Dolce Bellezza

Improving the Value of Reviews

2013-05-21T14:24:00.002-05:00

photo credit here

I've had the most interesting series of emails with a representative from a publishing house in Japan. In the process of putting together the pieces for the Japanese Literature Challenge 7, I was contacted to see of there was some literature I'd like to read and review for the challenge. I eagerly accepted, and after scanning the catalog, I requested four books.

In reply, I was told "I am providing you with review copies of these four books free of charge, on the understanding that you may choose to review them. There are no strings of any kind attached, and obviously you may choose to give them all terrible reviews."

To which I responded, "I never give a bad review; if I do not like something I've read, I simply choose not to review it at all on my blog."

Now here is the thought-provoking answer, "You should consider giving bad reviews, too… it would improve the value of your reviews, I think. If you get a reputation as a reviewer who never writes bad things, then the implication is that you think everything is good. Which is certainly not the case…"

Bam! Out of the sensitive side of me, the side that never wants to be harsh, or hurt anyone's feelings, or lack an acknowledgement of the hard work put into writing a novel, I have chosen to 'ignore' literature which doesn't move me. But, now it occurs to me that I am not being a thorough reviewer on my blog.

When a child in my class makes an error, answers something incorrectly, or doesn't produce quality work, I gently point out what does not meet excellence. Yet I have not critiqued literature with such an imperious eye. Perhaps I feel unqualified as a professional reviewer, though I have never professed to be one.

No, the only ground on which I stand in writing about books is the ground of my life as a bibliophile. All I have to offer is my opinion as a reader, one who has read literally thousands of books, in many diverse genres, over the decades of my life. But now that opinion will include books which I find lacking as well as those I find excellent. Agreed?

Swann's Way by Marcel Proust

2013-05-15T01:00:00.000-05:00

It seems rather presumptuous of me to write about Proust’s Swann’s Way in a few paragraphs when it takes him four pages to describe waiting for his mother’s goodnight kiss. Or, the lushness of the hawthorn blossoms. Or, the shades of colour found in a bunch of asparagus, or the way the afternoon sunlight cast its gaze upon his Aunt Leonie’s lemon wood furniture. But all of this was in the first part of this novel, entitled Combray. For that is when he reminisces about being a child, leaving Paris for the country, and describes for us in such great detail the peaceful way of life he encounters there that it makes me remember a similar simplicity from my own youth.

How well I remember trying to find hiding places in which to read:

"But my grandmother, even if the weather, after growing too hot, had broken, and a storm, or just a shower, had burst over us, would come up and beg me to go outside. And as I did not wish to leave off my book, I would go on with it in the garden, under the chestnut-tree, in a little sentry-box of canvas and matting. In the farthest recesses of which I used to sit and feel that I was hidden from the eyes of anyone who might be coming to call upon my family."

Or picnics my mother had prepared for us:

"It was time for us to feed. Before starting homewards we would sit for a long time there, eating fruit and bread and chocolate, on the grass over which came to our ears, horizontal, faint but solid still and metallic, the sound of the bells of Saint-Hillaire, which had melted not at all in the atmosphere it was so well accustomed to traverse, but broken piecemeal by the successive palpitation of all their sonorous strokes, throbbed as it brushed the flowers at our feet."

Rather abruptly, as Combray ends, we then find ourselves immersed in Swann in Love, which details Swann’s relationship with Odette. She is neither bright nor sophisticated; she does not even attract him very much at all when they first meet at the banal gatherings of the ‘faithful’ held in the Verdurin’s home. What is it, then, that makes Swann fall in love with her? The possibility that she might not be there, of course, and missing her one evening when he actually arrives and she is gone.

"As a matter of fact, she had never given him a thought. And such moments as these, in which she forgot Swann's very existence, were of more value to Odette, did more to attach him to her, than all her infidelities. For in this way Swann was kept in that state of painful agitation which had once before been effective in making his interest blossom into love, on the night when he had failed to find Odette at the Verdurins' and had hunted for her all evening. And he did not have (as I had, afterwards, at Combray in my childhood) happy days in which to forget the suffering that would return with the night."

How tragic it was, to me, to learn that though he longed "to escape not so much from the keenness of his sufferings as from the monotony of his struggle" concerning Odette, he did in fact make her his wife. We discover this unhappy fact in the final portion of the book, which comes back to our young narrator and the affection he feels for Swann's daughter, Gilberte. It is, perhaps like her mother's lack of affection for Swann, a one-sided relationship. All the times that he plans to meet her at the park, hoping that she will arrive when he is there, or saving a special marble which reminds him of her eyes, are for naught. She cares for him with nothing more than a simple friendship.

