Where I've Been

Okay, I haven't decided to stop blogging or to go off to some third-world country to live a simpler life. I just happen to have been attending my brother's wedding, which was an absolutely fabulous event. As soon as it was over, though, I collapsed with a sore throat and a fever (while still having to drive from Virginia back to Pennsylvania). I will post pictures and more details soon. Right now, suffice it to say, it was fabulous! I've got a terrific new sister-in-law who comes from a family that is as wild and ruckus as we Michies (no wonder she fits right in).

The Tapestry of Love by Rosy Thornton

Thornton, Rosy. The Tapestry of Love. London: Headline Review, 2010.

Before I took up blogging, which has managed to nearly double the number of books I read in any given year (odd how that works. You'd think that with spending time in the blogosphere, I'd have less time for books), I used to spend the months of October and November exclusively reading books of a supernatural or mysterious nature. I'd buy and save books throughout the year specifically for this purpose. That meant a total of 6-8 books, and I so looked forward to this "spooky" time of year. Two years ago, though, I realized that I was reading more like 6-8 books a month. By the time I got to Thanksgiving, I was sick of the supernatural and the mysterious. And that, my dear readers, was a travesty for this thrills-and-chills Halloween-lover! So, last year I got wise. I decided it was okay to spread my (vampire bat?) wings a little in the fall, that I could just read more supernatural stuff throughout the year and not save so much for this time of year. Although I would still weight October and November with such fare, I would also read other non-spooky titles.

So, along came October 2010, and Bob and I were busy packing to go to Maine for 3 weeks. What was I busy packing? Edward Gorey's The Haunted Looking Glass, which is a collection of his favorite ghost stories (and a wonderful -- and wonderfully illustrated -- little read, for anyone who's interested) was first, followed by Tana French's The Likeness, Joe Hill's Heart-Shaped Box, and David Markson's Epitaph for a Tramp and Epitaph for a Dead Beat. Bob was bringing along Dan Simmons's The Terror, which I figured I was sure I'd be told "You must read!" (I figured correctly.) It doesn't look like I was doing a very good job of tempering my supernatural/mysterious reading in October. I knew I would need to do so, though. What would be a good antidote to all this heart racing material? And then I remembered I had the perfect thing. Rosy Thornton had very kindly sent me a copy of her latest novel to read and review.

Two years ago, when Bob and I were on our first three-week stint in Maine, I had read Thornton's Hearts and Minds and loved it. It was the perfect thing to read by the fire after a long day of hiking. Back then, we'd only had one or two fires, because we'd gone up in early September. This year, arriving during the fall peak, we were sure to have plenty of fires.

The Tapestry of Love is very different from Hearts and Minds. Nevertheless, Thornton's gentle wisdom, empathetic nature, and sense of humor, as well as her awareness of how complicated humans and their relationships are, shine through as much here as they did there. If you're someone who's ever gone off to live in a different country, you will appreciate this book about a woman in her late forties who decides to leave England for the France of her childhood holidays and settle there. But even if you've never done so, you can still laugh at the subtle misunderstandings, the difficulties of dealing with a bureaucracy that is probably no worse than your own familiar one but is more difficult in its being foreign.

Catherine, the heroine of the novel; with the exception of being someone who enjoys sewing and needlework and tapestry so much that she goes about setting up her own business doing so in this small, rural, French community; is a woman after my own heart. She lives in a place where, if she is patient (and lucky), she gets to observe a family of wild boars...

"...gathered one by one at the stream to drink. First the sow and then her young -- five, six, seven of them -- jostled forward and lowered their snouts to the water. The mother was a hefty size, much bigger than Catherine had imagined; three feet tall to the shoulder and maybe five feet long, she must weigh in at fourteen or fifteen stone...The piglets were small; she guessed they could be no more than a few weeks old." (p. 225)

(I loved that scene. Catherine had been missing the wild boars throughout the book, and what a treat when she finally sees them.)

She's been divorced for years. Her children are now grown and on their own, and she sets out to fulfill a dream. She's a loner at heart, someone who has no problem with isolation in a beautiful setting (I could certainly relate to that while reading this in Maine). Nonetheless, she surprises herself by becoming very attached to her neighbors. That's not all. There's even a little romance, a mature romance at that, although not without its moments of insecurity, common to all romance whether mature or not.

I expected cozy from this book. What I didn't expect was a connection and an odd sort of comfort just when I needed it. While I was in the midst of reading this book, my college roommate, one of my dearest friends, called to tell me her mother had died. This is the first of one of my long-time friends to lose her mother, and it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. My friend and I cried on the phone together, and I wished so badly that I could be with her to hug her.

In the book, Catherine's mother dies, not unexpectedly, really. I found a real solace in the way Thornton so poignantly described that event and its effects. She wasn't maudlin. She wasn't over-the-top. She was just right in her approach, handling awkwardness and sorrow and regret in just the right measures.

This is a book that will tempt you to sell everything and go live in France. Thornton makes the landscape, the way of life, and the people all so tantalizing. You will also be inspired to cook (or at least to eat). Food (of course. We're in France) is always being served and eaten; not just food, but delicious food, even when I wasn't sure I knew exactly what it was, it all sounded like something I must try. Ultimately, just as I thought, it's a perfect book to curl up with by the fire, after a long day of hiking. I also highly recommend it as an accompaniment to a long, hot bath.

Clare?

This has been offered to us. Dare we take her? Why are we even hesitating? Poor Francis the Cat, whose world will be rocked. After a few trips to the animal shelter, we had recently decided that maybe we shouldn't try to introduce a dog into the house with Francis. He had a very traumatic kitten hood and is extremely skittish. But she's darling, isn't she? And our idea had always been to get a puppy and a kitten and name them Francis and Clare (after the two saints). What does everyone think?

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

It's funny. I hadn't heard this song in ages. Then, I was driving around listening to one of those classic rock stations that I usually don't like (their idea of classic rock is typically very boring. Lots of Journey and the Eagles and Bob Seger. But that's a topic for another blog post), and it came on the radio. Then, I was reading a book, and it was mentioned in the book. I was reminded of a conversation I had a long, long time ago, back when this song was becoming one of my favorites (I paraphrase here. My memory is good for such things, but not that good):

Very Young Emily (VYE) to Much More Knowledgeable Older Sister (MMKOS) : ...but stuck in the middle of what?

MMKOS: I don't know. A card game, I think.

VYE: A card game?

MMKOS: Yes, one guy sitting next to him has clowns. The other has jokers.

VYE: But cards don't have clowns.

MMKOS: They can. A deck of cards can have anything on the back.

So, for years, whenever I heard this song, I imagined a guy sitting at a table playing cards and trying not to fall off his chair. Funny, the video seems to show something very different...

An Extension (or What Was I Thinking?)

