Sunday Scrapbag

Reading: Oh, several things. In the Office of Readings (Liturgy of the Hours), lately I've been substituting the prescribed second readings with passages from Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI's encyclical Spe Salvi. I'm ashamed to say that this will be the first papal encyclical I will have read straight through, all the way through. Always before, I've only read excerpts of various encyclicals through the Liturgy of the Hours, or in articles and blogs.

     I'm also still reading bits and pieces of Robert Gibbings' books and have begun re-reading Elizabeth Taylor's The Sleeping Beauty which I read many years ago and have completely forgotten. I'm very bad about remembering the plots of books. So if I recommend a novel to someone and they ask me what it's about, I always say, "I forget—but I do remember I absolutely loved it."

     Also, I'm reading through all my journals in search of material for new poems. An enlightening experience.

Watching: I seem to have lost interest temporarily in movies. I own on DVD all the movies I like to watch (the most recent being Quartet, that lovely little film starring Maggie Smith and directed by Dustin Hoffmann). Sometimes (not often, admittedly) I regret having such limited tastes in film; were my tastes broader and more varied, I could watch and enjoy so many more things. But what I don't like in films is pretty much identical to what I don't like in books, which I wrote about in this post. 

     The cheesy part of me is psyched that the new season of Dancing with the Stars is in full swing. Can I just say that, though he seems like a very nice guy, I'm not sorry to see the football player go? I'm so tired of football players winning the DWTS mirror ball trophy! I haven't picked a favorite yet.

Writing: Lately, prose poems. I've written two posts in this past week alone about this new venture in Poetry Land (new for me, that is), this form that I used to despise as being fancified prose or free verse bound up in paragraph form. Now I see its merits as well as its many difficulties. But other than my prose poem experiments and this blog, I haven't been writing anything, not even my journal. Bad, bad girl!

Listening: To the wonderful Romanian pianist Clara Haskil (d. 1960). I tend to go through phases with pianists, concentrating on one for a few weeks, then going back to others before fixating on a "new" one. Haskil is my fixation at the moment. Her Mozart is impeccable in both style and technique. It's the kind of Mozart I myself always wanted to play, the kind I think is "true" Mozart. Poetic, profound, yet not over-sentimentalized as so many contemporary pianists are wont to do. Playful when playfulness is called for, but not overly so. Of course, she played many other composers brilliantly as well.

 

Considering: Cancelling my Tumblr account. I very much enjoy following art and photography blogs, and I enjoy following Catholic blogs on Tumblr. But I got a huge dose of disillusionment and disgust yesterday, when one of the Catholic blogs I follow got hacked and I found a number of pornographic posts on my dashboard. I realize hacking goes on everywhere, but Tumblr seems to be particularly susceptible. Plus which, there's no way (at least that I can find) to delete or hide posts you don't want to see on your dashboard; on Facebook, you can do this, which I really appreciate. When I saw those porn posts on my Tumblr dashboard, all I could do was "unfollow" that particular blogger until he realized he'd been hacked and cleaned out all those offensive images. But I think I will leave Tumblr altogether. I already follow a lot of Catholic blogs on Blogger and Wordpress anyway, and I follow many art and photography pages on Facebook.







Saturday Scrap-Bag

     "Scrap-Bag," "Whassup?", "Lately I've Been ... " —just how many titles can I come up with for these blog posts that are, in essence, about nothing in particular; posts I write when I really have nothing to write about? Well, this time I chose "Scrap-Bag," in reference to Louisa May Alcott's book Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, which I have never read and probably never will. You may make of that reasoning what you will.

     Yesterday being grey and damp, it seemed a good day to have my hair cut. It is fortunate indeed that monastic life purged me of much of my former vanity, because my hairdresser basically butchered my hair. If this had happened fifteen years ago, I would have looked in the mirror, shrieked, and worn hats for the next three weeks. Now, I look in the mirror, shrug, and say, "Oh, well, it'll grow out."

     After the butchering, my mother and I went to good ol' Jim's coffeeshop for brunch. (Jim's is definitely the kind of place one would describe as "good ol'," without the "d." You get the picture.) I overheard snatches of conversation from a neighboring booth, between a waitress and her customer.

     Waitress: " ... go to their website ... listed by genre ... just click 'literature' ... yeah, Edgar Rice Burroughs? ... the whole series ... "

     Her customer was reading an obviously brand new hardbound book in dustjacket; the book was still stiff enough that he was obliged to hold it open with one hand while eating with the other. I wished I could see the book's title. One of the Tarzans, do you think?

     Somehow, this incident prompted me to think about what kind of book is most fitting, both physically and subject-wise, for airplane travel. Since I don't own an e-reader, the physical aspects of a book are important to me. Many years of plane trips have taught me that hardbound books don't fare well in a plane's environment; for some reason, the pressurized air in the plane's cabin causes the book's binding to warp. The longer the flight, the more severe the warpage. And it is very difficult to get the binding back to normal afterwards. Some people may not care about warpage, but I am not one of those people. So I opt for paperbacks when flying. As to subject matter, frankly I can't deal with anything too complex or intellectual. Light is best. Amusing definitely helps. Rereads are great, because they don't necessarily demand your full attention; they're "been there, done that."