Proust ends his first volume of the Remembrance of Things Past with rather melancholy thoughts, ones which often echo my own. It is easy for us romantics to look at the past as if it was better than the present. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it isn't. Regardless, we cannot go back. We can remember with great fondness the days of our youth, accompanied by our hopes. But we must bravely face the future, for those days gone by are only the thinnest slice of our long lives.

"The reality that I had known no longer existed. It sufficed that Mme Swann did not appear, in the same attire and at the same moment, for the whole avenue to be altered. The places that we have known belong not only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the continuous impressions that composed our life at that time, remembrance of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive alas! as the years."

Proust’s recollections cause me to reflect on my own life in the same manner, and I found myself slowing down my thoughts to match the pace of his narrator.

It was a lovely feeling.

(Inspired to read with Arti of Ripple Effects at her suggestion; her latest post is here.)

Mailbox Monday

2013-05-12T20:26:00.000-05:00

Into my mailbox, over the past few weeks, have come the following books:

Swimming to Elba by Silvia Avallone:

"A sensually charged novel about two girls growing up fast in a failing industrial town on the coast of Italy...In this poetic, prizewinning debut, Silvia Avallone captures the lost innocence of a generation. Harrowing yet ultimately redemptive, Swimming to Elba is a story about the power of friendship, and the way that family, friendship, and economics shape our world."

What Dies in Summer by Tom Wright:

A riveting Southern Gothic coming-of-age debut by major new talent.

“I did what I did, and that’s on me.” From that tantalizing first sentence, Tom Wright sweeps us up in a tale of lost innocence. Jim has a touch of the Sight. It’s nothing too spooky and generally useless, at least until the summer his cousin L.A. moves in with him and their grandmother. When Jim and L.A. discover the body of a girl, brutally raped and murdered in a field, an investigation begins that will put both their lives in danger. In the spirit of The Lovely Bones and The Little Friend, What Dies in Summer is a novel that casts its spell on the very first page and leaves an indelible mark.

Billy and Me by Giovanna Fletcher:

"Billy and Me is a gorgeously romantic debut novel about the redemptive power of love by actress, journalist and blogger Giovanna Fletcher."

Looking for Me by Beth Hoffman:

"In Looking for Me, bestselling author Beth Hoffman brings forth an evocative, multilayered story that moves between the charms of Charleston and Kentucky’s woodlands while exposing the fragile wounds and strengths of a woman who comes to understand the words once written in a simple note and the remarkable boy who penned them."

The Time Between by Karen White:

New York Times bestselling author Karen White delivers a novel of two generations of sisters and secrets set in the stunning South Carolina Lowcountry.

Now you know what I'll be reading in between my choices for the Japanese Literature Challenge 7 coming this June! Mailbox Monday is hosted in May by Abi at 4 The Love of Books.

What Can You Tell Me About Tumblr?

2013-05-08T10:19:00.003-05:00

I've been playing around on Tumblr for quite some time now, and I'm interested in what I see. But, I have a few questions...

How do people leave comments unless the author of the blog installs Disqus?

Is it mostly about reblogging from other posts you like?

Do you have any experience, or any opinions, to share about Tumblr?

I'd love to know!

The Detour by Gerbrand Bakker

2013-05-05T08:29:00.001-05:00

Ample make this bed.
Make this bed with awe;

In it wait till judgment break

Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight,

Be its pillow round;

Let no sunrise' yellow noise

Interrupt this ground.

~Emily Dickinson

With this poem as its foundation, Gerbrand Bakker writes the most piercing novel I have read all year. It unfolds slowly slowly slowly before us as he teases out the reason why Emilie has come to Wales, to live in a thatched cottage once inhabited by old Mrs. Evans, and dwell there with the white geese who gradually are reduced to only four.

Halfway through the novel a boy with black curly hair, and a great dog named Sam, join her. The boy cooks for her, and fixes up the garden, and refuses to leave each time she asks him. He doesn't inquire about the way her lucidity slips away from time to time, nor about the strips of pills from which she gradually presses more than one to ease her pain. He simply stays with her resolutely.

Far away in Amsterdam, Emilie's husband decides to look for her. He meets with her parents, he hires a detective, and eventually he sends a card which simply says her name, and his, with the words "I'm coming" in between.

I chose to read this book because it was short listed for the IFFP; I feel no need to read any of the other contenders. It is so completely satisfying, so beautifully told, so multi-layered and rich in meaning that I am hoping already it is declared the winner.

Find more thoughts here and here and here.

A Few Hints About the Japanese Literature Challenge 7 Coming This June

2013-05-04T19:40:00.001-05:00

Earlier this week Tony inquired as to when we might expect the next Japanese Literature Challenge. I only run the challenge from June until January because I feel it's nice to take a break and build enthusiasm for beginning again. But, the minute he asked I felt my thoughts start whirling in preparation. I have built the Japanese Literature Challenge 7 review site, as yet undisclosed, but I will give you a hint about the button for this year. It is a piece of artwork from Aki Sogabe, who makes beautiful pictures with kiri-e, the art of paper cutting.

