New Century Reading

Walking Home

Well, this is a delight. Before he became Britain's Poet Laureate in 2019, Simon Armitage was already a well-known and highly regarded poet in his home country when he decided to do something unusual for him: Go for a long hike. Specifically, he would hike Pennine Way, a trail of great beauty, but also intensely rugged and often in less-than-ideal conditions, including rain and fog. 

Not only was Armitage not much of an athlete, he decided to go against conventional wisdom and do the route from north to south, when guides advocate for the reverse. To up the stakes, he decided to approach the hike from the old tradition of the wandering troubador--he would do poetry readings every night along the route, if locals could provide him the space to do so along with food and shelter.

Armitage's memoir on his experience is wry and self-deprecating as he confesses to missteps and miscalculations, as well as readings that go well, and those that don't. He is met on the trail by various people, some known to him, some not. He gets lost (a frightening aspect in an area that's remote and not well marked) and has too much gear. He learns about the flora and fauna along the way, appreciating it as best he can given the circumstances. 

There's a lot of charm to this book, and for me, much of that charm came from the respect people in Britain have for poets (an ancient tradition there). He gets good crowds at most of his readings. People drive in from long distances to hear him speak, and some join him on the hike. He's a bit of a celebrity. Imagine, a poet being a celebrity! 

I so enjoyed his amiable wanderings, so much so that I started to look at Minnesota maps to see if I could do something similar. But: I'm not a celebrity poet. I also break out in hives at the thought of camping out with strangers night after night. And having to be social at the end of days where I might hike 10-15 miles. Which is to say, it's not going to happen for me. And that's one of the reasons I'm glad Armitage wrote about his experience, so I could live vicariously. 

Keep Moving

I'm not usually one for self-help or affirmational books. I don't have anything against them, they're just not my cup of tea. But when I saw that Maggie Smith, the poet who wrote the beautiful collection Good Bones, had this book coming out, I decided to give it a try. And I'm so glad I did. 

A talented poet, Smith has a way with words, and she also understands the value of being concise rather than going on and on about something (a problem with many of the self-help books I've tried to read). This is the story of her life post-divorce, but as she wisely notes, many of the lessons are pertinent to any kind of troubled times someone might go through. Her message isn't one of "Cheer up, silly, it'll all get better!" but one of "There will be hard times, but hold on, you can do this." That, I think, is a wise message. It allows room for people to acknowledge they're going through something hard, even life-changing, and there are going to be days, weeks, months, when they feel miserable. 

The book is divided into several sections, starting with an anecdote from her own life, then followed by several pages of short readings (anyone who follows her on Twitter or Instagram will recognize some of them). She never loses sight of the fact that life can be hard, brutal at times, and that it can seem almost impossible. What she's doing is a gentle coaxing: One foot in front of the other. That's all. Just do that. Don't be hard on yourself:

"Tell yourself kinder truths. You are not failing at life; you are reeling, sure, but you are succeeding at surviving. Keep moving."

This was originally scheduled to be published in May, but the publishers delayed it due to COVID, no doubt hoping by fall they'd be able to send Smith out on tour. When it became apparent that wouldn't happen, they published in October. Initially I was annoyed, thinking, Hey, we could use this book at the beginning of the pandemic. But you know what? As the pandemic marched grimly on--thanks, 45, for NOTHING--and the election loomed large and terrifying and ever-closer, having this book in October felt right. I read it over several days, slowly, savoring it. And now I'm going to turn right back to the beginning and start again.

Smith even put together a Spotify playlist for the book, which I'm listening to right now: Keep Moving playlist

 

The Equivalents

This was a fascinating book, a look at a very specific time and place. In the early 1960s, Radcliffe College came up with the idea of giving women a second chance at a career. The idea was that they'd have women who had been to college, to grad school even, but who had become sucked into the life of housewives and mothers and had not progressed in their career, come to a two-year institute. They would be paid a stipend to be used however they liked--largely for things like childcare and house cleaning--and the women could then re-immerse themselves in their fields. When you think about the early 1960s, coming off the 1950s when women who had worked during WWII found themselves ousted back to the home front, this does seem revolutionary.

Among the first set of women to be accepted were the poets Maxine Kumin and Anne Sexton, writer Tillie Olsen, and visual artists Barbara Swan and Marianna Pineda. These five were admitted under a clause that said members had to have graduate-level work, or the equivalent. None of them had graduate work, but all had had some success in their field. They quickly bonded and started calling themselves the Equivalents.

Author Doherty takes a close look at the women's relationships and artistic development during their time at the institute and afterward. But--and this makes for a deeper, more meaningful book--she also looks closely at who wasn't part of the institute: women of color and, except for Tillie Olsen, working class women. Doherty explores the way that most of the institute's first class were actually fairly privileged. This is not to say that it still didn't make a difference in their lives; Sexton's mother-in-law was already helping provide childcare, but Sexton used her stipend to build a home office where she could work in private and not have her writing materials disturbed by things like setting the table for dinner. But for Olsen, this experience, along with teaching at Amherst after years of blue-collar jobs, radicalized her:

"It wasn't that she begrudged the Amherst students and faculty their good jackets or their nice houses. Indeed, she formed warm relationships with her students, who forgave her scatter-brained nature because she was so fervent in her belief that reading and writing matter. 'There's nothing wrong with privilege,' she used to say, 'except that everybody doesn't have it.'" Still relevant today.

