plot intricate, and the structure a superb ring composition. 

In this masterpiece, Hardy charts the rise and fall of Michael Henchard, who, as a young man, tragically gets drunk at a fair and sells his wife, Susan, to a sailor, Newson, for five guineas, along with their daughter Elizabeth-Jane.  When Michael sobers up, he searches for them but cannot find them. And so he vows to abstain from alcohol for 20 years, and moves to Casterbridge, where he succeeds as a grain merchant – and becomes the mayor.Years later, Susan and Elizabeth Jane return to the scene of the fair, where Susan tries to find word of Michael, because her other “husband,” Newson, has died.   They find Michael in Casterbridge, and he makes amends by marrying Susan, who is awed by his beautiful house and riches; but he had planned to marry his long-time mistress, Lucetta.  Eventually, Lucetta moves to Casterbridge. 

Ironically, Michael’s marriage to Susan, which raises both Susan and Elizabeth Jane up several classes, is the beginning of Michael’s downfall.  There are many twists:  there is a mystery about the identity of his daughter, not revealed until after Susan’s death.  

But mostly this is a novel about jealousy.  Hot-headed Henchard  becomes jealous of the popularity of a  brilliant young Scotsman, Farfrae, a scientist, whom he once liked, and hired as the manager of his business; he fires him, but then cannot compete with Farfrae as a rival businessman.Farfrae and Elizabeth Jane are interterested in each other, but Henchard forbids him to see her.   Farfrae gradually obtains everything Henchard has or had, including Lucetta.  Henchard thinks Farfrae is deliberately setting out to wreck his life  – and one can see why he thinks it, but Farfrae regrets the loss of their friendship.

 And then there are triangles within triangles within triangles.  We have Michael, Susan, and Newson; Michael, Susan, and Lucetta;  Michael, Farfrae and Lucetta; and Farfrae, Elizabeth-Jane and Lucetta…

I love nothing more than a good wallow in a Hardy novel:  an uncritical enjoyment of his lyrical if occasionally heavy-handed prose (but the style is uniformly elegant in The Mayor), the characters’ tragic love affairs, the descriptions of Wessex (the fictional county where his novels and stories are set),  and the complicated structures of his novels.

However, J. I. M. Stewart (a Hardy scholar, novelist, and  writer of mysteries under the pseudonym Michael Innes) is not as partial to The Mayor of Casterbridge as I am.  In his introduction to the Modern Library edition, he cannot resist applying a certain dry mockery to his criticism. He thinks Hardy’s novel benefited from being written as a weekly serial: “Above all, the quick manipulation of event and character required by his crowded fable keeps Hardy’s hands fully occupied so that he has leisure for but few of those large cosmic gestures which have threatened to become routine with him.”  

And there are more observations in this caustic vein.  He writes, “[The characters] seem resigned to parting or coming together, to dying or bobbing up from the dead, with a precision and punctuality in terms of the proposed exhibition suggestive of a factory in which an advanced state of automation has been achieved.” 

 Very witty, but…   I do at least agree with Stewart when he says that Michael Henchard is one of Hardy’s most memorable male characters – and one of the best in English literature.  

J.I.M. Stewart is a  scholar and the author of Thomas Hardy:  A Critical Biography. I have enjoyed J. I. M. Stewart’s novels, but found his critique of The Mayor of Casterbridge a bit depressing.  It is a mistake for Hardy fans to get mixed up with the critics, I always say.  And I have read this novel so many times –  why did I bother with the introduction?

What Would Doris Lessing Say? The Implosion of Sex in the Arts

What would Doris Lessing say?

In the year of our Lord 2016, madness began to consume the world of arts.  Let us bear witness to a subset of that world, the  literary scene, which has imploded on itself with the new fashionable Puritanism and political correctness.

What would Doris Lessing say? Like Lessing, who, as she grew older, used to talk about the days “when she was still a woman,” I don’t feel particularly feminine these days; indeed, aging makes one less conscious of gender issues, and more exasperated with gender politics.  Lessing, who denied she was a feminist, even though we feminists claimed her,  pitied  men who lived in our times, because she thought – and this must have been the ’90s, so think how appalled she’d be now – they had lost their place in the world and weren’t allowed to fight back. No, I don’t go that far. But the current atmosphere of witch hunts and victim-heroines has had a political result:  the derailing of men’s careers on sexual misconduct charges has produced job opportunities for women.  

I read mostly women writers and respect women editors.  Still, at the back of my mind I am aware of the “erasures” that have plagued the literati in recent years. By 2017, I could not open a newspaper without finding a list of proscribed men.  On a personal level these men might have been cretins, but surely they couldn’t all be guilty.  (By the way, I kept expecting to see Cicero’s name;  he was proscribed – but for political reasons.)   Some of the misconduct scandals were horrifying, but most amounted to very little – is touching a woman’s back really sexual harassment?   My generation must have been tougher. 