Aki Sogabe working on her art.

For now take a look at some of her pictures I especially like:

Cat Nap, Moon Has Risen, Sunset and Cormorants

The piece I have chosen comes from an illusturation she did in a children's book, and it depicts one of my favorite themes: camping in the woods on a moonlit night. Taking an illustration from a children's book made me think of creating more structure for our reading. Until now, I have left it very open: choose at least one piece of Japanese literature to read and review.

But, this year I am going to have a monthly theme. It is not a required theme, of course, but an optional umbrella under which you can organize your reading if you so choose. Why not begin June with reading Japanese children's literature? It is a delightful entree into the genre, and might be just the kind of thing to spark the interest of someone hesitant to try Japanese literature. I set before you the following titles:

Grandfather's Journey by Allen Say: "A picture book masterpiece from Caldecott medal winner Allen Say...Lyrical, breathtaking, splendid—words used to describe Allen Say’s Grandfather’s Journey when it was first published. At once deeply personal yet expressing universally held emotions, this tale of one man’s love for two countries and his constant desire to be in both places captured readers’ attention and hearts." ~Barnes and Noble

Sadako and The Thousand Paper Cranes: "Hiroshima-born Sadako is lively and athletic--the star of her school's running team. And then the dizzy spells start. Soon gravely ill with leukemia, the "atom bomb disease," Sadako faces her future with spirit and bravery. Recalling a Japanese legend, Sadako sets to work folding paper cranes. For the legend holds that if a sick person folds one thousand cranes, the gods will grant her wish and make her healthy again. Based on a true story, Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes celebrates the extraordinary courage that made one young woman a heroine in Japan." ~goodreads

Crow Boy: "A shy mountain boy in Japan leaves his home at dawn and returns at sunset to go to the village school. Pictures and text of moving and harmonious simplicity". ~Saturday Review

These are three of my favorite Japanese children's books, and only serve as a starting point should you wish to read in this category. For now, I hope to have whetted your appetite for Japanese literature and the Japanese Literature Challenge 7 to come. I promise to have exciting themes, occasional prizes, guest posts, and an enormous list of titles from which you can choose. Please consider joining us this June.

National Day of Prayer

2013-05-02T08:52:00.001-05:00

"Our theme for 2013 is Pray for America, emphasizing the need for individuals, corporately and individually, to place their faith in the unfailing character of their Creator, who is sovereign over all governments, authorities, and men. To further highlight our theme, we’ve chosen Matthew 12:21 as our Scripture for this year: “In His name the nations will put their hope."

Seven teachers and I met in my classroom this morning for the National Day of Prayer. Of course it had to be before school hours, but how lovely to gather as a group and lift our nation, our school, our hearts up to the Lord.

It's such an important day to remember that we are one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and just for all.

Dolce Bellezza Turns Seven

2013-05-01T20:30:00.001-05:00

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings."

~from Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

I never thought I'd see this blog turn seven. In May of 2006, I was thrilled to discover that I could put my words on something bigger than paper which all the world could see. Then I learned how to embellish my posts with pictures. And then I saw that people commented, and whole conversations were taking place Chez Bellezza. I've told you before how my mother said it's the perfect avenue for me; I don't have to be socially involved any more, or any less, than I care to be.

Yet I have been involved less. "Less" seems to be the way that I am feeling these days with my son in San Diego getting on with his life as he should; with some of beloved bloggers writing less and less frequent posts (I miss you Claire and Frances and Matt); with feeling that what I have to say is less and less important, and the time I have to read is less and less available.

But the idea of shutting down completely doesn't seem to be very appealing, either. I love the way my life is so enriched by learning what you've been doing, what you've been reading. I never knew about the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. I never knew about World Book Night. I never read Japanese literature, or even much translated fiction at all for that matter. I never received novels from publishers in the hopes that I would review them. I never discussed classics like I can with the Classics Club, ordered Persephone Books from the UK, or read for 24 hours with the Dewey Read-a-thon before 2006..

So I weigh the balance. I see the shift I've made in my blogging not only literally, such as going from Blogger to Wordpress and back again, but in emphasis. It used to matter very much what my page rank is, how many total hits I received, and the number of comments in a post's conversation. Ever since I gave up blogging for Lent several years ago, I have been free of caring about stats. You can't imagine the relief that is for this reader, who is not a mathematician! I am much more concerned now with content as well as finding out, "What are you reading? How are you feeling? Can we share in literature together?"

