A Bookish Survey

This A-Z survey apparently began life on The Perpetual Page-Turner, but I first saw it on Pretty Books. I thought it looked fun, though a couple of the questions are difficult for me to answer, as I don't read series, except in juvenile literature.


Author you've read the most books from: Probably Barbara Pym at 13. Close second, Emily Kimbrough at 11.
Best sequel ever: John Galsworthy's tryptich A Modern Comedy, which is the sequel to his tryptich The Forsyte Saga.
Currently reading: If the truth be known, I'm celebrating the imminent start of the school year by re-reading some Trixie Belden and Sue Barton books.
Drink of choice while reading: Iced water. After that, my "cocktail"—half ginger ale, half sparkling cherry-flavored water.
E-books or physical books: Do you even have to ask?
Fictional character you would have wanted to date in school: Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility. (Fictional character you would have actually dated: Probably Willoughby. I had a fondness for rakes.)
Glad you gave this book a chance: Hm. I'd have to say Little Women. I first tried it in 6th or 7th grade, thought it was boring, chucked it after a couple of chapters; then in 8th grade, my brother gave me the beautiful Tasha Tudor illustrated edition for Christmas, so I gave it another chance and wound up absolutely loving it.
Hidden gem book: Seventy-five percent of the books I read are "hidden" gems.
Important moment in your reading life: The very first complete sentence I remember being able to read—I was around five, I think—was from a Dana Girls mystery: "Louise Dana, a pretty, dark-haired girl of seventeen, paused in the doorway with an armful of paper novelties." I still remember the sentence, because your first is not easily forgotten.
Just finished: Trixie Belden and The Mysterious Visitor.
Kind of books you won't read: Well, I recently wrote a whole post about that. Sci-fi, adult mystery, crime, thriller, anything to do with vampires, and, as a general rule, best sellers.
Longest book you've read: Hmm, that would probably be Gone With the Wind. But Henry Handel Richardson's Maurice Guest was pretty long, too.
Major book hangover (lingers longest in the mind): Persuasion.
Number of bookcases you own: Can't really say, because most of my shelves are twelve-by-twelve- inch units that I've pushed together along one wall to form one longer unit. And I have miscellaneous shelves scattered round the house as well as actual cases.
One book you've read multiple times: Only one??? Seriously? There are about 100 or more books I read multiple times. And I really mean multiple.
Preferred place to read: At the dining table. That way I can have everything to hand that I need: drink, snack, Kleenex, a place to put my regular specs while I use my reading specs, a pencil just in case, my lap desk with the beanbag underside that I use to prop my book up higher so I won't get neck ache, my book weight to hold the pages open as it lies on the lap desk (this way, my hands are free to reach for drink or snack or pencil or Kleenex or whatever). I use a lot of accoutrements when I read.
Quote: I'm not sure if this means book-related quote or actual quote from a book. In any case, I can't think of one right now, and I'm too lazy to look one up.
Reading regret: At this very moment, my regret would be reading the blog where I saw this survey.

—You'll notice that as I get near the end of the alphabet, I tend to get a bit loopy.—

Series you started and need to finish: Well, I haven't read every Nancy Drew book ever written, and I probably never will. I generally only read the ones written pre-1960s.
Three all-time favorite books: Three??? Seriously? Take a look at my "Novels I Love" list at left.
Unapologetic fan of: That would be the aforesaid Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, Dana Girls, and Sue Barton books. They are my not-so-guilty pleasure.
Very excited for this release: Since I tend not to read newly published books, I will leave this unanswered.
Worst bookish habit: Trying to read too many things at once and not finishing any of them.
X marks the spot—start at the top left of a shelf and pick the 27th book: A Small Place in Italy by Eric Newby.
Your latest book purchase: Modern Saints, 2 vols., by Ann Ball
ZZZ-snatcher book (one that keeps you up at all hours): The last book I stayed up till the wee hours to finish was, I think, An Imaginary Experience by Mary Wesley. But that was years ago. Nowadays, if I read in bed, I fall asleep after fifteen minutes.

Done, done, and done! You know, it occurred to me that most of these could apply to a film survey .... No, don't go there.

Authors Readers Expect Me to Have Read that I Haven't Read

     Aaaand—that's the longest post title ever!

     The inspiration for this post came from The Broke and the Bookish, a blog that on Tuesdays posts a "Top Ten" list dealing with some bookish aspect or other.

