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A Diller, A Dollar

A Diller, A Dollar

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When my children were young, I used to read them this Mother Goose rhyme:

 “A diller, a dollar, a 10 o’clock scholar. What makes you come so soon? You used to come at 10 o’clock, and now you come at noon.”

I feel like this blog is becoming the 10 o’clock scholar — if I hurry, that is. If I don’t, it will be the 11 o’clock scholar. 

The non 9-to-5 world, of which I have recently become a member, is good for leisurely mornings. Which is not to say I don’t have plenty of to-dos. It’s just that they can less hurriedly be to-done.

(These ducks don’t seem to be in much of a hurry either.)

Walking and Belonging

Walking and Belonging

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In his book The Walker: On Finding and Losing Yourself in the Modern City, Matthew Beaumont describes walking as s socially and psychologically meaningful activity.  Authors make cities seem new and strange when they wander through them on foot. And they have their characters do the same.

So just as Charles Dickens ambled along the lanes of Victorian London, so too do some of his characters, including Mr. Humphreys of The Old Curiosity Shop.  Apparently, Dickens walked for the same reason many of us do: to calm himself down, to ease tensions. 

Beaumont examines city walking in the work of Edward Bellamy (Looking Backward), H.G. Wells (The Invisible Man) and others, illuminating both the texts and the walking in the process.

 I take issues with one of Beaumont’s major points, though, which is to see walking as a symbol and a symptom of not belonging: the solitary nighttime stroller at odds with the world he lives in (and it often is a “he” since women’s nocturnal walking opportunities are more limited than men’s). 

From my suburban vantage point, walking is an activity that encourages belonging because it engenders understanding. How can we care about a place that we do not know, and how can we know a place that we never see … except as it streams by outside our car windows?

Gallimaufry

Gallimaufry

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I picked up the book because I know the author and enjoy reading his work.  The title bewildered me until I looked inside and saw this definition: “Gallimaufry: a confused jumble or medley of things.” 

Joseph Epstein’s latest collection is all of that. There are essays on baseball (“Diamonds are Forever”), Julius Caesar (“Big Julie”) and the author’s defense of the Comic Sans font. Reading this plump and happy book is like devouring a hot fudge sundae smothered with whipped cream. It’s fun and filling and a bit of a guilty pleasure (the latter because Epstein recently angered the PC police).

I read Epstein because he’s brilliant; because he’s a dinosaur, an essayist in the model of Orwell, Hazlitt or Montaigne; and also because he was my teacher long ago. Our first assignment was to come up with our favorite word. Mine was “rhapsody,” which captured a moment in my youth when I was young and romantic and could still play the Brahms pieces known by that name. His was “deliquesce,” which means to melt away but which he admired, he said, because it contained the word “deli.”

Which brings me to the humor and low-key erudition in his work. Epstein, for all his knowledge, does not flaunt it. He’s clear,  cogent and refreshingly honest. He makes me remember what it was like to read and write before the age of Great Divisions. 

All of which is to say I’m enjoying Gallimaufry immensely. Maybe by the time I’ve finished reading it I will have learned how to spell it. 

Empty Shelves

Empty Shelves

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The shelves that were emptied for the great floor rebuild are finally back in place and ready to be filled.  We hauled them in from the garage, where they were lashed together for stability, and installed them in their rightful position.  

Now that they are dusted and polished, I’m wondering … should I return the books that have always been there, the battered paperback classics in the upper reaches, reference books and anthologies in the middle, rows of magazines on the lower shelf?

I can certainly pull together a better-looking group of printed matter, if this is all about aesthetics — but of course it is not. It’s about order and reverence and to a certain embarrassing extent, laziness. I’m used to books being where they are: do I really want to rearrange them? 

On the other hand, the empty shelves stand open for change and rearrangement. Can I really let them down?

Framing

Framing

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In class we talk about the “death” of the author which makes room for the “birth” of the reader, of interpretive communities that shape our understanding of literary works, and of the “indeterminacy” or gaps in meaning that allow for an aesthetic response. 

That last one seems like the loft and lightness of a shook comforter, the air pockets that provide fullness to linens and literature. 

It’s fun to think about. Just as it’s fun to think about framing, the narration of a tale that makes it what it is. Here I am, walking down a trail, pausing to snap a shot, my shadow in the photo. Life mirroring art … or something like that. 

Thank you, Mr. Epstein

Thank you, Mr. Epstein

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I read recently of the passing of Jason Epstein, an editor and publisher who launched the paperback revolution. When he was 23, earning $45 a week and just scraping by in the publishing trade (I can relate!), he proposed to the higher-ups at Doubleday that they publish the classics in soft rather than hardcover. 