Just as Lesley and Nan discovered, I am sure that I, too, would find that I can't stay away from blogging altogether. But, I can be around when it suits me. I can, as Andi has declared in her blog description, read "whatever I want, whenever I want..."

Please share in as much, or as little, of this journey that you care to travel with me. I'm sure we can all fit somehow in the Beetle above.

Wordless Wednesday

2013-05-01T09:03:00.004-05:00

(Taken in San Diego, California, two weeks ago. I loved the possibility of an open door...

Find more Wordless Wednesday photographs here.)

Dewey's Read a Thon #4

2013-04-27T20:58:00.001-05:00

Finished! I was actually caught up in the ending, curious as to the arrival of Diana and Matthew in their time travel excursion to Elizabethan England.

Wondering what to read next. Swann's Way might prove too pedantic. I'm craving a children's book such as Charlotte's Web, or an old favorite such as Possession...off to peruse the house, the shelves, the stacks of books lying in wait.

p.s. I've decided on beginning The Detour by Gerbrand Bakker, one of the finalists in the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. The winner will be announced May 20, and I don't have a prayer of getting the short list read by then. But, perhaps I will finish this one book tonight, and then the likes of Gary from Parrish Lantern, and Tony from Tony's Reading List, and Stu from Winston's Dad will be proud of me. :)

Dewey's Read a Thon #3

2013-04-27T18:50:00.001-05:00

Pleased with my haircut, I've spent the rest of the day reading A Discovery of Witches. There's no point in reaching page 1623 and calling it quits when the end is at page 1811 (of my nook, of course). Still, it feels like The Book That Would Not End. I've read some fairly heavy classics that were more enjoyable than this. I think that the points of witch vs. vampire, ignorance vs. knowledge, time travel vs. the present are far too drawn out.

I've eaten more than I ever should this weekend. It was burgers from Five Guys with my son at noon, and now I've just barbecued a pork tenderloin to have with cole slaw for dinner. Sitting, eating, reading are some of the finest pleasures in life, but surely they must be taken in moderation.

When I finish A Discovery Of Witches you'll probably hear my cry of victory wherever you are. Even if it's across the sea.

Dewey's Read a Thon #2

2013-04-27T12:19:00.001-05:00

One of the nice parts about going to Santo's for my haircut is the plethora of magazines lying about. I normally don't read magazines very much because they're more concerned with the Outside than a person's Inside, but still it's fun to see what's currently in fashion. As my days at work consist of looking at teachers in alphabet sweaters.

Anyway, here's to reading more magazines and thinking I should have hosted a Mini Challenge based on such.

(Dying to see Carey Mulligan as Daisy Buchanan in the The Great Gatsby coming May 10.)

Dewey's Read a Thon #1

2013-04-27T08:54:00.001-05:00

Invariably, though I long anticipate the 24 hour read-a-thon, something comes up. This time, it is my son's last weekend before he returns to San Diego for Infantry training. It is also my Uncle's visit from the West where he lives a most relaxed life, as opposed to the uptight attitude of Chicagoans. Of course these twenty four hours will include visits with both of these men.

Also I had made an appointment for a haircut of my tempestuous curls.

But, for now I have made myself an espresso with Lavazza coffee, and I have opened my nook to Swann's Way which I am determined to complete with Arti for our May 15 discussion. Proust uses such lovely descriptive writing: slow and meditative and perfect for the hours lying before me.

I'm also trying to race through A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness which I wanted to read for Carl's Once Upon a Time VII challenge. Sadly, it's on loan from the library through the Overdrive account, which keeps reminding me the days left before it disappears from my screen. Currently, the total is 3 Days. Compared to Marcel Proust? I doubt I'll finish it. Tales of vampires and romance have never held my attention for long.

Off to see what our narrator's last encounter with Swann entailed...have a lovely reading day yourself.

Put a Poem in Your Pocket...What The Children Did

2013-04-25T01:00:00.000-05:00

Bella's pocket resembles the sun,

Matthew's pocket is a robot scorpion,

Nevaeh's pocket reminds me of the 1960's tie-dyed patterns I knew as a child.

But the poems which the children put in their pockets are even better:

Recess

Suzy banged her elbow,

Samantha skinned her knee,

Jamie tore her sweatshirt.

Inez fell from a tree,

Harry got a bee sting,

and Aaron ran away.

Now you know why schools have

just one recess a day.

The Gnome, The Gnat and The Gnu

I saw an ol' gnome

Take a gnock at a gnat

who was gnibbling the gnose of his gnu.

I said, "Gnasty gnome,

Gnow stop doing that,

That gnat ain't done gnothing to you.

He gnodded and gnarled his ol' head and said,

"Til gnow I gnever gnew

That gnocking a gnat

In the gnoodle like that

was Gnot a gnice thing to do!"