     But anyway, here's my partial list of "classic" authors that are considered sort of de rigeur by the well-read set, but which I have never read. I may read a few of these in future, but some I don't really want to read at all because they're just not my "thing."

George Eliot
Leo Tolstoy
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Charles Dickens
Henry James
Harper Lee
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Ernest Hemingway
John Steinbeck
James Joyce
Mark Twain
Thomas Hardy
D. H. Lawrence
Nathaniel Hawthorne
William Thackeray
Henry Fielding
Gustave Flaubert

     Shocking, isn't it? Looking at this list, you may be wondering which authors I indeed have read! Suffice it to say, I've read many authors, but I tend to champion those less known or downright neglected (some of them are listed in my "Novels I Love" list at left). Which is why I love imprints such as Persephone and Virago, who reissue these forgotten treasures. If you aren't familiar with them, and you have a particular fondness for women authors of British persuasion, you really should check them out. Their books can easily be found on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Top Ten Words That Make Me NOT Pick Up a Book

Over at the popular book blog, The Broke and the Bookish, they do a Top Ten Tuesday series. I only just today discovered it through another blog; can't remember which. They encourage other bloggers to do these lists, so I thought I'd take them up on this one, and a couple of others in future.

Top Ten Words that Make Me Not Pick Up a Book

• Sci-fi: Just ain't into it.
• Horror: Ditto. Why on earth would I want to scare the bejeebuz out of myself?
• Crime: Get enough of it on the news, thank you. Oh—"crime" also includes mysteries. The only mysteries I'll read are of the Nancy Drew, The Dana Girls, and Trixie Belden ilk.
• Erotic/Erotica/Sex etc.: I admit, I used to be a huge fan of the TV series Sex and the City. But lately, I've just gotten genuinely fed up with the glamorization of casual sex, which has done nothing but objectify women (and men, for that matter), and the increasingly flippant attitude toward what is meant to be an act of love.
• Chick Lit: Maybe it's just that I'm not altogether sure what that term means. And maybe I just don't care enough to find out.
• Holocaust: Too sad, too horrible.
• Vampire: Just don't get it, and don't want to.
• Political: Again, I get enough of it on the news.
• Journey: In the psychological or biographical sense. A popular "buzz word" that has worn out its welcome at my door.
• Best-seller: Call me ornery, but if a book is on a best-seller list, I'm automatically turned off! I know, I know, I'm weird.  

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.

  

Just 'Cuz I Love It

"The Reader"
Emily Bobovnikoff



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

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.

    

Sometimes the Tortoise, Sometimes the Hare

     'Tis a paradox. Or, as the King would say in The King and I, "Is a puzzlement!"

     When I lived my incredibly busy life in Houston, I really had precious little time to read. True, on paper a typical work day at the opera was six hours, but "on paper" didn't include practice time, study, score work, or listening, all of which came with the job. Factor in meals and sleep, and I really did have precious little time to read. Factor in, as well, that I am not the world's fastest reader; I like to savor as I go along, linger over particularly striking passages. Yet I managed to read, on average, a book a week during production periods; outside production, I averaged two a week.

     If my life in Houston was allegro, my life now is andante tranquillo. Other than doctor's appointments (both mine and my mother's), twice-monthly grocery shopping, once-monthly mother/daughters lunches, weekly family gatherings, visits to the library every three weeks, and daily chores, I'm pretty much free to read as much and as often as I like. Yet I only manage to read, on average, one or two books a month. Some months, not even that.

     I do find myself turning to things that lend themselves to "dipping"—every day, I dip into literary essays (lots of those lately), writings of the Church fathers, scripture commentary, correspondence, poetry. Or I'll pick up a play, always a fast but engaging read. When I do read a novel, biography, or other extended work, I take my sweet time, and don't care that two weeks go by and I'm barely halfway through. In fact, I consider it the mark of a good writer if the book can sustain my interest that long.

     Every once in while, however, if for no other reason than change of pace, I can and will race through a book. I recently raced through Henry Handel Richardson's Maurice Guest, for instance; no mean feat, as it's about 567 pages of very tiny font; never mind that when I got to the end I was so pissed off I wanted to hurl the book across the room.

