Recommended Reading - a Meme

This meme has been making the round of bookblogs lately. I don't know where it originated, so unfortunately I can't give proper credit. However, I think it began as a "books I've read this year" meme. I've chosen to use it more as a general "reading I recommend," and not just novels, but I've also included three plays and one non-fiction title. Makes it easier! Also, instead of the usual list form, I've put it into paragraph form.

     I began the day by Lying Awake before breakfasting with Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont and admiring [her] Room with a View. On my way to work, I saw Emma and walked by The Priory to avoid Crossing Delancey, but I made sure to stop at 84, Charing Cross Road.
     In the office, my boss said, "Faster! Faster!" and sent me to research An Academic Question. At lunch with The Rector's Daughter, I noticed The New House in Mansfield Park. Then on the journey home, I contemplated Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks because I have an Invitation to the Waltz and am drawn to Dancing at Lughnasa. (Then again, I also contemplated A Month in the Country, because I have Urgent Longings and am drawn To the North.)
     Settling down for the evening in The Echoing Grove, I studied a Letter from New York by The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street before saying goodnight to The Tortoise and the Hare.

Lying Awake  - Mark Salzman
Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont  - Elizabeth Taylor
A Room with a View  - E. M. Forster
Emma  - Jane Austen
The Priory  - Dorothy Whipple
Crossing Delancey  - Susan Sandler
84, Charing Cross Road  - Helene Hanff
Faster! Faster!  - E. M. Delafield
An Academic Question  - Barbara Pym
The Rector's Daughter  - F. M. Mayor
The New House  - Lettice Cooper
Mansfield Park  - Jane Austen
Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks  - Richard Alfieri
Invitation to the Waltz  - Rosamond Lehmann
Dancing at Lughnasa  - Brian Friel
A Month in the Country  - J. L. Carr
Urgent Longings  - Thomas J. Tyrrell
To the North  - Elizabeth Bowen
The Echoing Grove  - Rosamond Lehmann
Letter from New York  - Helene Hanff
The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street  - Helene Hanff
The Tortoise and the Hare  - Elizabeth Jenkins

Christmas Time Movies!

     On this past Thanksgiving Day, I remembered that on Thanksgiving weekend 1994 I went to the cinema twice to see the new but old-fashioned romantic comedy called Sleepless in Seattle. At the first viewing, I remember my sister whispering during the Christmas dinner scene near the start of the film, "Oh, it's Niles!" Not having yet seen Frasier, I had no idea who Niles was. Nowadays, of course, one of the reasons I watch Sleepless is to see David Hyde Pierce in his two brief scenes.

     Another main reason I watch Sleepless, at least during Advent and the Christmas season, is for its Christmas scenes at the beginning—even though it's all very secular, it's still jolly, and I always love Meg Ryan singing "horses, horses, horses" with the radio.

     Besides Sleepless in Seattle, there are numerous other movies I love to watch specifically at this time. It might surprise you that It's a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street (any version) are not among them. I think there are two reasons for their omission: 1) they're both on TV ad nauseum around Christmas time, and 2) I've always disliked following the crowd. "What's your favorite Christmas movie?" Seven times out of ten, the answer is It's a Wonderful Life. The other three times, it's Miracle on 34th Street. (Those are my own arbitrary statistics; don't go quoting them.) While I concede they are both wonderful films, I'm just ornery and choose to march to my own drummer boy. Pah-rrum-pum-pum-pum.

     So here, in random order after the first four, is my Christmas viewing list—most of these films are not specifically about Christmas, and some are emphatically non-religious (yes, I still retain some of my pagan past when it comes to movies), but all have Christmas scenes in them.

The Bishop's Wife - probably my favorite Christmas film
     (Cary Grant, Loretta Young)
The Shop around the Corner - probably my second favorite Christmas film
     (James Stewart, Margaret Sullavan)
White Christmas - probably my 3rd favorite Christmas film
Come to the Stable  (Loretta Young, Celeste Holm) - probably my fourth favorite Christmas film