I was the classmate that many of you probably hated when you were in school. Or, at least, I would have been had you known what I was really like. You wouldn't have known, though, because when I was a student, I was ruled by two combating neuroses: fear of failure and fear of being hated. Therefore, since I would not have wanted you to hate me, I never would have let you know all that I was up to that would have made you do so.

All that I was up to was doing such things as writing papers the minute they were assigned (or at least five days before they were due instead of the night -- or even hours -- before, the way so many of my friends seemed to be able to do). I lived in terror of writer's block (a phenomenon that is practically foreign to me, but I lived in terror of it anyway), libraries not having the books I needed (this happened once. I did a paper on Anorexia. Hard to believe now, but back then, there were very, very few book-length sources on the topic. I searched my university's library, found three books on the topic, all of which were checked out. I searched my boyfriend's university library and found two books, both checked out. I searched my hometown's university library and found one book. The public libraries had nothing. I was dependent on journal articles. My professor liked my paper, but docked me for not having more "books as resources." I suppose I should say that my third neurosis back then was pathological shyness. I didn't dare approach him, explain how hard I had tried, and ask him to change my grade, but you can see that if I had time to do all that research, I had obviously started this paper long before it was due), a broken typewriter (God knows what I would have been like had we all used computers in those days), etc. I began studying for tests and exams long before the date (a stupid thing to do, because my fourth neurosis was text anxiety. I am an absolutely miserable test-taker, and studying too far in advance guaranteed that I wouldn't remember or would muddle facts).

I was always secretly envious of those who could wait until the last minute, who would begin a paper at 10:00 p.m. that was due the next morning at 9:00. How did they do it? I remember in high school, a friend of mine calling me after 10:00 (which means I had already turned out my light. My fifth neurosis was worrying about getting my full eight hours of sleep every night, and I had to be up at 6:00 a.m. the next morning) for help with our algebra II homework. What the hell was she doing still playing around with x's and y's at that hour? But I secretly wished I could be more like that. I pulled exactly one all-nighter during my entire college career, and that was only because I only had one exam the next day, and it was early, and I knew I could sleep the rest of the day, and I was trying to impress a guy I liked, one of those guys who pulled all-nighters at least once a week. What a dork, huh? I mean, college is all about all-nighters, isn't it? But there I was, every night before midnight, with my sleeping cap on and my little mug of hot milk, saying my prayers and tucking myself in. (Okay, I wasn't that bad. I did stay up to see the sun rise at many a party on the weekends, but nothing doing during the week.)

All this secret goody-two-shoes behavior didn't work so well when it came to avoiding failure. Not that I exactly failed anything, but I made my fair share of C's (at least, once I got to college) in those courses that either didn't interest or just didn't stick (like statistics, which did neither). However, I do think I managed to keep people from hating me. I had some very close friends when I was in high school and college, and I'm grateful for that.

Needless to say (fear of failure + pathological shyness = inability to do so), I never asked for a single extension. Again, I was both disdainful and envious of those I saw doing so all the time. I was always thinking, "You were assigned that at the beginning of the term. It's basically the only thing we had to produce. How could you possibly not get it done by the due date?" The most impressive were those who, say, were actually willing to take an incomplete in a course and deliver the paper after Christmas break, or to ask a professor, "Could I have an extension? I'm going to be at multiple Grateful Dead shows next week."

That get-everything-done-way-ahead-of-time-gal was me, circa 1984. But then, I went to work in publishing. I acquired books written by professors. I was flabbergasted to discover that those who would have docked me a letter grade had I turned in my paper late (or so they all had me convinced) would sign contracts with due dates that they basically ignored. The majority of my authors were not the least bit like me (or like the scary professors they presented themselves to be when handing out assignments to 19-year-olds). They never met a deadline that they respected. To them, contracts merely made"suggestions" about manuscript delivery dates. They were as blithe about the clause that said they would deliver a manuscript by April 30th as a pimp is about wedding vows.

They must have rubbed off on me. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe I'm learning to let my hair down, to think of deadlines and assignments as man made constructs, most of which mean very little, unless you're doing something like delivering organs for transplants. Because I am here to tell you today that I am giving myself an extension (and giving it to anyone else who wants it, as well).

Last year around this time, I came up with my TBR challenge. It was a rather ridiculous challenge, so ridiculous that I'm not even going to bother to link you to it. It involved reading twenty books from my TBR tome, not buying any new ones until I'd done so, and posting on each one I read. I thought that not buying new ones would give me the incentive to start tackling the tome. But no, I just quickly abandoned the idea of not buying books (around month two, I think), because, well, yes, books are my heroin. I am, apparently, incapable of going two months without buying at least one (oh, let's face it: at least ten). But I kept reading books I had carefully chosen for my challenge list. I just didn't keep posting on them. And pretty soon, I realized I wasn't even really reading much from the list.

The question then became: should I abandon the challenge? But no. I still want to read every single book I chose. I've read ten of them. I've posted on seven. I'm in the middle of my 11th. It seems ridiculous to abandon the challenge. All I really need is an extension. And so, I am giving it to myself. It seems far more reasonable to have a challenge that consists of reading ten books in one year (especially when one belongs to three book discussion groups and reads about as fast as your slowest first-grader. I mean, really, what was I thinking?), and so, I am giving myself another year to read the last ten books on the list and to finish posting on all of them. Who knows? Maybe I'll panic, worry that all my computers will crash, that I'll suffer from writer's block, and that all ten books will magically disappear before I can read them, and will break down and get them all read and written about by April. But don't count on it.

Anyone else who is still plugging away at this challenge, feel free to give yourself an extension until next December as well. All those of you who took it on and managed to finish it? Well you get an A++.

Epitaphs

Markson, David. Epitaph for a Tramp and Epitaph for a Dead Beat. Emeryville, CA: Shoemaker and Hoard, 2007.

(The first of these novels was published in 1959. The second in 1961.)

I hope with this choice I have redeemed myself for my last choice for the Connecticut mystery book club. This go round, I went with these two "The Harry Fannin Detective Novels," as the wonderful, retro cover announces. I recently emailed a friend of mine, "If you want to read something fun(ny), buy this. Now." I loved both of these short novels.

Poor old David Markson (who looks like such a jolly fellow in his author photo), though. Yet again, I approached him skeptically. That's because the back cover copy tells us that "...the suspenseful Harry Fannin novels have been called 'the best since Chandler.'" First of all, having read one of Markson's experimental novels, I didn't think he could possibly be compared to Chandler. Secondly, there is that little problem of my old boyfriend Ross Macdonald, who was writing books at the same time ("since Chandler"). Nobody could be better than Macdonald.