     Almost every day in Houston, I fervently longed for a quieter life in which I could read (and write, for that matter) to my heart's content. Now I have it. But instead of devouring one book after another as I thought I would, I find the tempo of my reading has matched the tempo of my life—as it did also in Houston. I find, too, that I now remember more of what I read, whereas in Houston, a book went in one eye and out the other before I could make more than a nodding acquaintance with it. I can remember from that period of my life which books I loved and which I merely liked, but I couldn't describe the plot of any of them. Sad thing, that. Fortunately, I always kept a record in my journal of the books I read, so I'll just have to re-read all of them. I have the time now.

Emily Who?

     I love travel writing and I love well-written humor. I found both in the books of Emily Kimbrough.

      Emily (I can't call her Ms Kimbrough; she's been one of my "kinsmen of the shelf" -- to quote another Emily -- for far too long) was born in Muncie, Indiana in 1899 and died in Manhattan in 1989. She is perhaps best known in the book lovers' world as having co-authored, with actress Cornelia Otis Skinner, the delightful 1942 memoir Our Hearts were Young and Gay, which recounts their misadventures as young women on their first trip abroad in the early '20s. I emitted many a guffaw when I first read it, and subsequent readings have been just as pleasurable. This popular book inspired a film (1944) starring Gail Russell and Diana Lynn, the screenplay of which Emily and Cornelia collaborated on with Sheridan Gibney. Emily also wrote the book's amusing sequel, We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood, relating Cornelia's and her experiences working on the film.

     It wasn't Our Hearts were Young and Gay, however, that introduced me to Emily; it was one of her later books, Pleasure by the Busload, which I stumbled upon during my very first visit to the legendary Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon. The book's dustjacket blurb described it as a humorous account of a Volkswagen van trip in Greece that Emily took with some friends, among whom was the renowned Greek concert pianist Gina Bachauer. Being a great fan of Bachauer, I was naturally intrigued and bought the book on the spot. It's been twelve years since I read it, and I only read it once; my memory being the rusty sieve it is, I can't recall details, but I do recall having loved it and being eager to find more of Emily's books, all of which are memoirs. You can imagine how pleased I was to find several of them together on the bottom shelf of the dimly lit back room of a dusty antiquarian bookshop in San Antonio. All the books were in good shape and still had their dustjackets. Some other titles I purchased online.

     Aside from the fact that I love travel writing, especially about Europe, the main appeal of Emily's books is Emily herself. Here is a middle-aged, very proper woman, portrayed in the books' cartoon-like line drawings with hair in a demure bun, taking these seemingly carefee trips with her friends but finding herself in one comical situation after another, and writing about them with such a winning combination of wit, wryness, self-deprecation, and obvious intelligence. Her writing style brings to mind a grammatically mindful school marm who unknowingly has a large portion of slip showing from beneath her skirt.

     Unfortunately, the only one of Emily's books in print today is Our Hearts were Young and Gay. However, most of them, because they were so widely read in their day, can easily be found through the internet. My favorite online source for buying used books is AddAll. It searches Abebooks, Alibris, Amazon, etc. and many independents (including Powell's), 24 in all.

Here is a list of Emily Kimbrough's titles:

Our Hearts were Young and Gay (with Cornelia Otis Skinner)
Forty Plus and Fancy Free - Italy and England, including Queen Elizabeth's coronation
Floating Island - a barge trip on the canals in France
So Near and Yet So Far - New Orleans
We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood
How Dear to My Heart
Now and Then
Time Enough - a barge trip on the river Shannon
Forever Old, Forever New
It Gives Me Great Pleasure - her experiences as a public speaker
Water, Water Everywhere - Aegean Islands, Yugoslavia, Paris, London
Pleasure by the Busload
The Innocents from Indiana
Through Charley's Door - her first job, at the original Marshall Field's
Better than Oceans
And a Right Good Crew - a barge trip on England's canals

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.

