Ann Patchett's NYTimes response to the lack of a Pulitzer Prize winner for literature this year. And yes, it should have been Jeffrey Eugenides for The Marriage Plot:
Let me underscore the obvious here: Reading fiction is important. It is a vital means of imagining a life other than our own, which in turn makes us more empathetic beings. Following complex story lines stretches our brains beyond the 140 characters of sound-bite thinking, and staying within the world of a novel gives us the ability to be quiet and alone, two skills that are disappearing faster than the polar icecaps.
Unfortunately, the world of literature lacks the scandal, hype and pretty dresses that draw people to the Academy Awards, which, by the way, is not an institution devoted to choosing the best movie every year as much as it is an institution designed to get people excited about going to the movies. The Pulitzer Prize is our best chance as writers and readers and booksellers to celebrate fiction. This was the year we all lost.
Ann Patchett is the author, most recently, of the novel “State of Wonder” and a founder of Parnassus Books.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Letters
I just finished putting the final touches on the last of my college recommendations for the year. There is only one phrase that does this particular task justice:
Blood, sweat, and tears.
As difficult as it can be to capture the essence of a student in a letter, I absolutely love doing it. I love celebrating these girls: their talents, their achievements, their individual styles. The fact that I get to do it in writing is the best part. I know I've said this before somewhere in this blog, but I have a thing for letters. Elizabeth Bishop used to teach a class on the art of letters, and I would have fought my way into that class if I had been around then. Now that I think about it, I might have to teach that class someday.
In the spirit of letter writing, here is a poem/letter from Billy Collins to his readers. I spent three glorious days hearing him lecture at Vanderbilt this fall, and I listened to him read in his disarming way this poem.
"You, Reader"
I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you.
that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen
the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl
Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen—it was just a matter of time
before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.
Plus, nothing happened that morning—
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outside—
and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another
like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same time—
me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.
- Billy Collins, from his collection The Trouble with Poetry: And Other Poems
Blood, sweat, and tears.
As difficult as it can be to capture the essence of a student in a letter, I absolutely love doing it. I love celebrating these girls: their talents, their achievements, their individual styles. The fact that I get to do it in writing is the best part. I know I've said this before somewhere in this blog, but I have a thing for letters. Elizabeth Bishop used to teach a class on the art of letters, and I would have fought my way into that class if I had been around then. Now that I think about it, I might have to teach that class someday.
In the spirit of letter writing, here is a poem/letter from Billy Collins to his readers. I spent three glorious days hearing him lecture at Vanderbilt this fall, and I listened to him read in his disarming way this poem.
"You, Reader"
I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you.
that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen
the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl
Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen—it was just a matter of time
before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.
Plus, nothing happened that morning—
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outside—
and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another
like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same time—
me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.
- Billy Collins, from his collection The Trouble with Poetry: And Other Poems
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The Names by Billy Collins
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
"Winter in the Summer House" by Robert Watson
Home is a place we never notice
Needing much repair, and coming back
Year after year, the separated man
Filled the cracks in the hardwood floors with his own dust.
The house no longer creaked, or he no longer heard it;
The walls were painted but not covered;
Tiles of flint lay crossward on the lawn;
The trees were a silent siege; the heat went on.
As if he were custodian, he kept his tools
In pegboard tracings; sawdust neatly piled
Along the jagged band; a vise in waiting,
Capable of holding till the glue was dry.
The same old Dodge still lurched from neutral
Into gear; old leaves hissed in the vents;
Backing out was the only gamble,
And by now he knew this road so well.
Deadpan breakfasts, cakes with molasses—
All that remained from his little version
Of the triangle trade, with its casks of whiskey,
And captives in the hold who salted the Atlantic.
As if to prove he wasn’t still at sea,
He put dramatic lights up in the branches
And all the same old people in their places,
Triumphantly discarding in an evening game of hearts.
If only he had made a little room for her,
Or made a play; if, in between the deals,
He’d made a modest bid; a run in suits;
Or cast away a hopeful flush to keep the pair.