Little Women 
     1933 (Katharine Hepburn)
     1994 (Winona Ryder)
     1978 (TV mini-series w/ Susan Dey)
     [Don't like the 1949 version with June Allyson and Elizabeth Taylor!]
Meet Me in St. Louis  (Judy Garland, Margaret O'Brien)
The Trouble with Angels  (Hayley Mills, Rosalind Russell)
Holiday Inn  (Fred Astaire, Bing Crosby)
Sleepless in Seattle
Desk Set  (Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy)
When Harry Met Sally ...
84, Charing Cross Road  (Anne Bancroft, Anthony Hopkins)
Love Affair  (1939, Irene Dunne, Charles Boyer)
     and its 1957 remake An Affair to Remember  (Cary Grant, Deborah Kerr)
Falling in Love  (Meryl Streep, Robert de Niro)
The Holiday  (Kate Winslet, Cameron Diaz)
Love Story  (Ryan O'Neal, Ali MacGraw)
You've Got Mail
Love, Actually
Christmas in Connecticut  (Barbara Stanwyck, Dennis Morgan)
Holiday Affair  (Janet Leigh, Robert Mitchum)
Never Say Goodbye  (Errol Flynn, Eleanor Parker)
A Christmas Carol  (just about any version)
The Tangerine Bear  (animated - David Hyde Pierce voices the Cuckoo)

For something emphatically religious, and therefore most truly about Christmas:
The Nativity Story

Wise Counsel from Mother Teresa

"We must not drift away from the humble works, because these are the works nobody will do. It is [sic] never too small. We are so small we look at things in a small way. But God, being Almighty, sees everything great. Therefore, even if you write a letter for a blind man or just go sit and listen, or you take the mail for him, or you visit somebody or bring a flower to somebody—small things—or wash clothes for somebody, or clean the house. Very humble work, that is where you and I must be. For there are many people who can do big things. But there are very few people who will do the small things." ~ Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

 

Lent is not the only time for penitential works. Advent, also, is a time of penance and preparation, though, really, works of penance and service should not be confined only to these seasons. We can do a great deal just by making someone's holiday season, no matter what their faith, a little easier or more pleasant. There may be someone in your own family, or right next door. Just one little good deed a day can go a long way toward making the world a better place.

From My Big Orange Book: Robert Frost

     I met this poem via a choral arrangement by Randall Thompson which we sang in high school. I immediately loved both text and musical setting, and have since considered the poem to be one of my favorites of all time.

"Choose Something Like a Star"

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud—
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says, 'I burn.'
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell us something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height.
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

A helpful analysis of this poem

A beautiful performance of Randall Thompson's setting, accompanied by stunning images taken from Hubble.

On the Saving Grace of Writing

     How many articles and interviews do we read about comedians or actors known for their comedic genius, in which the journalist expresses surprise at the celebrities' real-life personality? How many times are we told that So-and-So is actually quite shy and retiring, nothing like the So-and-So we see on the stage or the screen? The journalist usually goes on to say that the celebrity was painfully shy as a child, but found humor to be a useful sort of mask behind which to hide his shyness. He became the "class clown" in high school and college, and that image helped forge a career, got him out into the world in a way he otherwise might not have done. Yet he remains, at the core, shy. He may very likely suffer from social anxiety disorder.

     Speaking as one who has long suffered from S. A. D., I have found writing to be my saving grace; not a "mask," but a means through which I can reveal who I really am, whether it be on this blog, in my journal, in my poetry, or in letters and even on Facebook. Leticia in person may appear to be quite different. She may not have much to say for herself, may be a poor conversationalist, may even retire into a defeated silence. But that's not really Leticia. Only her family and very closest friends can know the real Leticia in person.

     In Elizabeth Taylor's short story "The Letter Writers," a man and woman who have for years known each other only through correspondence finally meet at the woman's house. She is pathetically wracked with worry, knowing how much he enjoys her beautifully written, lively letters, that he might find the writer to be quite ordinary and dull, not at all what he imagined. Indeed, when he arrives at her door, her cat has just upset the lobster she intended to serve for lunch; she is unkempt, harried, and completely distraught. For the rest of the afternoon, she never recovers herself from that initial meeting. Moreover, the neighbor whom she had so colorfully portrayed in her letters shows up, and proves to be nothing more than a tiresome busybody. The visit is, in short, a disaster for both correspondents. But do they stop writing each other? No. Each has grown too fond of the other that leaps so vividly off the page; it is a peculiar kind of friendship, to be sure, and some readers might conclude it isn't a friendship at all, only delusion. I see it as a true friendship, because through writing, without the constrictions and tensions that a conventional, flesh-and-blood friendship can sometimes impose, they are free to be truly themselves.

     I know what it's like to be able to relax through the written word. I've poured out more of myself on the page than I have to any human being. I am grateful to be able to write.

    

The Short Story Reconsidered

     First of all, let me say that this is not a book blog, nor am I in any shape or form a literary critic. Everyone who knows me knows that I love reading as an educational activity and as sheer entertainment as well as companionship, and also that I love the physical book, period. Most of all, I read for love of language.

     However, since this is a blog about my different perspectives on life, and since reading has formed and continues to form many of those perspectives, I do feel obliged to write about books from time to time, including my personal opinions of, and reactions to, same.