In the aftermath of multiple scandals, women have become editors of prominent magazines.  Lorin Stein, the editor of The Paris Review, resigned from his job in 2017 during an internal investigation of his sexual misconduct. He made the requisite apologies for blurring the lines of professionalism with women employees and writers – and then disappeared from view.  Emily Neman succeeded him as editor in 2018, and Emily Stokes succeeded Neman in March 2021.  It’s a remarkable magazine – but two Emilys in a very short time!

What happened to Lorin Stein?  I don’t know.  But Katie Roiphe wrote about him in a brilliant article in 2018 at Harper’s, “The Other Whisper Network:  How Twitter feminism is bad for women.” 

…Not long ago, I was sitting on a friend’s couch, and she was talking about Lorin Stein, an acquaintance of mine for many years, with a special intensity. She also knew Lorin Stein, who was then still the editor of The Paris Review. Of course, Stein has since resigned under a cloud of acknowledged sexual misconduct….My friend was drinking chamomile tea and telling me second- and thirdhand stories about him with what, for a minute, I thought was gusto, but might have been political concern. “I like Lorin,” she told me. “I don’t have a personal stake in this.” She then informed me that he had sexually harassed two interns at Farrar, Straus and Giroux, where he had worked before his Paris Review tenure, leading to hushed-up, sealed settlements. She delivered this piece of highly specific information so confidently that I did not stop and think, even though I teach in a journalism department: Is this factually correct?

…The next morning, I related the troubling new fact of the FSG settlements to a journalist friend. Could it be true? She checked it very thoroughly and called that evening to tell me she could find no truth at all to the settlement rumors. I was disgusted with myself for repeating what was probably a lie about someone I liked and had nothing against. What was wrong with me?

At The New York Review of Books, the editor Ian Buruma was fired  in 2018 after publishing a piece by former Canadian radio host Jian Ghomeshi, who had been accused by 20 women and acquitted of charges of one count of choking and four counts of sexual assault.  I never saw this unsavory article, and it is unlikely that I would have read it anyway, so I cannot judge whether it was good or bad – but clearly the timing was bad, and editors have to be savvy about those matters. 

Perhaps Lydia Polgreen, the  editor of the Huff Post, put it best when she  said amusingly, “I really think the outrage was over the sloppy editing and then his intellectually incoherent justification of the piece.Truly unworthy of a publication with NYRB’s aspiration.”

Let me just mention the cultural appropriation fanatics.  They consider it morally wrong to write about any group, race, religion, or country unless one is a member.  This is not even practicable, is it?  And yet a group of Latinx writers in 2020 protested at bookstores and sent death threats to Jeanine Cummins, a white writer whose novel, American Dirt, centered on a Mexican woman and her child fleeing from a cartel hit and finally making it  to the U.S. border.  Because of the death threats, Cummins canceled her book tour, but American Dirt was still an Oprah Club pick and a best-seller. 
Going off the track a bit:  may I admit I am glad that Johnny Depp won his defamation case against his ex-wife Amber Heard, who in 2018 published a short op/ed piece in The Washington Post saying she was a victim of domestic violence and implying that Depp had abused her?

I began to read about the trial after reading Marius Kociejowski’s memoir, A Factotum in the Book Trade.  Kociejowski writes that Depp came into Peter Ellis bookshop one day and bought a second edition of Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake.  Naturally this heightened my respect for this excellent actor, though I’m a fan anyway.  And during the trial, Depp was the more articulate and credible of the two.  I was also impressed by the women who testified on his behalf, among them Kate Moss, who assured them that Depp had never pushed her down a flight of stairs at a hotel – that he wasn’t even there when she fell. 

Ironically, Heard’s op/ed piece had repercussions for the careers of both actors.  After its publication, Depp lost a lucrative movie deal reprising his role in The Pirates of the Caribbean.   Heard hadn’t worked for a while. Why Heard had continued the battle in print is a mystery – they were already divorced.

It all makes me very tired. Doris Lessing, too, was tired of the battle of the sexes.  

Book Chat: Interior Decorators and the Art of Creating Faux Libraries

This is not a bookshelf!

Every few years we rearrange our books.  Nothing fancy, nothing finicky, but after you reach the number of, say, 1,000 books, you need to order the chaos.  One afternoon my husband and I spent several satisfying hours sprucing up the two bookcases in the dining room. We pulled the books off the shelves, alphabetized them on the floor, then carried small numbers in cloth shopping bags to the shelves, so they would not get disarranged en route.