Shel Silverstein

On the Ning Nang Nong

On the Ning Nang Nong

Where the cows by Bong!

And the monkeys all say boo!

There's a Nong Nang Ning

Where the trees go ping!

And the trees go jibber jabber joo!

All the mice go clang!

And you just can' catch 'em when they do!

so it's Ning Nang Nong!

The cows go bong!

Nong Ning Nong!

The Mice go clang!

What a noisy place to belong is the NING NANG NONG!

by Spike Milligan

School Lunch

Our school lunch is from outer space,

endangering the human race.

The meatballs bounce right off the floor.

The fish cakes could break down the door.

The bread was baked ten years ago.

The burgers look like they will grow.

The chicken has the chicken pox.

The peas are frozen to the box.

The spinach gives your legs gangrene.

The fruit juice tastes like gasoline.

The soup is salty as the sea.

The franks explode like TNT.

The salad bar-don't dare to try it.

The carrot cake once caused a riot.

The deadly tuna casserole

can bore a hold right through the bowl.

The fries could knock you off your chair.

The corn could make you lose your hair.

The way they cook here is a crime.

But lunch is still my favorite time.

By Douglas Florian

World Book Night

2013-04-23T21:24:00.000-05:00

My friend Carol went with me tonight to Manor Care where she works as a speech pathologist. Who better to give the gift of literature to than those whose language has been impaired? "They may have trouble speaking," I thought, "but they won't have trouble receiving the written word."

It was a humbling experience to walk through halls where many cannot walk. They sat despondently in wheelchairs, many of these patients, and looked up expectantly when we walked in. "What did we bear in our arms besides books?" they seemed to ask. Could we possibly give them the lives they held before the brain aneurysm? Before the fall which hindered their capability to walk? Could we possibly alleviate the loneliness?

I walked into one of the patient's rooms which the director of the facility had chosen for me to give a book, and I had the most lovely talk with Eve. "I have a book for you," I said and discovered that she loved to read as much as I. "Could we have our picture taken?" I asked. "Oh, no," she said, completely horrified. "I look terrible tonight. I've just washed my hair and it's a mess..." So I gave up the idea of a photo, and chatted with her longer instead, when I heard a call from the bed next to hers behind a curtain.

"What about me?" this insistent voice hollered. "I love to read, too! I feel so left out!" I walked around to see who it was calling, and I said, "Don't feel left out. Here's a book for you, too." I put my hand on her knee, and I told her I wanted her to have a book and feel the joy of literature. "No one ever calls me," she said. "No one ever comes to see me, they're always going to see her."

"It's okay," I said. "I'm here to share with you."

But I can't sleep tonight. Because giving out the books reminded me that I'm giving something important. It's one tangible piece of affection, one little reminder that you matter. You, in the nursing home, spending too much time alone, are important.

If a book can do that, serve as a reminder of what is good and comforting in life, then it has served its purpose. The World Book Night organization has served its purpose.

May everyone who received a book tonight be blessed.

Sunday Salon. Before It's Monday

2013-04-22T21:39:00.000-05:00

What a week it's been. My son has been home for only seven days, but they have been an intense seven days. Seven days for me to examine not only him, but myself, for both of us have been in Marine boot camp.

Well, he was at Camp Pendleton in San Diego. I was upstairs in my own little room. But I assure you, the rigors we went through were comparable. While he was exercising his muscles, and expanding his mental capabilities, I was in remedial motherhood.

I knew better than to expect him to come home completely changed as everyone told me. "You won't recognize him!" my friends exclaimed. I recognize him all right. He's still thin, he's still polite, he's still determined to do things his own way, and he still seeks social interaction with others above all else.

I hate social interaction! Well, I like it in my blog. I like it at church. I like it in the teacher's lounge once in awhile. But given the choice, I'd prefer to be by myself any day of the week. I like reading. I like introspection. I like quiet. I like togetherness with those few I hold close to my heart.

I need to temper my expectations. For while they are almost impossible for me to achieve for myself, they are surely impossible for my son. I am the Queen of Wanting More. More time with him. More close discussions. More assurance of my value to him as a mother.

I can't live off of someone else's assurances. I can't live with my own impossibly high standards. The Bible reminds me, "in quietness and trust is your strength." Isaiah 30:15

Surely that is stronger than anything produced by my own efforts.

Snow Crash

2013-04-19T12:45:00.001-05:00

There isn't anything that Neal Stephenson doesn't use in his novel to poke fun of a futuristic society which doesn't seem far removed from the America I'm living in today.

We've got a teenage girl named Y.T. who is a Kourier, riding a plank (skateboard) and pooning (harpooning) cars in traffic to catch a ride.