     The novel has always been my favorite literary form. Years ago, I bought a volume of short stories by Laurie Colwin, a writer whose novels I rather liked at the time, in an attempt to widen my horizons; however, I didn't really "take" to the form, so naturally assumed afterward that I never would. I should have known that tasting only one writer's stories does not form a good basis for judgment, but in my defense, I felt there were certainly enough novels to keep me happily occupied for the rest of my life, so who needs short stories, anyway?

     I have loved the novels of Elizabeth Taylor for many years now, ever since Virago first began reissuing them, so when Nicola Beauman's biography of Taylor came out a few years ago, I immediately bought and read it. Beauman praises Taylor's short stories highly, as do many other critics and authors, proclaiming her a master of the form. According to Beauman, Taylor likened the short story to the lyric poem in arc and movement. Since I am a poet, this comparison struck a loud chord in me and prompted me to give short stories another chance—and whose stories but Taylor's would serve me better in that capacity?

     I recently finished reading her collection The Blush and absolutely loved all the stories in it. I now have a genuine appreciation for the difficulty of writing what are essentially, to me anyway, novels in miniature, of cramming so much information and impact in so few pages. And to do so with as much grace, humor, perception, and seeming ease as did Elizabeth Taylor is nothing short of astonishing; that she is able, with just one little tale, to elicit so many varying reactions from me—amusement, sympathy, indignation, surprise—is enough to erase forever my former indifference toward the form. I feel I am now ready to sample another author—another Elizabeth, perhaps? Elizabeth Bowen?

A Painting I Love

William Orpen
"The Window Seat"



Whassup?

     I seem to be experiencing a kind a trough at the moment, one of those hopefully short-lived phases in which nothing interests me, I can't be bothered, it's difficult to rouse myself even to read.

     By the way, did you know that, according to Webster's Dictionary, "short-lived" and "long-lived" are pronounced with a long "i"? All my life, I've heard people pronounce it with a short "i." I myself have always pronounced it with a short "i." I've also always heard "reptile" pronounced with a long "i," but Webster's says it's a short "i." Go figure.

     Because of this trough, it took me forever to finish Diana Tutton's novel Guard Your Daughters. I liked it quite a lot, and were I not in a trough I would have zipped right through it, it being the kind of easy-going read that makes no great demands on concentration or analytical powers. It's a straightforwardly delightful book, one that I'll most probably read again sometime down the road, and probably when I'm in another trough and can't be bothered with anything heavier.

     Though not really a short story fan, I find that short stories, along with essays, of which I am a big fan, do very well for me during troughs. I can finish one story or essay in a matter of minutes rather than hours or days, and when finished reading it, I can enjoy that particular self-congratulatory satisfaction of having done so. Currently, I'm leisurely making my way through Elizabeth Taylor's short story collection The Blush and continuing to dip occasionally into Christopher Morley essays. I must say, Taylor never fails to impress me. What a stunning writer.

     As for my own writing, the past two months have yielded eight new poems and one major revision, quite a lot when you compare it to the two little measly poems I squeezed out between last December and this past September. Honestly, I had all but given up. Despite this recent writing surge, it's been difficult to summon the motivation to submit anything for publication; finally mailing off six poems to The Lyric was done with a marked lack of enthusiasm. They'll probably hate them.

     Heigh-ho.

     On the plus side, The Next Iron Chef: Redemption and Dancing with the Stars: All-Stars have provided much in the way of amusement. And I can just feel another new poem or two tickling the back of my brain. Or maybe it's just allergies.

    

Music Monday: How I Met Mozart

     In the first few posts under "My Musical Life" I wrote about the beginnings of my career as a pianist and that my very first teacher was a Mrs. Woliver, one of those neighborhood housewives who gave piano lessons in the evenings and on weekends. Though I never kept in touch with Mrs. Woliver after leaving her tutelage to pursue more advanced piano studies, I have never forgotten the solid foundation she gave me, nor her gentle patience.

     She started me off with a series of books that so many other pianists start off with, the John Thompson series, the first of which is Teaching Little Fingers to Play. Over the next year or so I moved rapidly through the next three or four books of the series. The most memorable pieces from that series were short, simplified snatches from larger works by major composers: a minuet by Bach, a sarabande by Handel, a bit of Beethoven—and the first half of the theme from the first movement of Mozart's Sonata in A Major, K. 331. I was so taken with Mozart's elegantly tender theme that when a few years later I bought his complete sonatas, K. 331 was the first one I wanted to study. For some reason, though, I worked on several of the others before I finally got around to it, and I never performed it or used it in competition. Rather, the D Major K. 576 became my big "war horse" Mozart sonata.