From The New Yorker
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2010/08/09/100809po_poem_watson#ixzz128wWV41Y
Needing much repair, and coming back
Year after year, the separated man
Filled the cracks in the hardwood floors with his own dust.
The house no longer creaked, or he no longer heard it;
The walls were painted but not covered;
Tiles of flint lay crossward on the lawn;
The trees were a silent siege; the heat went on.
As if he were custodian, he kept his tools
In pegboard tracings; sawdust neatly piled
Along the jagged band; a vise in waiting,
Capable of holding till the glue was dry.
The same old Dodge still lurched from neutral
Into gear; old leaves hissed in the vents;
Backing out was the only gamble,
And by now he knew this road so well.
Deadpan breakfasts, cakes with molasses—
All that remained from his little version
Of the triangle trade, with its casks of whiskey,
And captives in the hold who salted the Atlantic.
As if to prove he wasn’t still at sea,
He put dramatic lights up in the branches
And all the same old people in their places,
Triumphantly discarding in an evening game of hearts.
If only he had made a little room for her,
Or made a play; if, in between the deals,
He’d made a modest bid; a run in suits;
Or cast away a hopeful flush to keep the pair.
From The New Yorker
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2010/08/09/100809po_poem_watson#ixzz128wWV41Y
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Loving Summer
Tomorrow may officially be my last day of real summer, but I have had the summer to beat all summers, and I'm content to wave it a fond farewell. It was a summer full of love - literary and otherwise - and I'm still pinching myself at the wonder of it. I visited dear friends in New York, Denver, and Michigan; I was swept away by the mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee; I became a godmother to the most adorable little girl; I saw a bald eagle; I wrote for a week straight at Bard College on the Hudson River; I ate poached lobster and tipped out of a kayak in Maine. I've spent time with the loveliest families, including my own. Not surprisingly, I've also visited eight different airports, which means I've done quite a bit of reading, too. Laura Hildebrand's Unbroken tided me through at least seven hours of flying to and from Denver. Ann Patchett's State of Wonder made for good bedtime reading in Michigan, where the sun doesn't fully set until after 10 p.m. Adam Ross's short story collection, Ladies and Gentlemen, kept me company in hammocks, on porch swings and floating docks in North Carolina. Tina Fey's Bossypants still has me laughing and quoting.
But if I had to pinpoint one particularly glorious literary feast, it would be listening to Gabrielle Hamilton's new memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter, on Interstates 40 and 81 in early June.
My long trip home to Virginia was made mercifully short by Hamilton's story. Mountains and truck stops flew by as I listened to her spin enchanting tales of her early childhood which led to a disastrous early adulthood, then on to her journey as chef, writer, mother, and sometimes wife. Hamilton is the realest narrator I've ever read. She's all sharp edges in life and on the page; nothing gets sugar-coated. Some people might be put off by her stark stubbornness, her unabashed selfishness, but I loved every second of it. So much so that I simply had to eat in her East Village restaurant, Prune, when I stopped over in NYC for a few July days. I hope I never forget that joyful and delicious meal with my friend Court, because neither of us was successful at picture-taking that evening. We were very successful at eating: sliced baby radishes with butter and salt, shaved celery salad with blue cheese tart, chicken galantine with vegetables and broth, quail something or other, and finally, Sgropino, an Italian dessert which we deemed nectar of the gods.
Whenever I'm with Courtney, things happen. She has this magical personality, and New York City bows to it. That enchanted evening, so did Gabrielle Hamilton. As we dined, I could see Hamilton's reflection in the mirror as she cooked in the back. She appeared at the bar as our meal was wrapping up, wearing a faded blue house dress and thick black work shoes. And let me just say that she was rocking this outfit. The faded blue house dress will soon be featured in In Style magazine. About this time, Court decided that Gabrielle Hamilton absolutely had to know that her biggest fan (me) was in the restaurant. Minutes later Court has the toughest cookie in New York chatting it up with us (did we think butter cookies went well with the Sgropino? we did) and signing a copy of her book to her unofficial publicist (again, me). The evening was dazzling, from the food, to the company, to celebrity tete a tete. The whole thing reminded me of a line from The Great Gatsby: “Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all. . . .”
