Saturday, December 29, 2007

For I will consider my cat, Tater...


Man oh man, here's a good one. I have a small (4 x 4) paper pamplet version of Christopher Smart's "Jubilate Agno," with red woodcuts by Ben Shahn and published by Fogg Museum of Art at Harvard in 1957. it's a wonderful poem if you don't mind a little nature mysticism and some religious obsession and extreme wordplay and passion for nature -- a bit eccentric, in other words, but fun to read. (You can read it to your cat, and he will purr.)

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Ah, sentences! Discovering Ian McEwen




It's always a joy to discover a "new" writer, especially one who was always just below the radar. I avoided McEwen for years, though he was praised as literate, smart, a good psychological plotter, etc. But I was afraid to read a book about an abducted child outside of the mystery genre. It didn't help that another of his books was titled The Cement Garden. But the extensive publicity about the new movie of Atonement sent me back to the book, which is as captivating as anything by Forster. And with prose as clean as Lively's, prose that the author reads aloud to himself to hear how it works. Here are a couple of passages that draw the reader into a spell:
The rains came at last in late September, delivered by gales that stripped most trees bare in leas than a week. Leaves clogged the drains certain streets became navigable rivers, old couples were helped out of basement flats by policemen in waders, and there was a general feeling of crisis and excitement, at least on television.
By a frozen brook they passed the slab of rock under whose covering of snow, deep in the fissures, were the ingredients of a miniature tropical forest. Even by moonlight it was possible to see fat and sticky buds and unassuming ground plants raising tiny spears through the snow. One season was piercing another. In the smoothed-out spaces between trees, profusion waited its turn. The track turned toward the center of the wood. They descended into the hollow towards the rotten oak, an unchanged feature from the summer before.
We can endure terrible events if -- if we are presented with sympathetic characters, some hope of love, and absorbing creations of specific places. I'm hooked.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

"I can't like Ian McEwen!"

When my second son was a toddler he once said, on being asked to try some food, let's say spinach, "I can't like spinach!'

I wanted to like Ian McEwen, and I couldn’t. I thought I tried. But not really. I read the N.Y. Times review of The Child in Time and The Cement Garden, and I thought “Never!” No matter that he was said to be articulate, a fine writer even, and that he looked smart, well-aged, and handsome – when I read what he wrote about, I thought, Never. Too depressing. Then along came a novel that sounded amenable and interesting, so I read Atonement, and it wasn’t horrifying, but I never quite got it, though it buzzed about me.

So now that the movie is upon us, I thought it was time to read the book again, and to do it justice – listen to its prose, its voice, what’s going on and how it’s told, and see who among the characters might be engaging. And now I see – it’s Briony, and I’m sucked in and open to all the book’s charms.

And here’s a clue as to how to read it:

[Of Briony, years later, as a writer:] "She need not judge. There did not have to be a moral. She need only show separate minds, as alive as her own, struggling with the idea that other minds were equally alive."
Atonement, p.38 (Doubleday/Nan A. Talese hc)

Well, isn’t this what fiction is all about? Yes, but I for one have to be able to identify with one or more characters, to sympathize. I guess after this it’ll be time to take a look at The Child in Time. Of which, more later.

Monday, December 10, 2007

With forty bottles of ring-bo-ree


SPOILER WARNING!!! for Sunday NY Times Acrostic
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"Edward Lear's nonsense is not vacuity of sense: it is parody oi sense, "The Jumblies" is a poem of adventure and nostalgia. The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo and the Dong with a luminous nose are of unrequited passion -- blues, in fact."
from The Music of Poetry, Acrostic puzzle in N.Y. Times Magazine, 12/9/07
Punctuation uncertain, as is attribution.
My grandchildren are lucky that I read "The Jumblies" and "The Owl and the Pussycat" to them, and that I enjoy it so. It's in a British book with colorful illustrations rather than Lear's drawings.