     After I moved to Houston to immerse myself in opera, I would from time to time play through the K. 331 for renewal and relaxation. I still have a soft spot in my heart for it. It did, after all, introduce me to one of my greatest musical friends—Wolfie.

     P. S. Just a few years ago, I saw Mrs. Woliver's obituary in the paper. She had continued to teach piano till almost the end of her life.

 

     Here is the great Walter Gieseking playing the first movement of K. 331. Perhaps because of the time constraints of older recordings, he doesn't take any of the repeats. Still, this performance is matchless in beauty, elegance, phrasing, and articulation.

A Change of Pace

     I don't often write "humorous" poems. In fact, my sisters often tease me about my poetic voice, which is admittedly introspective and at times downright somber (or, as one sister bluntly puts it, "depressing"). But every once in while, something moves me to depart from my usual tone. I won't go into the "something" that prompted this poem, which was a particular recent event, but I will say that it was obviously influenced by Dorothy Parker, with a dash of Lewis Carroll thrown in for good measure.

          KATY DID
         
          Katy did a pretty tune
          All by her little lonely,
          And asked the owls beneath the moon
          To sing their praises only.

          "Too-whoo, too-whoo, to you?" said they,
          Impassive, eyes a-winking.
          "Do you not want that we should say
          What we be truly thinking?"

          "No, no!" cried Katy with a pout.
          "Not now, not ever, pray ye!
          The truth must never be said out,
          For it would surely slay me!"

          So Katy did what Katy will,
          And sang whatever pleased her;
          To truth she does not listen still,
          Since praise is always easier.

          © Leticia Austria 2012

My 25-Year Love Affair with Les Miz

     In the summer of 1987 at the Palace Theatre in London, I saw the musical Les Misérables for the first time. Twenty-five years ago. Hard to believe. Unfortunately, due to jet lag, I took an unintentional snooze during the whole scene of "A Heart Full of Love," but what I did see I absolutely loved. Not only did I buy the recording (cassettes in those days, pre-CD era) of the original British cast, but I also bought the original Broadway cast recording. And after some length and considerable searching (pre-Amazon era as well), I managed to track down the cassette of the original French version. For this last, I called all the music stores in town, to no avail. In fact, one dealer became downright insulting after I informed him of the fact that Les Miz actually premiered in Paris, not in London as he insisted. "Look, I know what I'm talking about; you don't. It premiered in London." Okay. You just lost a potential customer, fella. No matter. I can't remember where I eventually found the French recording, and I suppose, if I were the vindictive type, I would have marched into that store and waved it under the dealer's nose.

     I listened to the British recording ad nauseum, weeping copious tears every time. (Of course, I have since replaced the cassettes of all three versions with CDs.) When I saw it the second time nine years later, again in London, I wept as much as I did the first time I saw it (and managed to stay awake through "A Heart Full of Love"). I never saw it in New York or on tour. I don't even think I'll see it during this current tour. But I am determined to see the film, which opens on Christmas Day. Judging from the slight stinging I feel behind my eyes just watching the trailers, I expect I will again weep copious tears. One would have to have A Heart Full of Stone not to be moved by this powerful saga; as for the music, the snootiest critic would have to admit it is extremely affecting and difficult to forget. Even this snooty critic has surrendered to its charms.

     Have I read the novel? Sort of. I skipped great chunks, such as the lengthy history and description of the Parisian sewer system. All right, I admit it, I only read the parts that are depicted in the show; but in my own defense, I don't like to read things in translation except for Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. In view of the fact that only my Italian is fluent enough for extended reading, this means that I have never read many of the world's major authors such as Flaubert, Cervantes, Tolstoy, etc. Somehow, though, experiencing foreign literature through their musical adaptations is a different matter; after all, a good many opera librettos are translations of their original sources.

     Anyway, I shall hie myself to the cinema, if not on Christmas Day, then as soon as I am able, armed with a very large box of Kleenex.

    
    

Haunted

Edvard Munch
"Girl in Nightgown"

 

Haunted

 

I cannot sleep; my mind's too full of him.

What right has he to haunt me, since I vowed

that I would no more think of him aloud,

but store him safe away inside my dim

attic of thoughts?  And if I sleep, I dream

of walking with him through a dappled wood;

then, waking, shadows of his visage cloud

my sight.  The morning's nascent sunbeams brim

with hazy phantoms from the night before

that sharpen in the glare of afternoon;

when evening glooms, I once again make grim

resolve that I will think of him no more;

at night I lie here staring at the moon.

I cannot sleep.  My mind's too full of him.