We've got Hiro Protagonist, part Japanese and part African American, with two crossed swords as his weapons of choice, who lives in a U-Stor-It unit in reality, but is a warrior in the Metaverse into which he can goggle in through his computer.

We've got a religious cult with a leader named Rife, a drug known as Snow Crash, and a mafia group run by Uncle Enzo.

We've got the Aleutian named Raven, who is not only immensely powerful physically, but has made knives out of glass sharper than any made of steel.

We've even got vehicles as mundane as those annoying minivans so popular in the burbs that Stephenson has named them "bimbo boxes".

This is an action packed Sci-fi novel which leaves no major theme untouched: war, weapons, language, religion, politics, and power. It's done at the hand of the master, Neal Stephenson, who has us glued to our seats as if we were watching the whole thing unfold on a massive screen before us.

I read it for Carl's Once Upon a Time Challenge VII, as well as for the Times' list of 100 best books written since 1923. Snow Crash was nominated for both the British Science Fiction Award in 1993, and the Arthur C. Clarke Award in 1994.

Preparing for Poem In Your Pocket Day

2013-04-16T21:20:00.003-05:00

I loved the idea: put a poem in your pocket and share it all day long on April 18. Share it in the classroom, in the hallway, in libraries, bookstores and offices. Just pull out the poem you have in your pocket, hopefully one of you favorites, and read it out loud.

Today I showed my children how to fold an origami "pocket" and told them they could decorate it however they wanted. I love opening doors to them, inviting them to "color outside the lines" as no teacher ever told me. But, I digress...

When they saw the pocket I made, they suggested I add color:

But, the pocket is not the important part of this project. The important part is to decide what poem one ought to choose. I considered using a kid friendly poem by Jack Prelutsky. My son and I used to love Captain Conniption and As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed.

Yet I felt that I wanted something a little different for grown ups. Something for us book lovers. Which is why I stuck in this little poem by Edgar Guest:

What poem would you choose? If you were going to participate in national Poem in Your Pocket Day? I'll let you know what the children have chosen in a few days.

Going Where He's Dreamed of Going

2013-04-14T17:56:00.000-05:00

They all look the same, these Marine recruits on the parade deck in San Diego, California. But the one just to the right of the senior Drill Instructor is my son.

He's wanted to be a Marine since...forever. I brushed it off as fantasy when he was a little boy, and I cried it off as bravado when he was a Senior in high school. But when he turned 22 years of age, I could ignore it no longer.

We saw him graduate with the 3rd Battalion, Lima Company, on Friday. It was thrilling and scary at the same time. Conflicted feelings of pride, joy, and fear swirled around my heart in almost equal measure.

I saw him set a goal and reach it. Now I see that he needs to find his path, and it is no longer my job to protect him on it. I must let him walk it on his own.

"But if you love someone, then you want your beloved to be happy. You might feel frightened for him initially, but that feeling soon gives way to pride at seeing him do what he wants to do, and going where he's dreamed of going." ~Paulo Coehlo Manuscript Found in Accra

Stardust Read-Along: Chapters 1-5

2013-04-10T01:00:00.000-05:00

"He stared up at the stars: and it seemed to him that they were dancers, stately and graceful, performing a dance almost infinite in its complexity. He imagined he could see the very faces of the stars; pale, they were, and smiling gently, as if they had spent so much time above the world, watching the scrambling and the joy and the pain of the people below them, that they could not help being amused every time another little human believed itself the center of its world, as each of us does." (p. 96)

Neil Gaiman says of Charles Vess that "He is the nearest thing we have today to the great Victorian fairy painters, and without his art as an inspiration none of these words would exist. Every time I finished a chapter I phoned him up and read it to him, and he listened patiently and he chuckled in all the right places."

But, who could be enchanted by one without the other? Gaiman's novel, Stardust, is every bit as magical as the faerie world that Vess creates; the later in which we dwell with our eyes, the former with our hearts.

I wasn't struck by the power of Stardust the first time I read through it. I read it. I enjoyed it. But, I wasn't moved by it. Now before I go to bed, I read a chapter each night (for nighttime is the perfect moment for such a novel), and I am pierced by the innocence of youth as well as the drudgery of Wall compared to the illumination of Faerie.

"There's a star..." Tristran began to explain, but his father hushed him to silence.

Mr. Bromios rubbed his chin and ran a hand through his thatch of black curls. "Very well," he said. He turned and spoke to Harold in a low voice, saying things Tristran could not hear.

His father pressed something cold into his hand.

"Go on with you, boy. Go, and bring back your star, and may God and all His angels go with you."

And Mr. Bromios and Harold Crutchbeck, the guards on the gate, stood aside to let him pass.

Tristran walked through the gap, with the stone wall on each side of him, into the meadow on the other side of the wall.