A Picture vs. a Thousand Words

     I've read several articles and blogs about successful blogging, or, more specifically, how to get people to read and keep reading your blog. Inevitably, these articles include a list of "do"s  and the first thing on the list is usually "Post lots of pictures to capture the readers' interest." As you can see, I have "adorned" my blog with several pieces of artwork, and do sometimes include photos in my posts, when appropriate. Nevertheless, for some reason, I find the suggestion of using photos to lure readers vaguely insulting to the intelligence and sophistication of readers in general, and it has made me think about what captures my own interest when viewing a blog new to me, as well as what sustains it in the blogs I already follow. Contrary to the suggestion, I'm initially captured by the title of the current post. Usually I see the link somewhere on Twitter or Facebook, or more often on the blogrolls of other blogs. When I open the link, I immediately read the text. If there's a picture, I only give it a cursory glance. If it is a book review, I couldn't care less about seeing a photo of the blogger's copy, unless his/her copy is an aesthetically interesting vintage edition with a stunning dust jacket, or is one of those beautifully designed paperback reissues with a good piece of art on the cover. After all, I don't miss photos of books in The New York Review of Books or The Times Literary Supplement. I care about the review. Travel posts, of course, and blogs that are meant to be family journals, need illustrative photos, in which case I appreciate them very much: for example, Thomas' photos of his recent car trip in England made me fairly salivate with envy. A friend of mine writes a blog for her children about their ancestors; old photographs of those ancestors are both essential to her purpose and enjoyable for her non-family readers.

     I suppose (at least, I hope) what attracts someone to read or not to read something largely depends on his surroundings and situation. When sitting in doctors' waiting rooms, for instance, one can't help surreptitiously observing the other patients, particularly if one is interested in human behavior, as I am. I have observed that fewer patients these days pick up the magazines put in the waiting room for their benefit; they would rather pass the time doing mysterious things with their cell phones. Those who do read magazines, and these are mostly older women, tend to choose publications that abound in photographs, such as Architectural Digest or other interior design magazines. Perhaps a long, involved article isn't the kind of light diversion needed while waiting to see the doctor. And perhaps the people playing with their cell phones are doing the same sort of superficial browsing, for the same reason. In this situation, concentration tends to be elusive; even a routine teeth cleaning has my mind anticipating the discomfort of having my gums violated by a sharp metal object; the literary merits of my favorite authors are wasted in these circumstances. Pictures are therefore welcome.

     In the privacy and relative leisure of my own home, however, when I choose something to read, I choose it for the subject and the excellence of the writing. That includes blogs. Anyway, there's now Pinterest for people who prefer lots of visual stimulation, and there's certainly nothing wrong with visual stimulation; I by no means mean to demean it (yes, I did mean to write "mean" three times, er, five times). Maybe I'm just a tiny bit indignant at the suggestion that pictures are essential to pleasurable and beneficial reading. Hmph.

In the Summertime. . . !

     Dancing to this song in the privacy of my living room is about all the physical activity I can stand when the daily temperature rises above 90F.

     Once Memorial Day passes, I always feel a little restless twinge inside that warns me of long, hot, drowsy days ahead, dog days, days when the Texas humidity feels like a giant blanket round your shoulders. You get all your chores done, run all the necessary errands, as early in the day as possible to avoid going out once the sun has passed the mid-sky mark. After the morning get-it-done frenzy, all you want to do is loll in an air-conditioned space and read. At least, that's how the afternoon heat affects me.

     So it's time to plan my summer reading! Or rather, rereading. Summer simply screams for rereading old favorites. Let's see ... will it be kiddy lit? Travel narratives? Or novels?

     Leticia the Eternal Kid would choose to chase hardened criminals with Nancy Drew or hang out at the hospital with Sue Barton and her fellow nursing chums, or maybe romp around the prairie with Laura Ingalls in the "Little House" books. And there's also the Betsy-Tacy series, which she's only read once and loved -- she'd probably skip the first four books, though, and go straight to when Betsy and Tacy are in high school. Or maybe she'd reread a few of the "shoe books" by Noel Streatfeild (you know: Ballet Shoes, Dancing Shoes, Theatre Shoes, etc.), although she remembers that if you've read one, you've read them all, because they all have the same basic plot: young girl shows real talent and promise in some performing art or other, has some success, becomes a pain-in-the-neck diva, because of which she loses a big opportunity to some other girl, who likewise enjoys a big success, so the first girl learns the valuable lesson that "the business" doesn't revolve around her and there's always someone to replace her.

     Leticia the Armchair Traveler would perhaps reread some of the highly entertaining (if outdated, travel-wise) narratives by Emily Kimbrough, that proper middle-aged lady who loved planning and taking trips (and getting into less-than-dignified scrapes) with her friends, many of whom were well-known theater and film people of the 30's, 40's and 50's. In fact, Leticia the Armchair Traveler would probably start at the beginning with the side-splittingly funny Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, which Miss Kimbrough co-wrote with her friend, the stage star Cornelia Otis Skinner, and which recounts their first trip to Europe together as young girls in the 1920's. Leticia would then follow up with We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood, the equally funny story of how the Misses Kimbrough and Skinner helped write the screenplay for the film adaptation of Our Hearts. But then, any of Miss Kimbrough's many books are great summer reading, if one is a lover of travel, humor, and nostalgia.