 

 

© Leticia Austria 2008
First published in Lucidity, in slightly altered form

George Clausen
"In the Wee Hours"









Saturday Summary

Carl Vilhelm Holsoe
"Lady in an Interior"

 

     I have a predilection for muted palettes, not only in art but also interior design. If there is sufficient natural light in a room, I love the changing color of it during the course of the day, and its influence on the space and the objects in it.

     When a muted palette in a painting is paired with the subject of a lone woman reading or writing in a domestic interior, that painting immediately captures my attention. What I particularly like in this painting is the patch of sunlight on the wall, which gives brightness to the scene without actually adding color. The only other element of light is the gleam of the silver.

     So this painting is what I discovered this week. Also, this past week, I:

     ... wrote another new poem, a sonnet that's a bit non-traditional in the sense that while it's mostly iambic, the lines are not all pentameter; some are longer, others are shorter. And the rhyme scheme departs from the usual Shakespearean and Petrarchan. But it definitely reads like a sonnet. I'm pretty happy with it.

     ... have been listening to Persuasion, read by the excellent Juliet Stevenson (Truly, Madly, Deeply; Emma). Ms Stevenson does a splendid job, though the voice she gives Mary is borderline annoying. True to the character, I suppose. This is my first Austen audio book, actually. I'm enjoying it, but still prefer reading to listening, as reading affords the chance to savor and to read certain striking passages multiple times in succession with more ease. Nevertheless, I will probably be buying more audio books in future. If it's a book you're already well familiar with, it's rather nice to fall asleep listening to it, in lieu of an actual person reading you to sleep. You can always go back to the parts you missed after passing out.

     ... read Guard Your Daughters by Diana Tutton, a light, amusing mid-century novel that has been making the round of book bloggers lately. Very enjoyable, worth the purchase, and a definite candidate for re-reading every few years.

     ... received in the mail Christopher Morley's New York, which I fully expect to be every bit as delightful as his Philadelphia, if not more so. I really must read some of his fiction; never have, not even Parnassus on Wheels or The Haunted Bookshop. At any rate, his essays deserve to be on the shelf of every true lover of literature, maybe not beside William Hazlitt, but certainly beside Leigh Hunt.

     I also received the Hans Hotter/Gerald Moore recording of Schwanengesang, and Schnabel's recording of the Impromptus, to further my recent epiphanic reappraisal of Schubert. I'm learning to love him more and more each day. Another sure sign of middle age.

   

Succumbing to Emoticons

     Facebook can be a minefield. I've learned this the hard way. Actually, it's not just Facebook, it's any communication through the written word, especially "fast-food" versions, otherwise known as social networks. Twitter can be equally precarious.

     What I mean is, what you write, particularly in haste, can so easily be misconstrued and the person you are writing to so easily offended. With handwritten letters and even email, there is a certain luxury of leisure in which you may think a bit more while writing so as to express yourself clearly and accurately. Conversely, as too often happens given today's technology and faster pace, you are more likely to post/comment on Facebook or tweet on Twitter via handheld gadget and while out and about in public, greatly decreasing the possibility for careful thought before writing. But even in the calmer atmosphere of home, posting/commenting/tweeting is too often done haphazardly, with little consideration as to how things are expressed and how they may be interpreted. Consequently, the reader can take things the wrong way, respond in kind, even unfriend or block you, and you are left bewildered and even indignant that what you wrote could be so misconstrued.

     Enter the emoticon. When I first began tweeting and Facebooking, I held emoticons in deep disdain and was annoyed at the very sight of them. True to my nature, the more I saw them scattered about my screen the more I resisted using them. Words, I maintained, chosen with discrimination, would suffice to communicate clearly.

     Unfortunately, what I have discovered over time is that I am the kind of person who needs to think not once, not twice, but many times, and long and hard, before I type and press "Enter." I read something a friend has written on Facebook and I enter a comment that may be a kneejerk response, without pausing to think that I may be offending my friend. Then, also true to my nature, I spend the next several hours in genuine remorse, wishing I hadn't written so hastily and thoughtlessly.

     I finally have to admit that emoticons, abhorrent as they are to me, do indeed prevent a great deal of misunderstanding. The mere presence of a ☺takes away hidden, unintentional stings so that harmony may prevail. The emoticon is the written equivalent of the American South's ubiquitous expression "bless her heart," which can soften even the most bald-faced insult ("she looks like a beached whale in that dress, bless her heart").

     All that said, I steadfastly refuse to use the word "heart" as a verb. "Love" in any language is the most beautiful, if also often misused, word in the world. Besides, loving involves much more than the heart.