Turning, he looked back the the three men, framed in the gap, and wondered why they had allowed him through.

Then, his bag swinging in one hand, the object his father had pushed into his hand in the other, Tristran Thorn set off up the gentle hill, toward the woods."

Now, you may have been reading about a boy leaving Wall to pass into the unknown world of the meadow beyond. But I was reading of every parent who must allow, and not only allow but encourage, his child to go in pursuit of his dream. We do not know what trials, nor what evil, await. In hope believing we send them off knowing that if we don't we stagnate their lives, and their future, as well.

Tristran's father had the courage to send him off, to a place where he could not himself go, knowing that each one has only one path to call his own.

I look forward to reading, and discussing the rest of Stardust with you on April 17. Thank you to Carl for hosting this read-along.

The Collected Poems by Marcel Proust

2013-04-09T20:33:00.001-05:00

Two of the many things I have slated for April are reading Marcel Proust's Swann's Way with Arti and reading more poetry for National Poetry Month. A lovely combination of these two goals meets within this newly released book: The Collected Poems by Marcel Proust.

It's thrilling to open the aqua cover and discover 104 poems. The left hand side of the book contains each poem in its original French; the right hand side is the English translation. Personally, I loved testing my many years of foreign language by reading them first in French, then following that often bumbling effort with my native tongue. Still, it gave me opportunity to imagine that the French version was even more beautiful than the English, though I could more perfectly understand the later.

As I read Swann's Way, I find myself reading more for the vision Proust creates than the plot; such it is with his poetry as well. Yet to help the reader, there are included within this edition a section of drawings as well as notes. "These notes are meant to give the reader the information that the poem's reader (or, when the poem was sent to an individual, the recipient) would have had at the time or a bit of relevant archival information. Because many of them were scrawled on envelopes, on the back of letters from other people, and even in books, they often included "variantes," possible differences that resulted from Proust experimenting with the verses and neglecting to erase his abortions." Harold Augenbraum

I leave you with #22 and its accompanying note:

CHOPIN

Ocean of sighs, and just above the waves

a flight of butterflies pauses...no, passes,

circling above the melancholy sea...

Dream, love, suffer, sleep it off!

And between each throb of pain produce

the sudden oblivion of your whim-

don't butterflies proceed from flower to flower?

Thus your joy becomes your grief's accomplice

(the whirlpool's thirst is only for more tears).

Prince of despair? A noble lord betrayed?

The moon's pale companion and the sea's,

you still exult, the paler the handsomer,

in the sun that floods your sickroom, weeping

at your smile and suffering at the sight...

the smile is for Regret, the tears for Hope!

POEM 22

Translated by Richard Howard

Frederic Chopin (1810-1849) was one of the foremost composers of the first half of the nineteenth century. According to P. F. Prestwich's The Translation of Memories, at one point early on when Proust and Hahn met they thought about jointly writing a biography of Chopin. In RTP (Remembrance of Things Past), Chopin appears most prominently in a discussion of his work by the seaside. This poem was dedicated to the pianist Edouard Risler (1873-1929), a close friend of Reynaldo Hahn who specialized in the music of Chopin, touring Europe and playing the composer's complete works.

The Collected Poems by Marcel Proust, to me, is a celebration of all the things we love about the arts: language and poetry, music and friendship, the imagery and odes that poetry can best convey.

Swoon by Betsy Prioleau

2013-04-08T07:33:00.000-05:00

What makes women swoon? What is the quality that captures our heart, sometimes only for an instant, but sometimes irrevocably? Perhaps it is something different for each one of us. I know that it is different for me today, than it was when I was in my 20's.

I attended a party at the Delta Sigma Phi house my Junior year of college at the insistence of my roommate, Cynthia. I loathe parties in general, but I succumbed to her pleading, and when I could stand the noise and confusion no longer, I slipped into what could have been loosely called a library and began reading behind the closed door. When a handsome man came into the room an hour later, practically hitting me with the door he pushed open, I looked into the brown eyes of the man I knew I would marry.

It was just that fast.

Could I have determined the qualities he possessed, untangling one from the other? No. I couldn't do it today. But, I knew that he struck my heart and that was that.

Betsy Prioleau has taken it upon herself to untangle what it is that makes us swoon and listed more qualities of what women look for in men than I could include in this post. Combined with these qualities, are descriptions of men which fit them such as the charisma of Bill Clinton, the adornment of Sir Walter Raleigh, the manly jaw of Johnny Depp, etc.