I should have known he would surprise me, the way he did when I read Vanishing Point. No, he wasn't better than Macdonald; he was different. He knew exactly what he was doing when he wrote these two hard-boiled detective novels. He had definitely familiarized himself with the genre, and he did it with his own flair. We got all the elements one expects from the genre circa 1960: a sleazy underworld full of despicable people (this time in NYC); a tough, handsome, p.i.; such an abundance of simile and metaphor that certain sorts of critics and the creative writers they produce would be likely to commit murder themselves if they were to read it; sexism and sex; clever plot twists; racism; homophobia; a red herring or two; and men getting beat up so badly they ought to have wound up in the hospital for days, but instead, are capable of either committing or solving murder (broken ribs, faces smashed to smithereens, and all). He also peppered both works liberally with literary, artistic, and musical references (sound familiar?).

Harry Fannin is an odd bird but not too different from other well-known gumshoes. As smart as he is, he keeps falling for the wrong women. In the first novel, he marries the "tramp" of the title. They've been divorced for a year when she winds up at his apartment door bleeding from a stab wound. In the second novel, almost every attractive woman he meets winds up dead. Naturally, every woman he finds attractive (oh, and also every woman he doesn't) wants to sleep with him and lets him know it.

What is different about these stories is how erudite Harry Fannin is. He claims just to have gone to college out in Michigan to play football, not to have paid much attention to his coursework. However, he drops literary references all over the place. And, unlike Marlowe, he can sometimes find himself at a loss for words, although never dumbfounded, as you can see when he has thoughts such as this one:

A mighty fortress is our God, said Martin Luther. It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees, said Emiliano Zapata. Work out your salvation with diligence, said Gautama Buddha. Everyone had something right on the tip of his tongue except Fannin. (p. 8)

In fact, he is never at a loss for funny thoughts. I particularly liked this one,

I sat down on the kid's rumpled bed and took a cigarette. I would have been happier with a cyanide inhaler, but I'd left it in my other suit. (p. 94)

I could quote all day from both these books, so I'll stop here. You'll just have to trust me that Markson's sense of humor shines through the suspense, in fact, shines more brightly than the suspense. Not that the books weren't suspenseful. I definitely wanted to know what was going to happen next as I read them, but I wouldn't say this was the main draw.

The second book is funnier than the first, a real send up of Greenwich Village's beatniks. I couldn't decide if Markson had really despised them all as posers and losers or if he had been somewhat fond of them, the way he might have thought a much younger sibling was silly and absurd but still loved him or her. When you consider the fact that the era was all about experimentation and that Markson eventually embraced experiment in his own writing, it's tempting to think the latter. Yet he's so mocking. Maybe he's the older sibling who picks mercilessly on the younger one but who beats to a pulp anyone else who does (yes, yes. Puns intended. Sorry! Secretly, though, I bet Markson would have appreciated them).

In much the same way, I also wondered whether or not Markson was seriously embracing this genre or merely making fun of it the whole time. Yes, he knew what he was doing, but, at times, he seemed a bit self-conscious and over the top. What do you think? When a detective steps on gum that clings to the sole of his shoe and comments on it, is that a bit much, or is someone being cleverly over the top?

Those of us who have read any of Markson's other works all know that he was clever. In fact, that's where I caught glimpses of the "future" Markson in these two books. I also realized some other similarities between his "epitaphs" and Vanishing Point. The latter was, surprisingly, a real page-turner, just like a good mystery (in fact, it was a lot like a mystery, as I tried to piece the fragments together to figure out where the connections were and what was happening). Literary, artistic, and musical allusions make up Vanishing Point, but Markson's love of them is certainly evident in these two early works of his. I also realized something else I'd never really given much thought, which is that hard-boiled detective novels are written in a sort of fragmentary style (read that first quote again. Leave off the last sentence, and it could easily have come from Vanishing Point). All of which is to say that reading these two books by this author was like looking at paintings by a painter who started out embracing classicism and then turned to cubism, never looking back. You might be amazed that he used to paint that way, that he even could paint that way, but if you look closely, you will see that he has always drawn his lines just so, has always favored certain colors.

What could be more fun than all that? I have surprised myself in 2010 by becoming a huge David Markson fan.

Ghostly Collaborative Project Chapter Five

Dear Smithereens asked last month if anyone would be interested in writing a collaborative ghost story. How could I resist? You can find Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here, Chapter 3 here, and chapter 4 here. Now, on to Chapter 5.

...And I ran away as far as possible...

...which, for the second time that night, turned out not to be very far. What had appeared to be a very long corridor only moments before (or was it hours? I'd lost all track of time) now seemed to be closing in on me. I've never been one to suffer from claustrophobia, but then, I've never been one to hallucinate, either. This was to be a night of firsts, I supposed, as I had already begun to wonder if someone had drugged my soda with hallucinogens earlier in the day. Now I felt my throat tighten, my heart knocking at my chest's door, and a panicky, overwhelming need to get out of this cramped corridor, where I could still hear that symphonic music off in the distance. I don't know why (maybe I was subconsciously checking for stereo speakers), but I looked up and discovered a major source for my feelings of claustrophobia. Had I been maybe two inches taller, I could have reached up and touched the ceiling. I'm only 5'4" tall. Touching ceilings is not something I can typically do without a ladder.

When I looked back down again, I realized I was standing in front of an elevator. This was a different elevator. The sort from when? The 1930s? I've never been very good with the history of things. All I know is that it had those sorts of doors that have to be pulled open by someone, thick things that look and rattle like cages. Someone -- some elevator operator -- was opening them for me now. He opened the door and then returned to the business of operating the huge black lever that was used to get from floor to floor.

It was the same man. He was tall and thin. He was pale. His cheeks hollow, eyes sunken. But he was younger, much younger than he'd been before. His hair, which had been white before, was dark tufts sticking out from under the cap he wore as part of his red uniform. He had no lines on his face. He could have been a teenage bellboy at The Plaza back in the day.

"You didn't last long," he noted. "Make a visit to Returns?"

I stared at him, hesitant to step onto an elevator he was manning. But then I heard the barking and growling. I turned to see Angelo's dog, grown much bigger and even more beast-like. He'd be on top of me in a minute. I leaped into the elevator. The dog yelped as if kicked and immediately retreated. I just caught the image of him running back, tail between his legs, as the elevator operator pulled the door shut.

"Make a visit to Returns?" he repeated, his voice deep, almost a growl.

"No...umm...Repeats." I don't know why I answered him. I should have remained silent. Actually, I should have been praying to the god in whom I don't believe. But, somehow, I felt compelled.

"Hmmm..." he said, his voice now an octave higher. "Funny. Repeats don't usually wind up here. Oh well, it just means you'll be back."

He was mad. I wasn't coming back here. In fact, the minute I got out of the door of this godforsaken place, I was going home and typing up my letter of resignation. I wouldn't even be back to hand it in to Angelo and my boss. I'd mail it. Maybe I owed my boss more than that, but my job description had never mentioned anything about dealing with scary basement corridors and ominous elevator operators.

I was standing there, composing the letter in my head when the sinking feeling that had begun to take up residence in the pit of my stomach moved in some more furniture. Something was wrong. I looked at the operator who was staring at me with penetrating black eyes. I tried to look away. I couldn't. And then it dawned on me. The elevator, which should have been creaking and swaying was completely silent. We were standing still.