     At the moment, I'm taking my sweet time reading Elizabeth Taylor's A Game of Hide and Seek.  This novel is considered by many to be her masterpiece, so I am savoring slowly. Besides, Taylor is not the kind of author one can skim through rapidly or casually; she requires respectful and thoughtful attention. If read too quickly, much of her subtlety, and much of the essential beauty of her craft, can fly right over your head, and you're left trying to hang on to plot—a vain attempt, that, since Taylor's novels have little plot. No, she forces you to sit back and savor, which I think is a very good thing in these hectic and stressful times.

     The other night, I watched the Richard Tucker Awards Gala on PBS. For the uninitiated, Richard Tucker was one of America's greatest operatic tenors. The prestigious annual competition in his name grants monetary career awards to singers "on the rise," and the Gala showcases the winners, past winners, and singers who are simply famous, in a concert of arias and scenes with the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. This year, the Gala concert was conducted by my former boss, Patrick Summers, and one of the featured singers is a graduate of the Houston Grand Opera Studio, Jamie Barton—so I felt obliged to watch. It was sort of amusing, because I found myself unfamiliar with several of the singers; not even their names rang a bell. Clearly, I've not been "keeping up." I am now very much out of the opera loop. Still, I loved hearing all that music, admiring most (not all) of the singing, and watching dear Patrick conduct. I miss him. Most importantly, I found myself listening to the singers without coaching them in my head! This is definitely progress!

     Well, those are all the scraps I have today. Maybe next time, I'll have a finished, cohesive quilt.

  

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?

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.

    

The Autumn of Four Elizabeths

     I have resolved. In order to make a significant dent in my TBR (To Be Read) pile, I will devote August and most of autumn to reading novels by my four favorite authors named Elizabeth: Elizabeth Taylor, Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth von Arnim, and Elizabeth Jenkins. All of them British, all of them 20th century, and all of them fabulous writers once unjustly neglected but now enjoying a well-deserved literary renaissance.

     Though I've read all four, I've not yet exhausted their works; of Elizabeth von Arnim's, it may be impossible to do so, as she was highly prolific, and many of her novels are long out of print and difficult to find (and, if found, the scarcer titles can be quite costly). But they are well worth the effort of tracking down and shelling out as much as one can. Her humor is such that I have been known to guffaw suddenly and loudly in genteel restaurants while reading her. Not all of her novels, however, are overtly funny; she's quite capable of being sober. Already read: The Enchanted April, Elizabeth and Her German Garden, Christopher and Columbus, Love, The Pastor's Wife, The Adventures of Elizabeth in Rügen. In my TBR pile: Mr Skeffington, Father, Christine, Fräulein Schmidt and Mr Anstruther. 

     Elizabeth Taylor seems to be the current rediscovered darling of the literati, at least in Britain, due to many recent reissues, a couple of film adaptations, and a recent biography by Nicola Beauman. She deserves whatever attention and readership she's getting, every bit. Fortunately, all of her novels and short stories are now widely and affordably available; so her deft, elegant, and economical prose, her perspicacity, as well as her subtle and welcome wit, may be enjoyed by all. Called by some a "domestic" writer, given her preference for ordinary characters in ordinary situations, the depth and quiet genius of her craft belies such an appellation. Already read: Palladian, The Soul of Kindness, A Wreath of Roses, A View of the Harbour, The Solitary Summer. In my TBR pile: The Sleeping Beauty, Angel, Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, The Wedding Group, At Mrs Lippincote's, A Game of Hide and Seek.

     Elizabeth Bowen is perhaps the only of the four who has never altogether vanished from the literary world's sight lines. I've always seen her books in stores, even Barnes and Noble and Borders. However, it's only very recently, thanks to rhapsodic reviews written by Rachel at Book Snob, that I've begun to wallow in her beautifully precise writing. The broad themes of change, disruption, and adaption, whether of environment, society, or the landscape of the heart, pervade her novels. Like Taylor, hers is a quiet genius, though her canvas stretches a bit wider. Already read: To the North, The Death of the Heart, The Hotel. In my TBR pile: The House in Paris, A World of Love, The Little Girls, Friends and Relations.

     Alas, there is not a lot of Elizabeth Jenkins to be had, fiction-wise. Her novel The Tortoise and the Hare, considered by many, including myself, to be a minor masterpiece, was one of the first titles the Virago Press reissued under their Modern Classics imprint. Again, it is a "domestic" novel, telling the story of a provincial wife who silently watches the slow but sure attachment grow between her husband and next-door neighbor. Having read this and Jenkins' excellent critical biography of Jane Austen with great pleasure and admiration, I'm eager to read the two books in my TBR pile: Brightness and A Silent Joy.

   This is not a book blog, so reviews of any of these books are unlikely to appear here. There are many bloggers who write excellent, informative reviews (see "Others' Perspectives" at left for just a few). I just thought I'd put the four Elizabeths out there for those of you who are looking for literary fiction that is beautifully written, and timeless despite being miniature portraits of their era.