His bosses listened, and Doubleday came out with Anchor books, which provided the works of  Lawrence, Stendhal and other greats for as little as 65 cents a title. Epstein edited Roth, Mailer and Auden, and helped found the New York Review of Books, but it’s the paperback idea he’s known for most.

Before the early 1950s, paperbacks were reserved for “lowbrow, escapist fiction,” the obit said, so this was a novel idea. And it worked! The new line sold briskly, and what became known as trade paperbacks quickly became a profitable arm of the publishing business, much beloved of students and others who wanted a library of classics but couldn’t afford the hardback versions.

So now when I’m moving yet another box of books or cramming one more paperback onto an already-crowded shelf, I’ll say, with only the slightest hint of irony, “Thank you, Mr. Epstein.”

Viva Italia!

Viva Italia!

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Like many people these days I find myself relying on streaming entertainment more heavily than I would like. This has become a winter-time occupation, slowly supplanting my race to watch Oscar-bound films in theaters since so many of them are available online.

As we enter our third year of pandemic-enforced staying-put, I’m gravitating toward films that feature faraway climes. Films like “Under the Tuscan Sun.” I read this book years ago, even own a copy of it. I happened upon the movie a couple days ago, looking for something to watch while exercising in the basement. 

What a vision! I don’t mean the sexy Italian guys … I mean the gorgeous Tuscan countryside. There is the walled city of Cortona, the Amalfi Coast marvel of Positano. There are the tall, skinny Italian Cyprus trees, the olive groves, fountains and love of life that flourish in this sunny land.

Oh, I know there are gray days in Italy, too. It’s not the garden of eden. But right now it looks like it to me. 

Photos: courtesy Wikipedia, alas I have no recent Italy photos of my own

Farewell to Eternity

Farewell to Eternity

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The reasons we read a particular book are as various as the books themselves, but there are some general trends: a friend recommends it, the book group schedules it, we’ve read a good review of it and — my new excuse — the professor puts it on the syllabus. 

The reasons we give up on books are also legion: it doesn’t live up to the recommendation, it’s wicked long, the topic is arcane, the reviewers were wrong. Sometimes a book simply doesn’t fit into the time I have to read it, though truth to tell that seldom happens. In fact, I don’t give up on a book lightly. 

But when I find myself on page 80 of an 800-page novel, when I recall the rather flimsy reasons for picking it up — a friend told me decades ago that she enjoyed it and memoirist Willie Morris speaks fondly of the author, James Jones — and when I realize that I’m already on the line for reading I might not enjoy for the class that’s starting next week … well, then I give myself permission to put it aside. And so, farewell to From Here to Eternity. 

Flash Gratitude

Flash Gratitude

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I have in my temporary possession a book called The Best of Brevity. It’s a compilation of short essays from the journal Brevity, which features flash nonfiction. 

The genre of flash nonfiction is relatively new to me, although I write it everyday. It is the true-to-life equivalent of flash fiction. part of a trend — probably long since peaked if I’m catching onto it — toward the brief, the ephemeral, the transitory. 

Let me add to this canon with what I’ve come to think of as flash gratitude. 

Flash gratitude is the sudden, piercing awareness of life’s blessings. Stubbing one’s toe and thinking … at least I have a toe to stub. Or hearing the gentle purr of forced-air heat and giving thanks for the warm home I sit in as a result. 

I had a moment of flash gratitude yesterday when I heard about fellow Virginians trapped for 18 to 20 hours on an impassable I-95. They were cold, hungry, frightened and, most likely, angry. They were bearing the brunt of the snow storm in a real and all-too-personal way. 

Let this be a gratitude trigger, I told myself. Whenever life looks bleak and purposeless, I will conjure up those poor souls trapped in their Kias or Toyotas or Hondas or Fords, those poor shivering drivers and passengers, and my heart will nearly burst with joy that I am anywhere else but on a snow-packed, jack-knifed-tractor-filled I-95. 

(This snow has its beauteous moments, too.)

Doing the Reading

Doing the Reading

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Finding the balance point for this new phase of life is not going to be an exact science, I can already tell. I crave big blocks of time but am also terrified by them. I tremble at not having enough to do, then compensate by piling on too much.

For instance, I continue to try and do all the reading for class, even though it can be an insane amount. Last night, for instance, I realized that there’s an entire book we’re supposed to read for today.

In my mind are the words of my children. “Mom, you don’t have to do all the reading.” Wise words from people who, as I recall, were taught that they should do all the reading. 

But as with so much of life, relationships shift, patterns change, wisdom develops. 

And tonight, I will go to class at least slightly … unprepared.