"What do you know about this building?" my companion asked.

"This...building?" I stammered. "It's...uh...where I work." (I would never win the Philip Marlowe Snappy Answers in Hair-Raising Situations Award.)

"So, you don't know what once happened here?"

"Umm...no."

His eyeballs rolled back in his head. When they returned, they were a fiery red. He grinned wickedly. I've never seen such sharp white teeth on a human. Had I been a different sort of woman, I would have fainted. Instead, my heart stopped knocking at my chest's door. I thought it might be about to stop for good, but then it began pounding. I could feel the sweat on my brow. Beyond caring about the close quarters of an elevator, I reached for that bag with the can of mace. But there was no bag. God knows when I had dropped it. I was stuck here, with him, and with no protection.

"Let me tell you," he nearly growled.

To be continued by Courtney.

The New Sedaris

Sedaris, David. Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. Boston: Little, Brown, 2010.

Are you the least bit surprised that I've already read this one, so hot off the presses I've had to put ice packs on my hands? It's much, much darker than Sedaris's typical collections and also, to some degree, more crass than he's been since his earliest works, but is he ever spot on. Talk about someone who really has his finger on the pulse of human nature (even if disguised as animal nature). Absolutely no one, it seems, is immune from his critical eye. This is the sort of book that ought to make everyone who reads it extremely uncomfortable because we can so easily identify our acquaintances...our friends...our relatives...ourselves.

People have complained to me that they don't see how I can like Sedaris because they think he's too cruel. Of course, my first response to that is, "Why shouldn't he be?" He grew up gay in North Carolina (granted, at least he was in the Research Triangle Area -- where, as a teenager, I was first introduced to uncloseted gays and gay culture -- and not somewhere like Mocksville, but still. It was North Carolina). He probably spent so much of his young life on the receiving end of cruelty that he has every right to be giving it back as good as he got (and while I am busy hugging cliches here, I might as well kiss "the pen is mightier than the sword" and all that). To think that he managed to keep a sense of humor growing up where he did does nothing but earn my admiration. To think that growing up where he did might have developed his sense of humor is probably why my long-time readers are rolling their eyes and thinking, "Oh God. Here she goes again, falling on her knees in front of the Sedaris altar." While I am down here on my knees, I will tell you that I've never really noticed the cruelty. Usually I've been laughing too hard.

This time, though, I was giggling, yes, but I wasn't rolling around on the floor in convulsions. That's what I did, years ago, when my sister said to me, "You must read Me Talk Pretty One Day," and I finally got my hands on it. (Incidentally, in case you ever find yourself in a room full of Michie siblings, there isn't one of us who won't engage in an "Isn't David Sedaris hilarious?" or "Did you read the latest Sedaris in The New Yorker?" conversation.) This collection of stories helped me understand why people might think Sedaris is cruel. His are not cute animals all singing "Kum Bah Yah" together while holding hands around the campfire, eyes closed, big grins on their faces, now that cat and mouse have decided they shouldn't be enemies. No, his animals are animals, and in being so, they clearly illuminate the sadness of what it is to be human. Give animals a few human traits, and instead of the absurdity that usually makes me laugh, I find a different kind of absurdity. It can be cruel to make us uncomfortable in the ways Sedaris does, to make us see an absurdity that might have us weeping if we dwell on it too long -- the ways in which we allow others to ruin our lives, or worse: the ways in which we systematically just go around ruining our lives on our own.

This is not to say that the book is nothing but a downer. I promise you. It is funny. You will love some of his characters (I'm partial to the chipmunk of the title and the owl of another one of the stories), but expect something a little bit different. And that's kind of a stupid thing to say, isn't it? I mean, of course it's different. David Sedaris doesn't usually write short stories about animals. (Or does he?)

Music Monday

"You look like that girl in Sixpence None the Richer."

Someone once said that to me. Seriously. I should have bowed down at his feet, but I had no idea what she looked like at the time, so I just took it for granted that the poor woman must be a fairly plain person. Well, along came YouTube, and, one day, I was spending some time cruising through it, looking for videos of a lot of my favorite songs. That's when I discovered what "that girl in Sixpence None the Richer" looks like.

I can assure you, I don't look anything like her. Even when my hair was short, I didn't look anything like her. About the only thing she and I have in common is a complexion that could make a ghost turn green with envy. Oh yeah, and blond hair. Other than that, you will just have to take my word for it that she is striking, and I am not. Still, how wonderful that someone once thought I resembled her. Now I can watch this video of one of my favorite songs and pretend someone might once have actually mistaken me for a pop star.

When he said that, all those years ago, though, after bowing down at his feet, I should have said, "Kiss me."

TBR Challenge Book (Book Seven)

Maugham, W. Somerset. Cakes and Ale. New York: Vintage, 2000.
(The book was originally published in 1930.)

(Before I get started, thanks again to those of you who helped rescue me from Thornfield. I am now safely home, and Jane Eyre is back in her rightful place on the shelf.)

Boy, do I love Somerset Maugham. I loved him when I discovered him when I was nineteen or twenty, first reading Of Human Bondage, which a guy I had a crush on back then gave to me to read and which led me to read everything else I could find in our house that summer. My mother has always described to me the summer she was fifteen, when she was living in Bermuda with her parents and "spent the summer drinking Coca-Cola, reading Somerset Maugham, and pining away over boys who couldn't care less about me" (seems appropriate, then, that I discovered the author while pining away for a boy who couldn't care less about me), so we had a nice collection of his books in our house. Oddly enough, what I don't remember is what I did and didn't read of his back then, so everything I read now is as if I've never read him. When I pick up one of his books, I get a sort of sense of things being vaguely familiar, as though I am unpacking a trunk marked "Maugham," but everything that's in it, despite the trunk's well-worn appearance, is all shiny and new.

Anyway, all this is to say how lovely it was to pick up a book off my TBR challenge shelf and not to be able to put it down. Last time I wrote about Mauhgam, I talked about how he has this gentle way of pulling you in, making you think you're nibbling at a gingerbread house, and then, suddenly, you find yourself turning page-after-page to get to the end, trying to escape the horrible witch and her oven, hoping you can get out of this with your heart beating regularly, still in one piece. He did it again with this one.

Where to begin with all I have to say? I suppose I ought to start with the fact that if ever a book could lead a reader to other books, this one would be it. Not only does the reader find herself thinking she'd like to get some good biographies of the fictionalized characters (more on that in a minute), not to mention of Maugham himself, but she also finds herself needing to exercise a little restraint. Maugham name drops left, right, and center, and without said restraint, the reader could easily come away with a whole new chapter of the TBR tome entitled "Writers of the Cakes and Ale Era."