Some bibliophiles arrange by genre or publisher:  I’ve heard of Virago shelves, Penguin shelves, classic crime shelves, mass market mystery shelves, classic science fiction shelves, and Folio Society shelves. We have a simple system:  we alphabetize our fiction and organize biographies and history by the subject.  Our so-called reference section- which is double-shelved and occupies a dark corner of the study – at times defies bibliography. It features books on poetry and literary terms, The Oxford Book of English Poetry, R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz, and Country, a newish edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves,  a Pelican Complete Shakespeare,  an ancient Atlas, an Atlas from the ’80s, The Opera Book by Edith B. Ordway (1917), OK, I’ll Do It Myself (an outdated book on home repair), criticism on Greek and Latin texts, and several oversized volumes of Cathy Guisewite’s Cathy cartoons (which don’t fit on the other shelves, but perhaps are comic sociological treatises on women’s work, clothing, shopping, dating, and trying to find a husband in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s – there is something slightly post-meta-meta-something about them!).

Today I decided to cozy up with two articles on books, “Simple Tips for Creating a Beautiful Bookshelf” in The Washington Post  and “Is It So Wrong to Accessorize with Books?” in The Millions.

As I flicked through The Washington Post article and looked at the photos,  I thought, Wait, these photos can’t be right !   Honest to God, these so-called bookshelves are used to showcase plants, bowls, knickknacks – almost anything but books.  I was so confused.  I honestly thought they’d printed the wrong illustrations.

I do not consider this a bookshelf.

And then I read.  The decorators’ advice to The Washington Post writer raised my hackles. 

Set everything on the floor where you can see it, and take a few minutes to identify your key pieces. “Take inventory of what you have and group by size: large, medium, small and tall,” says Brandi Wilkins, an interior designer in Frederick, Md. “Keeping scale and proportion in mind, you want to make sure your decorative accessories and books vary in size and height.”

The  D.C.-area designer Shannon Claire Smith tells the reporter, “Just like in photography, you want to split each shelf into three sections: a left, a center and a right,” she says. Each shelf should contain accents that differ in height, but the configuration of pieces should not be the same everywhere.: “This creates a varied and collected look on a bookcase.”

This is small, but these are real bookshelves. In need of tidying!

 The not-D.C.-based Kat of Thornfield Hall says, “Look up the syllabus of  a university class you’re interested in and order the books. Or go to the the bookstore, browse in  a section that interests you, and pick them out the books yourselves.”

Do you suppose Jeff Bezos would give bibliophiles seats on his rocket ship to a more habitable planet?  Because it looks as though readers are DONE here – and our collections of books likely to be pulped if they cannot be accessorized.

Bill Morris at The Millions takes a more philosophical attitude in his essay, “Is It So Wrong to Accessorize with Books?”   He writes,

While visiting a friend of a friend in Key West many winters ago, I was smitten by the bookshelves in his living room. The built-in shelves wrapped around a window and ran to the ceiling, obviously the work of an expert craftsman. But from across the room it was the books themselves that dazzled my eye—their spines, meticulously arranged by size and color, made the wall look like a gigantic pointillist painting. When I complimented my host on his bookshelves and asked what he liked to read, he looked at me as if I was one very dim bulb. “I bought those books by the yard,” he said. “Then I arranged them in a way that’s pleasing to my eye. I haven’t actually read them.”

Morris, a novelist and a staff writer at The Millions, is respectful of aesthetes who want to be surrounded by books, even if they don’t read them.  Nowadays you can hire library curators to buy your books by the yard and create a certain image. 

Morris explains that books have also become fashion accessories.

The fashion world has also recently adopted this books-as-accessories aesthetic. In the Times article, Nick Haramis explores how fashion houses have begun weaving books into their promotions, from runway shows to panel discussions to podcasts. At Dior’s 2022 fall menswear show, for instance, the runway consisted of a giant replica of the scroll of typing paper on which Jack Kerouac pounded out the original draft of On the Road. Etro recently sent each of its models onto the runway holding a small, nondescript book. Meanwhile, the supermodel Gigi Hadid trooped around Milan Fashion Week clutching a copy of Camus’s The Stranger. “The worlds of literature and fashion have flirted with each other since long before Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe tied the knot in 1956,” Haramis writes, “but in the past few years, books have become such coveted signifiers of taste and self-expression that the objects themselves are now status symbols.”

Hey, y’all, what say we take turns providing titles for the fashion designers? Enough with the Kerouac (though I do think the scroll replica was a brilliant design idea ) and Camus! How about Walden or The Blithedale Romance?  Models would be proud to flaunt Sue Kaufman’s classic, Diary of a Mad Housewife,  Proust’s Swann’s Way, Isabel Allende’s The House of the Spirits, or Alice Hoffman’s masterpiece, The Red Garden (magic realism and fashion surely go together), Joan Didion’s collection of essays, Slouching towards Bethlehem, or Willa Cather’s Lucy Gayheart, a tragic exploration of the clash between the the classical music scene in Chicago and the culture of Lucy’s prairie hometown.

Any other suggestions?

Don’t ask the interior decorators!

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