But, my favorite part of what she's done in her book, Swoon, is to list novels under which we can find characters exhibiting the traits women find so alluring. The reader in me, perhaps more than the feminine side of me, thrills to these titles:

The Player/Seducer can be found in Neil Strauss' The Game
Intensity/Passion can be found in Wuthering Heights, Balzac's The Memoirs of Two Brides and Colette's The Other One.
Love of Women can be found in Chekhov's The Lady With The Dog, Somerset Maugham's Up at The Villa, Jennifer Cruise's Bet Me
Androgyny can be found in Maureen Child's Turn My World Upside Down and Anne Lamott's Blue Shoe
The Quicksilver Man can be found in Waller's The Bridges of Madison County, Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Feet, Isak Dineson's Out of Africa
Flawed Manhood can be found in Turgenev's Fathers and Sons and A Month in The Country
Morality/Virtue can be found in Austen's Pride and Prejudice
Courage can be found in Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises
Spiritual Cultivation can be found in Patricia Gaffney's To Love and To Cherish
Knowledge/Intelligence can be found in the Kama Sutra and Aldous Huxley's Brave New World
Social I.Q./Empathy can be found in Milan Kunderas' The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Self Realization can be found in Alice Munro's story Passion, or the infamously popular Fifty Shades of Grey.

Prioleau continues with her list far beyond the few I've listed here. The qualities that she finds are seemingly endless, and beg the question, "What do you find most alluring?" not to mention, "Are the men of today offering it?"

Personally, I'd love to run into the competence of John Galt in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged...

Thanks to TLC Book Tours for the opportunity to review Swoon.

A Shade of Red

2013-04-05T09:55:00.000-05:00

A Shade of Red is a book I've been coveting for quite some time. Alyson Fox photographed over 100 women all wearing the same shade of red: Certainly Red by Revlon. They are of all ages, all walks of life, and the book seems to be more about them than the lipstick itself. I look at each photograph, and I wonder to myself, "Who are you? What have you dreamed for your life? Where are you going now?"

Alyson based her book on these two quotes:

"It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived…Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips….That lipstick started to give them back their humanity."
– Colonel Gonin (commenting on the liberation of the Bergen-Belson concentration camp)

and

Now, once I feel myself observed by the lens, everything changes: I constitute myself in the process of “posing,” I instantaneously make another body for myself, I transform myself in advance into an image.
– Roland Barthes (Camera Lucida, 10)

For surely those of us who wear lipstick wear it for one of these reasons: to be unique, to show confidence (even when it might not be felt), to look glamorous, or to transform ourselves into someone else.

I have searched through, and worn, "hundreds" of red in my life: Guerlain's Gala, Chanel's Paris, Chantecaille's Poppy are a few I like from more luxurious lines; Rimmel's No. 1, Aveda's Poppy, and L'Oreal's British Red from the less expensive. But I can attest to the value of Revlon's Certainly Red. It has been around since 1951, worn for its lovely blue-red shade, its creamy formula, and its fabulous price. It is my current favorite.

For God So Loved The World

2013-03-31T11:04:00.001-05:00

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16

Below is a photograph of the grotto my mother would take us to when my brother and I were small. It is in the grounds of the Sacred Heart Monastery, and I have always loved it for its beauty and peace. It's just the quiet place to go to contemplate one's faith. To ask for forgiveness. To feel His love. To begin again.

May the peace of The Lord be with you today and always.

Revenge by Yoko Ogawa

2013-03-30T19:52:00.001-05:00

Yoko Ogawa's book, Revenge, is a collection of 'eleven dark tales'. They are so dark, in fact, that halfway through I abandoned the book. There was no point, I felt, in immersing myself so completely in stories which dealt with the bizarre, the grotesque, or inevitable death. More troubling than the darkness was the accompanying sorrow for, to me, each story had an oppressive kind of grief underlying it. Here is a section from the first story:

Afternoon at the Bakery

The door that would not open no matter how hard you pushed, no matter how long you pounded on it. The screams no one heard. Darkness, hunger, pain. Slow suffocation. One day it occurred to me that I needed to experience the same suffering he (my son) had.

First, I turned off our refrigerator and emptied it: last night's potato salad, ham, eggs, cabbage, cucumbers, wilted spinach, yogurt, some cans of beer, pork--I pulled everything out and threw it aside. The ketchup spilled, eggs broke, ice cream melted. But the refrigerator was empty now, so I took a deep breath, curled myself into a ball, and slowly worked my way inside.

As the door closed, all light vanished. I could no longer tell whether my eyes were open or shut, and I realized that it made no difference in here. The walls of the refrigerator were still cool. Where does death come from?

This collection of short stories is quite different from Ogawa's book The Housekeeper and The Professor, which I loved for its gentle portrayal of an unconventional family. Yet I suppose the bridge was built from that novel to this collection with her novel Hotel Iris. I wonder if this is where Ogawa's writing will continue to take us, deep within the dark and horrifying. The stuff that in small quantities effectively chills our spine, but in greater doses induces despair.