For those of us who love to read and who work in publishing, this book, which is getting up there in age -- closer to 100 now than 50 -- is both enlightening and discouraging, both fun and sad. Why? Because it very effectively highlights how readers, writers, and publishers (oh, and human beings in general) have and haven't changed. You could take quotes verbatim from this book, substitute authors' names, plop them down in 2010, and people would nod their heads in agreement, quotes like this one that our narrator makes about his acquaintance Roy Kear,

I could think of no one among my contemporaries who had achieved so considerable a position on so little talent. (p. 4).

Can't you just hear one of today's mid list (such as it is in its vanishing state) authors saying something like that about one of those who shows up time and again on the bestseller lists? The book offers such observations from the beginning and hands them out all the way to the end. Maugham often gives us long passages of such opinions because he was a Master of Digression.

His digressions are one of the other reasons I love him so. They don't annoy the way less talented writers can with their complete non sequiturs. They are extremely wry and never take away from the story. Rather, they give the air of just being one of the characters in the book, sitting round the dinner table with the other characters and joining in the conversation with their thoughts and musings.

And what is the essence of this story? The great Victorian novelist Edward Driffield has a new biographer Alroy Kear. Our narrator William Ashenden happens to have known Driffield when Ashenden was a teenager and Driffield and his wife (at the time) Rosie moved to Ashenden's village in Kent. The young Ashenden was befriended by the writer and his wife. They later pick up their friendship again when they are all living in London together and Ashenden is becoming a writer in his own right. Now that Roy Kear is writing Driffield's biography, all these years later, he is pumping Ashenden for information, information Ashenden is reluctant to give. I won't say anymore, so as not to throw out spoilers, but suffice it to say that, in typical Maugham fashion, there are scandals, and shocking revelations, and biting commentary on British social norms, all served up with your cakes and ale, in a manner that makes them all even more page-turner-worthy because you are so often taken off your guard while eating and drinking such classically comforting fare.

Apparently, Maugham swore that his characters were mere composites of authors he'd known, but nobody believes that. Kear is generally believed to have been Hugh Walpole. Driffield is Thomas Hardy.

While reading the book, I began to think an awful lot about Hardy and Tess and Rosie Driffield. Rosie and Tess, although on the surface two very different women, are -- in some ways, at least -- very similar. They are two women damned by their stations in life, both by having been born into their particular social classes and by having been born female. Yes, things were bad for men, too, but women got the worst of it. Poor Tess, a woman who was full of heart and soul, is ruined by a man and has all choice removed from her life in a society that cannot understand her. Poor Rosie, a woman who is full of heart and soul, is also ruined by a society that cannot understand her, one that is so repressed, it can't bear anyone who chooses not to be. Both of them know that to behave in ways for which a man might be forgiven means never to be forgiven.

So, you can't convince me that Edward Driffield isn't Thomas Hardy. Maybe Maugham did it subconsciously. Perhaps he was unaware of the fact that Cakes and Ale was a beautifully clever, modern rewrite of Tess of the d'Urbervilles, but somehow, I doubt that.

More Ghostly Clues

Okay, everyone, I was just beginning to get a bit tired of being here (the food is very unpredictable. Sometimes it's terrific, and other times, it's burnt porridge), but mainly (despite the fact that I think I have become quite immune to the so-called "horrors" of ghosts over the years), I have become quite frightened, because I have encountered many more ghosts, some of them more terrifying than I would have expected. I hope the ghosts I've seen over the past few days will help one of you identify my whereabouts. Here are a few who might help you:

(All of these ghosts are dressed in Victorian garb.)

1. I saw another little girl. This one was a rather cheerful ghost, though. She spoke French and seemed to want to do nothing but dance. I would have been quite content to spend time with her, but,

2. There is a dark, sort of brooding shadow of a ghost that seems to take over the whole place with a sarcastic air when he is around. He isn't always around, but when he is, he is quite intimidating. I feel as though he is testing me in some way (or that he would if he could). He's not the worst of it, though:

3. Last night, I was truly scared. I heard the most fearful, wicked, crazy laughter and thought I caught a whiff of smoke, and someone was definitely turning the doorknob to the room where I am being held, although not getting in. I was afraid one of my captors had gone completely mad, possibly setting the place on fire before coming in to kill me.

They all vanish come morning, though. It is only my nights that are filled with ghostly goings-on. Please, save me! Tell me where I am and that you are on your way with a police cavalcade to rescue me.

Hostage Day Two

Okay, so now I understand that there will be a reward for the person who can correctly identify where the thieves are hiding me. (If you are confused by this, please see my previous post.) Anyway, the first person who pinpoints where I am and who names it in a comment before anyone else does will get a ghostly little gift to celebrate my favorite holiday Halloween. Here are your first clues:

1. I am being held in a fictional setting.

2. I was put on an airplane to get here, and we flew across the Atlantic.

3. They speak my language in this country.

4. There are ghosts here. Many ghosts, as a matter of fact. They kept me awake all night last night.

5. One of the ghosts who showed up at the foot of my bed was that of a child begging for help. She had a cut on her head, as if she had recently been in an accident.

More footsteps coming down the hall. It could be another ghost, but it has the distinct, heavy sound of one of my captors. Will have to wait till later to give you more clues.

Stolen (On a Sunday No Less)

Hmmm. It seems that I must have been stolen. The original thieves are under the impression that all they have done is steal my meme, but I assure you that I was taken along with it, and when I tried to get away was picked up by some other thieves who have taken me far, far away from Pennsylvania. Does that mean this blog (and thus, its valiant creator) is being held hostage? Does it mean no planned blogging break, but rather, some sudden interruption of a long and productive blogging career, or possibly, even the death of this blog? That depends on you, my dear readers. You must follow the clues that will be handed out to you (when I can manage to escape from this strange room where I am being held captive and get to a computer) to figure out where I am, so that I can be rescued and all order can be restored to Telecommuter Talk. I'm counting on you.

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Must go. More to come later...

The Time Traveler's Meme

No, I, the Queen o' Memes have not been deposed (at least, not that I know of). I've just learned to reign with a more gentle and quiet hand. Every once in a while, though, I decide that my subjects need to be put to work, especially in the fall (probably fond memories of things like that first Halloween meme I tagged myself to do years ago). It's officially fall, so the Queen is here with your orders.

Thanks to Zoe's Mom, I recently read a fun chick lit novel called The Two Lives of Miss Charlotte Merryweather. The book is all about time travel, specifically, time travel in which the heroine goes back 10 years to meet her 21-year-old self. It got me thinking. First of all, ten years isn't really long enough, not for someone my age. I'm still shocked when people point out that 9/11 was nearly ten years ago. Fifteen years or twenty would be better. What would happen if 46-year-old me were to encounter 26-year-old me? I started coming up with all kinds of questions, and the next thing I knew, this meme was born.

Rules:
1. Depending on your age, go back 10, 15, 20, or even more years.
2. Tell us how many years back you have traveled.
3. Pretend you have met yourself during that era, and tell us where you are.
4. You only have one "date" with this former self.
5. Answer the questions.