     Leticia the Lit Lover would most probably choose to reread her beloved Barbara Pym, which she does every two or three years. She'd first of all whiz through Pym's best-known and most popular novel, Excellent Women and once more sink into the warm, soothing bath of Pym's prose, which combines sharp intelligence, wit, and tongue-in-cheek perspicacity. She'd reacquaint herself with Pym's small but delightful world of professors, anthropologists, clergymen, and the spinsters who love them. After that, there are twelve more Pyms from which to choose, almost all of them gems.

     Two more novels Leticia the Lit Lover would consider rereading: A. S. Byatt's Possession and Rumer Godden's In This House of Brede.

     Or ... maybe Leticia the Lazy Loller will wade her way through them all! It's highly likely.

     

Working Through Pain

"We read to know we're not alone." That's a line from the 1993 film Shadowlands, which starred Anthony Hopkins as the writer C. S. Lewis. Lewis didn't come up with that line; it was one of his students, who in turn was quoting his father. But those words hit a nerve with Lewis in the film, and they hit a nerve with me. When I first heard them, I realized that, besides my love of good writing, one of the main reasons I read is unconditional companionship. Another is validation.

There was a time, during my years in Houston, I went through a prolonged depression of a kind I had never before experienced and have never again since. Although well aware of what had triggered it, I was at rather a loss as to how to pull myself out of it, other than writing a good deal in my journal. Mind you, this was all prior to my religious "reversion," so I really did feel alone despite my good friends. Comes a point when you no longer want to prevail upon your friends' sympathy for fear of wearing it thin.

On the worst days, I found myself getting in my car and sitting there for long minutes, wondering where I wanted to go. Sometimes I wound up going to a music store, where I'd spend an hour perusing the racks of CDs, picking up around ten or so, only to put them all back and leave the store as empty-handed as I entered. More often than not, I went to a bookstore. I would weave in and out of the stacks of fiction and biography (for some reason, I've always spurned so-called "self help" books), trying to find a story similar to my own, so that I would know I wasn't alone. I did find something once in a while that had elements similar to my experience, which helped—sometimes I'd be comforted; other times, I'd end up actually laughing at myself. If it were fiction, it interested me to see how the author treated the particular situation I identified with, how he depicted the character, whether or not I thought he "got it right." If it were a biography, a diary, or correspondence, I of course felt a stronger connection, it being someone else's true life experience. Either way, books provided the companionship and validation I so badly needed.

In the film, however, Lewis comes to realize that reading is not experience. Reading can't teach you what experience can teach you. Most importantly, he discovers that, in substituting reading for experience, he was subconsciously avoiding the inevitable pain that experience can sometimes bring. In the end, his own words come back to him: "Pain is God's megaphone to rouse a deaf world." So he decides to open his heart to experience, and to the healing power of pain.

It wasn't long after that period of depression that I rediscovered my faith. God is a patient suitor; he waits until you're ready before he endows you with that precious gift. There was indeed much pain to work through. Maybe he knew, given my love of words, that I had to read about it first before I was able to face and experience it truthfully in myself.