Even Gabrielle Hamilton could happen, without any particular wonder.
But if I had to pinpoint one particularly glorious literary feast, it would be listening to Gabrielle Hamilton's new memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter, on Interstates 40 and 81 in early June.
My long trip home to Virginia was made mercifully short by Hamilton's story. Mountains and truck stops flew by as I listened to her spin enchanting tales of her early childhood which led to a disastrous early adulthood, then on to her journey as chef, writer, mother, and sometimes wife. Hamilton is the realest narrator I've ever read. She's all sharp edges in life and on the page; nothing gets sugar-coated. Some people might be put off by her stark stubbornness, her unabashed selfishness, but I loved every second of it. So much so that I simply had to eat in her East Village restaurant, Prune, when I stopped over in NYC for a few July days. I hope I never forget that joyful and delicious meal with my friend Court, because neither of us was successful at picture-taking that evening. We were very successful at eating: sliced baby radishes with butter and salt, shaved celery salad with blue cheese tart, chicken galantine with vegetables and broth, quail something or other, and finally, Sgropino, an Italian dessert which we deemed nectar of the gods.
Whenever I'm with Courtney, things happen. She has this magical personality, and New York City bows to it. That enchanted evening, so did Gabrielle Hamilton. As we dined, I could see Hamilton's reflection in the mirror as she cooked in the back. She appeared at the bar as our meal was wrapping up, wearing a faded blue house dress and thick black work shoes. And let me just say that she was rocking this outfit. The faded blue house dress will soon be featured in In Style magazine. About this time, Court decided that Gabrielle Hamilton absolutely had to know that her biggest fan (me) was in the restaurant. Minutes later Court has the toughest cookie in New York chatting it up with us (did we think butter cookies went well with the Sgropino? we did) and signing a copy of her book to her unofficial publicist (again, me). The evening was dazzling, from the food, to the company, to celebrity tete a tete. The whole thing reminded me of a line from The Great Gatsby: “Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all. . . .”
Even Gabrielle Hamilton could happen, without any particular wonder.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The Headmaster
Am in the middle of John McPhee's The Headmaster right now and feel compelled to include a snippet. While Frank Boyden was headmaster at Deerfield he apparently wrote thirty-five or so letters a day to everyone from alums to the oil man. Here is one such note, written April 30, 1930:
My dear Mr. Stephenson:
Your letter of April 22nd was received. Please renew the Full Coverage Insurance on my raccoon overcoat for one whole year.
My dear Mr. Stephenson:
Your letter of April 22nd was received. Please renew the Full Coverage Insurance on my raccoon overcoat for one whole year.
Friday, July 22, 2011
State of Wonder
Just finished Ann Patchett's new novel, State of Wonder, a title which describes exactly how I felt after reading it. Brilliant. That is the word that comes to mind when I think about how carefully she constructed her narrative, down to the very last sentence. Honestly - and I mean this as the highest compliment - it reminded me of the kind of critical writing we were all trying to do in graduate school. Weave strands of an argument together so convincingly that your readers have no choice but to believe you. Lead them to the edge of a cliff, and when they think they've arrived, ask them to look over the edge. That is how Patchett concludes this novel. While she convincingly winds down the narrative, our view of what has happened, what might happen next, ingeniously continues to expand.
Rather than describe the plot, I will just say that what I loved about this book was the lack of clear cut answers, beginning with page one. Characters in this novel are continually faced with challenging situations that cannot be easily righted. Indeed, it is difficult to discern right action from wrong when none of the choices seems clear or appealing. I like the title, State of Wonder, because it describes how the main character, Marina, moves between difficult contexts. She is baffled and stunned regularly (anyone in her situation would be), and yet she must act despite her state of wonder at what is happening around her.
Patchett sets this novel in the Amazon, and if you read this, you go there. You're on the pontoon boat wondering what is down there in the water beneath you; you're greeted by a tribe brandishing flames, another with poisoned arrows; and yes, you're wrestling with an eighteen-foot anaconda. Have fun. The writing is that vivid, that compelling.
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