I have gone back 20 years (actually, a little further than 20 years. I'm pretending it's February, and my young self is about to celebrate her 27th birthday). We are in Stamford, CT, and we have met at her favorite bar Rory's ( a place that no longer exists). It's Monday night; she worked at the public library until 9:00; and she is here with her colleague Bill. They will walk home together once they've had a couple of drinks, because her crappy basement apartment is on the way to his place, and he usually sees her safely home. Her apartment may be crappy, but still! She is living all. by. herself, for the first time in her life.

1. Would your younger self recognize you when you first meet?
Well, according to Facebook friends who haven't seen me since high school, I haven't changed, so chances are, she'd think she'd met a long lost older sister or something.

2. Would she be surprised to discover what you are doing job wise?
Very. She is in her first year of library school and is hoping to become either a school librarian or a young adult librarian in a public library.

3. What piece of fashion advice would you give her?
Do not wear oversized sweaters with leggings and chunky shoes. You have lovely legs! Show them off with high heels and short skirts while you are young enough that no one will question such choices. And you do have cleavage. Stop being so afraid to show it off a little.

4. What do you think she is most going to want to know?
She'd probably want to know about men -- what else? My guess is that she will most want to know what is going to come of this on-again-off-again relationship she's in the midst of that will go on for the next couple of years.

5. How would you answer her question?
Not to worry. To enjoy that relationship, that it is good in many ways, will help her to become the person she is meant to be and that (despite her conviction she is not going to get married), she will be married one day. I don't think I'd tell her that she has not yet met the man she will marry or how she will meet him or anything like that. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise and excitement of Bob's and my meeting.

6. What would probably be the best thing to tell her?
That she will live the next 20 years without coming down with any horrible disease. Therefore, she should stop worrying about every headache, stomach cramp, sore throat, etc.

7. What is something that you probably wouldn't tell her?
That, at age 29, she is going to break her wrist while ice skating and have to endure a very painful surgery and months and months of physical therapy. She's a worry wart and a cautious sort. If she knows that, she'll never let herself have all those fun days of ice skating, and she most definitely needs to have those.

8. What do you think will most surprise her about you?
That I am married to a minister (she's an agnostic/borderline atheist) and living in Pennsylvania. She's convinced she'll either be living in Boston, New York, or Maine by the time she's my age.

9. What do you think will least surprise her?
That I am a certified scuba diver. She's always wanted to do that, and she will be happy to hear that she will one day be able to afford such expensive hobbies.

10. At this point in your life, would you like to run into "you" from the future?
Absolutely not. What if I've been in some horrible accident and lost an arm or a leg or something? Or what if I'm crazy and homeless? I certainly wouldn't want to know that ahead of time.

Are you reading this? Then the Queen has tagged you. Get on with it.

Death Rites

(Gimenez Bartlett, Alicia. Dunne, Jonathan, tr. Death Rites. New York: Europa Editions, 2008.)

Well, this is definitely a first for me. The Connecticut mystery book club was formed three years ago, and I have never not finished a book for the club. I may not always have gotten a book read on time, but I have always finished it. However, I am in a very strange period (for me) in my life in which I am extraordinarily busy, barely have a moment to myself, and I just don't seem to be able to bring myself to devote a lot of time to reading anything that does not have me spellbound. This one didn't. (In another first, this is the second book in one week that I have decided to abandon. I'm pretty sure I have never given up on two books in one week, being someone who, for the most part, perseveres).

Up until yesterday, I didn't think I was going to abandon it. I was pretty sure I was going to finish it and post my reactions sometime next week, even though the group is meeting to discuss it tomorrow. However, I had to go to the library today to pick up a book that was being held for me, and before I knew it, I had picked this up and brought it with me to return. I guess some part of me knew that now just wasn't the right time for this particular book.

I feel kind of sorry for it, because it isn't as though I really disliked it. I was a little annoyed by the writing style, which seemed overly fragmented and disjointed to me, but that could very easily have been the translator's fault as much as anything, and I soon found I got used to it (although I did wonder, at times, if Gimenez Bartlett was trying a little too hard to imitate the American "hard-boiled" feel and failing). The plot was definitely one that should have grabbed me (a serial rapist is on the loose in Barcelona, Spain, and two unlikely members of the police force -- one, a twice-divorced feminist lawyer-turned-police woman, and the other, a laconic, somewhat sexist -- at least, she's convinced he is -- "seasoned" cop are thrown together to solve it).

If I had stuck with it, I might have discovered that I liked it very much. Petra (the woman) was annoying at first, but she was growing on me. Garzon (the man) seemed to have a lot of surprise characteristics, and he was growing on me even more than she was. I was interested to see how these two would end up working together. On the other hand, though, I already knew, without reading it, that she was going to come to quit judging him so harshly, to begin to see him in a new light, and to come to respect him, so why bother to continue reading to see what happened between the two of them? Well, maybe because I was interested to see exactly how she would come to see the light.

Apparently, though, not interested enough. Otherwise, I would have stuck with it. What else was and is interesting to me was the almost "in-your-face" feminism of the book. Petra is very determined to "fight the good fight" for women, no matter the consequences. This is the second European book I've read this year that has made me question some of my beliefs about European countries and their attitudes toward women (the other was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo). For some reason, I have assumed that, when it comes to Western culture and countries, America lags behind in its treatment and attitudes toward women, that we have farther to go than most, especially when you compare us to all our friends across the Atlantic. Don't ask me where I got this assumption, and I will say that the world of blogging had already got me to start rethinking it before I read these two books, but these two books certainly have helped open my eyes quite wide. The world Gimenez Bartlett has given us -- at least in the first half of this book -- is truly a man's world, so much so that young women being raped might not even be as bothered by it as one might expect them to be). This was enlightening, but still.

I quit about halfway through the book. No one had yet found a dead body, but, if this mystery were true to form and followed proper procedure for the genre, one was bound to turn up sooner or later. It might have been interesting to find out who that was. Might have been, but, obviously, not quite interesting enough...

And that, in a nutshell, as I am sure you have gathered by now, was my problem. Everything was just "not quite enough." The characters were interesting but "not quite enough." The plot was interesting but "not quite enough." Bartlett Gimenez had some interesting and clever similies and metaphors and turns of phrases but "not quite enough." And I guess that, at the moment, I have just "not quite enough stamina" to keep going, with no guarantee that I will eventually find "enough." I am very intererested, though, to hear what other members of the club thought, because if they indicate that "enough" does happen, I will have to get it back out of the library and finish it.