My "Friendship" with Barbara Pym

     For every passionate reader, there are certain authors he or she turns to again and again for the simple reason that reading them is like a cozy get-together with old friends. For me, one of those authors is Barbara Pym. Every couple of years, I re-read some of her novels to cleanse my reading palate and wash off the literary excess accumulated from reading more verbose writers. Her ability to paint a vivid character portrait with a single phrase, the humor that sneaks up on you and tweaks your most ticklish spot, and her uncanny gift for moving you unexpectedly with a strangely detached yet penetrating pathos -- these are the qualities I cherish in her writing. The fact that she was English and wrote the most "English" of all twentieth-century English novels further endears her to this unabashed Anglophile. Whenever I discuss her with an Englishman, his first comment is, "She's very English." To which I reply, "Yes, that's one of the reasons I like her so much."
     It was my love for Jane Austen, to whom she is often likened, that first prompted me to seek out Pym. I ran out of Jane and needed to find more of her ilk. Oddly, the first time I read Pym, I didn't care for her and couldn't even finish the novel, which was An Academic Question. In retrospect, I think that was the wrong novel to start with, it being one of her posthumously published novels that she never got around to revising herself. (Hazel Holt prepared the manuscript for publication.) I decided to give Barbara another chance a few years later, happily with Excellent Women, her most widely-read title and considered by many to be her best. I was hooked for life. Lesson learned -- when embarking on a writer who is new to you, always do a little research first, to find out which is his/her most popular and/or acclaimed work. No point in trusting your own judgment and risking a less than impressive first impression.
     Unfortunately, since she is dead, there will most probably be no more new Pym for me to delight in, though I understand there is still unpublished material lying around. After devouring all her novels, plus A Very Private Eye (diaries and letters), A Lot to Ask (Holt's biography), and many critical writings on her work, I scouted around for similar authors ("similar" according to reviewers and dust jacket blurbs): Anita Brookner (too relentlessly sober), Elizabeth Bowen (too dense with sensibility), Muriel Spark (too barbed and quirky), Elizabeth Taylor (closer, but still too far), and others. (With the exception of Spark, I do very much like these authors for their own particular merits, and read them regularly.) I came to the conclusion that no one quite matches Pym's unique blend of gentle/wry/subtly bawdy humor, her detached/penetrating perspicacity, and that dead-on-target verbal economy which is the hallmark of a truly gifted writer. So I will content myself with re-readings every couple of years. After all, I don't see even my very best friends more often than that, so each reunion is truly a time to treasure. Why should Barbara be any different?

A History of Reading

     If I had to characterize my family with one word, it would be "readers." We are all of us passionate about the written word, and not a family meal or gathering goes by without some discussion about literature and heated opinions on film adaptations of our favorite books. Although our individual tastes in authors and genres differ somewhat, they find a solid common ground in the works of Jane Austen, a taste which was cultivated long before Colin Firth's Darcy, Emma Thompson's Elinor, and the Jane Mania which those now beloved portrayals ignited.
     One of my earliest memories is of a book my sister Celia made for me before I began school -- it was an alphabet book with drawings of various things that began with each of the letters. With that simple tool, she taught me to read. I remember one particular day not long after, when I opened one of her "Dana Girls" mysteries and found to my delight that I could read it! I was so excited, I ran to her, flourishing the book and panting: "Listen, listen! -- 'Louise Dana, a pretty, dark-haired girl of seventeen, paused in the doorway with an armful of paper novelties.'" (Have any of us voracious readers ever forgotten the first real sentence we were able to read?) From that day, a whole world of adventure, romance, humor, and sorrow opened up before my eager eyes. It was somewhat of a damper when I did begin going to school and found that I had to revert to "See Tip run. Run, Tip, run."
     If the school year was spent reading the chronicles of such fascinating personages as Dick and Jane and their little dog Tip, my parents provided more than a compromise. Every Sunday after church during our summer vacations, they took my siblings and me to the library on post (we were living in Ft. Sam Houston). We were each allowed to check out five books for the week, of any genre and author that appealed to us, and we were encouraged to read them all before the next Sunday. Admittedly, I didn't always manage to finish my five, but I gave it a good shot, and zipped through the "B is for Betsy" series, Beezus and Romona, the "Little House" books, and other juvenile fiction including one of my very favorites, They Loved to Laugh by Katherine Worth. After starting piano lessons, I broadened my reading list with lives of the composers.
     While Celia was the one who taught me to read, it was my brother George who sparked my interest in the actual physicality of books -- the quality of the binding, the art of illustration, fine editions. Every Christmas he gave me a treasure. One was Alice's Adventures under Ground in a facsimile edition of Carroll's handwritten manuscript; others were first issues of the famous and beloved Tasha Tudor-illustrated editions of The Secret Garden and Little Women; he also gave me my first Jane Austen -- Pride and Prejudice -- in the Collins dark blue leatherette binding, which is my favorite edition of Jane's books. These trophies grace my shelves to this day, though I have since purchased other editions of the same titles. (I have never believed in having just one copy of any favorite!)
     I am forever grateful that I come from a family that places such importance on reading, which I truly believe is the bedrock of education. Before you place a child in front of a computer, put a real book in his hands. You will have given him one of the greatest gifts ever to be had in life.