Truly Book Obsessed

In the past year or so, I've come to the realization that, although I thought my life was full of friends who are as obsessed with books (and, well, you know reading them) as I am, it really isn't. With the exception of all those of you who read my blog and write about books yourselves (and who seemed to understand that book slut post of mine so well), it seems I have very few friends who share this obsession of mine to the same degree that I have it. They may be somewhat obsessed or have an obsession that somewhat resembles a book obsession but that really isn't. Probably less than a handful or so of my non-blogging friends have even half the book obsession I have. Let's take a look at some of the categories of people who have fooled me into thinking they are as book obsessed as I am but who really can't hold a candle to me:

1. The reading obsessed. Really, there is a difference, so please hear me out. I'm becoming suspicious of my beloved husband as far as this category goes. Yes, it does seem that he would rather spend money on books than just about anything else (only CDs and pens can compete, which is why he and I are so compatible), but he is perfectly content if he finds himself with several days in a row in which he doesn't pick up a single book. As long as he can read through the local papers and can entertain himself with the likes of The New Yorker and Sports Illustrated, my guess is he could go a week or more without ever cracking the spine of a book. Those who fall into the reading obsessed category do have to read and would go nuts without any reading material, but they are not book obsessed. Me? I'd be fine if all newspapers, magazines, and (maybe, even, God forbid) blogs and Facebook suddenly disappeared. Don't take my books away, though. I might last a day or two before winding up in the hospital, gasping for breath, my heart at the rate of all of two beats per minute.

2. Those who don't read specific genres. "I don't read mysteries," someone will say to me when I am rhapsodizing about how much I like John Connolly. Nothing like putting a damper on conversation, huh? You know, I am game for any good book, and I don't care at all about the genre. In fact, damn the genre. If you ask me what sorts of books I enjoy, I wouldn't be likely to say, "romances," and yet I've certainly read quite a few in my lifetime and have come, over the past few years, to really enjoy someone like Georgette Heyer. I will say that I don't think I've ever read any westerns, but if someone were to come along, waxing poetic about some western she'd read, I'd take note and seek it out next time I was at the library.

3. Those who don't read contemporary fiction. Like those who don't read specific genres, they can fool you. It isn't as though they can't talk books with someone who is book obsessed. However, again, if they put such limits on which books they will and won't read, well, then, they are mere pikers when it comes to obsession. Beware someone who disparages anything written post-1940 who will challenge you to name those authors you think will be on college reading lists in 2110 (a fun game I like to play, but a ridiculous challenge when taken seriously, no? I bet nobody predicted Charlotte Bronte would last. And, what, in 100 years, no one's going to study late 20th and 21st-century works?). Sometimes, these people prove themselves to be a little more book-obsessed than they let on, and you just might catch them reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo ("Yes, but that doesn't count. It isn't literature") or Freedom ("Well, I had to see what all the fuss was about, didn't I?). Be polite, even though they have, for years, been mocking the fact that you read and love John Irving. Some just aren't quite willing to admit to and embrace their obsessions the way those of us with high self-esteem can.

4. Those who don't read nonfiction. I may argue vociferously with most of the nonfiction I read, but how can someone who is book-obsessed not read it, at least on occasion? Let's say all you read is fiction. That's fine. Maybe you're fiction obsessed, but you certainly aren't book obsessed. You see, the truly book obsessed can't read something like The Postmistress, which I just finished reading, and not find herself adding titles to her TBR list that the author lists as sources she used for research before writing the book. I became extremely interested in American radio reporting during WWII while reading this book. I don't know how anyone reads fiction about some, until then, unexplored, but fascinating, subject, without finding a desire to read a nonfiction title or two. If nothing else, doesn't fiction lead to wanting to read biographies and autobiographies of the authors who write it?

5. Those who don't buy books or have any in their homes. I'm sorry. You may be someone who reads 5 books a week, but if you never buy or own any, you are not book obsessed. Reading obsessed, yes, but not book obsessed. I don't even care if you tell me you can't afford to buy books. Those who are truly book obsessed can remember days when, even though barely squeaking by on a library assistant's salary, living in one of the most expensive places in the country to live, they decided to buy fewer groceries the week of the used book sale in order to be able to get lots of cheap books instead.

6. Those who don't have a favorite publisher. Really. Even before I worked in the publishing industry, I knew that Penguin and Algonquin were two of my favorite publishers. I also knew that I loved Knopf. Yes, I am mostly author-driven and will happily follow an author from publisher to publisher, however, if I'm looking to discover new authors I've never read? Well, I certainly know which catalogs/web sites I'm going to browse first.

7. Those who can walk into Borders with money to spend, planning to buy, and walk out empty handed. What? How the hell can you do that? I can't imagine finding nothing to read out of thousands and thousands of books. I can go into a house with one small bookcase of books, and, as long as it holds a variety of titles (I mean, I might not be able to find something on a bookcase full of engineering manuals), I can find at least ten books to read. Someone who can find nothing to buy at Borders is not book obsessed.

So, there we have it. My 7 categories of "You can't fool me. I know you aren't really book obsessed." Are there any others? Help me out, all you other book obsessives out there.

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

This has got to be one of the most ridiculous pop songs ever written, lyrically. When it first came out, and my siblings and I saw the video on Top of the Pops, we were very disdainful of it. However, it seems the more we made fun of it, the more it grew on us, and we eventually all came to love it. I loved imitating the women singing "Pop. Pop. Pop music" and bobbing their heads.

Now, I think of it as quite a superb example of the stripped down look and sound of New Age music. 1979 was a pretty exciting time, musically, as we came out of disco and took some of the anger out of punk.

Talk about it!

TBR Challenge Book (Book Six)

Patchett, Ann. Bel Canto. New York: HarperCollins, 2001.

(I feel the need to add a disclaimer here. I have actually read more than six books in my TBR challenge. This just happens to be the sixth one on which I am writing a post. I decided to number them by post rather than order read.)

I've decided there is something wrong with me. I just don't seem to be able to get overly excited about the books that everyone else loves (which leaves me almost in terror of reading the new Jonathan Franzen). When I don't out-and-out dislike them, I often find my reaction is "meh."

If you've read much of this blog (especially my posts for this TBR challenge), you will know that I am convinced, in part, that this has more to do with high expectations than anything else. Of course, on some levels, that refutes another claim I've made on this blog, which is that I am highly impressionable. Given that, you'd think that I would love all the books that everyone else loves. Maybe my "impression-ability" stops with "I must read this. Everyone else loves it so," never making it to the next level of, "everyone loves it, and so do I." Or maybe, as I just said, there is something not quite right with me.

I have seen this book mentioned all over the place online, mostly with nothing but effusive praise and words like "hypnotic," "beautiful," "you must read," etc. Our library book discussion group read it before I joined, and they still get glassy-eyed when you mention it, saying things like, "I just wish we could find more books like Bel Canto to read." So I put this one into the TBR challenge absolutely convinced that I was going to love it. It was maybe going to be my dessert after struggling through one of those I'd expected would be more difficult and challenging (Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, for example). I couldn't wait to read it, while at the same time, also feeling the need to "save" it, which I'd been doing ever since finding a cheap hard copy of it at the 2008 library sale.

Dislike isn't exactly the word I'd use to describe this book. Ann Patchett isn't a bad writer. It's just that I am on page 220, and the only reason I am considering continuing with it is that I have already put so much time and effort into it, picking it up time and again and trying to find its magic, when all I've really wanted to do is to get back to reading one of the other books I'm reading and enjoying. If I abandon it now, I'd have to admit to myself that I wasted a lot of time (something I am loathe to do). My biggest problem with continuing to read it is that my "Oh, come on!" (nasty, judgmental creature that she is) nature has been raising her ugly head over and over again.

Please don't accuse me of not understanding the obvious (although I would love it if you would help me understand the un-obvious -- help blind, idiot me see what I must be missing). I know that this book is really a fable, that it isn't supposed to be all about reality. I know it isn't really at all about people from all over the world held captive by terrorists in some unnamed South American country. I know it is about humanity and love and beauty and all that we humans have in common and how the arts can bring us together and triumph in ways that are miraculous, most especially how music can transcend all the worst in human nature, can soften us.

Not only do I know all that, but I also hate the old "it just doesn't ring true" cliche. Nonetheless, I keep following my "Oh, come on's!" with "That just doesn't ring true." My literal self -- the same one that loves good fantasy while struggling with it, especially if it doesn't take place in a different world -- has struggled throughout this book and really wants me to quit at this point, because I can't keep that self from asking, "What makes this American writer think she can know what drives a Japanese businessman? Or a Swedish Red Cross worker? Or a Frenchman?" Yes, the underlying human-ness, what brings us together, is there, but that's the bottom layer. What about the top layer? (And isn't it a cliche that the Frenchman is the chef? That the beautiful opera singer, despite being a woman, knows nothing about the kitchen and preparing food?) It's just too much (and, honestly, the writer in me thinks a bit arrogant) to think that anyone can realistically portray all these characters and others: the Vice President of this country; the Japanese businessman's translator, who is fluent in many languages; the female terrorist, born of extreme poverty. I don't mind if you give me unrealistic situations, but I want my characters to be real.

It isn't that I don't think an American writer could, say, take one of these characters (or even two of them), like the young girl who is a South American terrorist and make her real. Talented writers have been known to make very interesting connections and to give us amazing, believable characters whose top layers don't resemble their own top layers at all (Kazuo Ishiguro springs to mind), but to try to tackle so many in one book is just too much. It gets my questioning, doubtful mind spinning out of control.

I appreciate the fact I've given it a try. I'm glad I did, despite my disappointment. But is it worth continuing to anger all those multiple personalities of mine (Ms. "Oh Come On", Ms. Literalist, and Ms. Writer)? Anyone? Should I?

Music Monday/Lyric Lundi

It's fall. Boots are everywhere. I love fall and boots, so I thought it would be a good idea to combine my love of boots with a favorite song. This one I've loved basically all my life (I was only two when it was released). Even as a child, I was impressed with this tough woman in her boots who wasn't going to take any mistreatment and, one of these days, would "walk all over you."

There is a more demure video of this song, but this particular one is fantastic -- so sixties/early seventies. Needless to say, the boots are great, and I love Nancy Sinatra's sparkly romper. However, what on earth are those dancers wearing? It looks like they've pulled sweaters on over bathing suits. With boots? Come on, choreographer and costumer, you could have put them in some really cool mini skirts (or rompers similar to Nancy's) and still shown plenty of that leg you wanted to show. (I've never understood why no one ever consults me about such matters.) They do all have very nice, boot-worthy legs, though, don't they?

Vanishing Judgment: A Blog Post

Blogger wonders if she should refer to herself as Author or Reader.

More sense. This blog post might make if you have read Markson, David. Vanishing Point. Washington, D.C.: Shoemaker & Hoard, 2004.

(Or if you have read any of Markson's experimental works, Reader imagines.)

Lectio Divina is Latin for divine reading, spiritual reading, or "holy reading" and represents a traditional practice of prayer and scriptural reading intended to promote communion with God and to increase in the knowledge of God's word. Says Wikipedia.

We have a collection of fragments here, although fragments of what is unclear. How Litlove described Markson's Reader's Block.

Reader counted something like 1500 fragments in Vanishing Point.

Author desires to tell a story but has become hung up on telling the truth.

Trivial Pursuit, playing. Probably not something to do with David Markson, unless he is on your team.

It's impossible to read these fragments and not to try and do something about them, search for patterns and significance. Litlove said, again, about Reader's Block.

As I think you may know, this sort of stuff is not normally my cup of tea. So Reader commented on Stefanie's blog.

Wikipedia goes on to say that Lectio Divina is a way of praying with Scripture that calls one to study, ponder, listen, and, finally, pray and rejoice from God's word within the soul.

"...from God's word within the soul?" Did Author get that right?

Most of the book consists of book, art, and music trivia. What Stefanie said about Reader's Block.

Author could write story after story from these collected fragments. No wonder Markson's "Author" is so exhausted.
Merely counting all the fragments was exhausting.

Vanishing Point is the only one of Markson's experimental works that the Lancaster County, PA library system owns.
Categorized as FIC.
Subtitle: A Novel.

Novel: an invented prose narrative that is usu. long and complex and deals esp. with human experience through a usu. connected sequence of events. So says the Tenth Edition of Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary.

But is it really a novel? You think not? Well who died and made you queen of novel demarcation? Goodreads.com reviewer Vegantrav demands to know after reading Vanishing Point.

Lectio Divina has been likened to "feasting on the word." Many write down the words that speak out to them when they are reading scripture.

Author has written down Markson's words "to tell the truth."

The pretense of thinking one knows anything about a book one has not read.

Reader wonders about the truth of what Markson writes.
She stops caring when she realizes how much fun she is having.

"Playful" and "fun" were bullied and kicked about and nearly lost consciousness. "Fun" is for Raymond Chandler...not something like this.
So Reader said in response to Litlove's quote from Reader's Block.

Writers are liars -- unquote. From Erasmus Fry in conversation, 6 May, 1986 (or, at least, so notes the first page of Neil Gaiman's Dream Country).

Reader wouldn't want to be given the task of fact checking Markson.

I thought the book was smart, beautiful, unique, and, at times, moving. At times, I found it dull -- unquote. Dorr on Wittgenstein's Mistress.

Author wishes to avoid dull.
Are lies more dull than truth? Is truth more dull than lies?

Reviewer Richard Flynn at Goodreads.com concluded that Vanishing Point is a great novel, unless you are in the mood to read a novel.

Original or striking, esp. in conception or style. So Webster's also defines novel.

Reader is reconsidering her aversions to/fear of Ulysses and The Magic Mountain.

A hat might taste okay cooked up Tex Mex style. Or maybe it should be stir fried.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Someone once said.

Markson's words: "to tell the truth."

Distinguishing between imitation and mockery.

And they lived happily ever after (Author is not mocking -- or lying -- she promises).
Reader, write your own story (truth or lie).