It was a transitional time, where women like Kumin and Sexton were fighting to earn their rightful places in the world of poetry, which was heavily male-dominated then. Doherty takes a close look at the times and what was changing. She also includes some later time, when Alice Walker came to the institute to begin ground-breaking work of bringing Black authors the attention they deserved, and hadn't gotten.

It's also a look at how women formed relationships. Interestingly, Doherty demonstrates how women, particularly in poetry, tended to be competitive, no doubt due to the overall difficulty of gaining attention in a man's world. But at the institute, the writers bonded. Kumin and Sexton were already close friends, but they welcomed Olsen to their ranks. Yet all was not idyllic. Sexton's mental health was precarious in the best of times, and she was demanding of Kumin's support. Olsen had a flighty, passive-aggressive approach. Over the years, there were hard feelings and outbursts, and of course, Sexton eventually committed suicide.

I found this book fascinating. Lucky for me, I was primarily interested in the writers. Readers who are more interested in Swan and Pineda are possibly going to be disappointed in that they don't get nearly as much coverage as the writers did. That said, I hadn't realized the extent to which Sexton and Swan collaborated, and it makes me wish I'd kept my old copies of her books rather than donating them once I bought her collected poems. Doherty makes the case that Sexton's book Transformations anticipated the work of Angela Carter, which makes a lot of sense: "both writers used the genre [of retelling fairy tales] to explode myths about virtuous women and the conduct that is required of them."

 

 

 

Whhat You Have Heard Is True

Poet Carolyn Forche's memoir of her time spent learning about El Salvador as the country was reaching crisis state in the 1970s requires some patience. There were sections in the middle that felt long and repetitive, and yet I had the feeling that she was building to something bigger. I was right.

It's a story that's hard to believe, in some ways. As a young woman barely started in her literary career, she finds a man named Leonel at her California doorstep one day, with his two young daughters. Forche had worked on translating poems by one of Leonel's family members, and he comes to her with an odd proposition: Come to El Salvador. You're a poet, come and write about it. You wonder how the war in Vietnam started? Well, in El Salvador you now have the chance to see the beginning of that type of conflict.

Forche ended up going, against the advice of most of her friends. There, she finds that Leonel is intent on showing her all aspects of El Salvador, from its military leaders and religious leaders (including then Monsenor Oscar Romero) to the poorest, most wretched members of society. She asks Leonel why he's showing her this, and he replies again and again, you'll soon see, you'll soon understand. 

it's not until a trip to a squalid prison that Forche begins to get it, although describing what "it" is proves difficult. But that trip to the prison is beginning of an avalanche of events that lead to the deadly civil war that went on for 13 years. Her own life is at risk more than once, although nothing like the danger Leonel is repeatedly in. Yet it's Leonel who ends up helping to orchestrate the eventual peace in 1992.

As I said, there are scenes that feel repetitive, and more than once I found myself getting frustrated, both at Leonel for holding so much back from Carolyn, and at her for not forcing the issue, but being so passive. Yet I think in the end, she learned more that way than she might have being pushy. 

The book also serves as a reminder that we really, really don't want the U.S. to become the kind of country El Salvador was then, with people disappearing and either not showing up ever again, or being found brutally tortured and murdered, with no way to lawfully dissent. A timely reminder indeed.

Apple, Tree

I loved this collection of essays by writers about their parents. Let's face it, for better or for worse, we are all formed to some extent by our parents. These essays cover a wide range of results, through a wide range of voices (it's heartening to see how diverse the set of authors is). There are funny essays, warm and loving essays, thoughtful while forgiving essays, and angry essays. Everything from table manners to anger to psychics and tarot readers is included. And from a prestige viewpoint, there are some pretty major writers in here: Ann Patchett, Laura van den Berg, and Jane Hamilton are just a few of the authors collected.

Is it a perfect collection? No. Is there such thing as the perfect anthology? I haven't come across one. But the strong essays in this collection so far outnumbered and outpowered the lesser ones that I didn't care. Some are just breathtaking, but in ways I can't describe without giving spoilers. Read it. Compare your own experiences with your parents (or those with your offspring). See if it doesn't provoke some thoughts.

The Bronte Cabinet

Yes, I'm still on a bit of a Bronte bender. This is another worthy look at the storied (pun intended) family, with a twist: The author has researched not only the family, but objects they used or things that were part of their everyday lives, and then researched the context behind those objects to see why they were important. It sound frivolous, but it ends up being a fascinating take on their lives. 

Using existing biographies and archives, Lutz looks at things as disparate as women's household work, (especially those in the middle classes), lap desks, hair jewelry (usually for mourning, but also to signify friendship or romantic intentions), even the family pets and how pets were viewed in those days. This sounds entirely random, but as the book moves on, it adds to the overall portrait of the Brontes, and usually goes hand-in-hand with Lucasta Miller's The Bronte Myth in dispelling some of the myths around the women. The chapter on lap desks is especially informative, as I had no idea of the importance of those objects. Not just for writing; they were also repositories for deep secrets, and the worst thing someone could do was sneak around in someone else's lap desk--something Charlotte did to Emily.

If you're interested in the Brontes, this is a good contextual piece that adds much to existing biographies.

Evidence of V

Well, this book threw me for a loop. Sheila O'Connor has written a book that I've tagged as both novel and nonfiction, and it is indeed both (and by her own admission). It's the story of her maternal grandmother, V, who got pregnant at 15 and was sent to a "girl's home" in Minnesota, where she gave birth, but was essentially incarcerated until she turned 18, when she was "paroled" into servitude with a family in Duluth. 

V is dismayed at all that happens. But when the baby is born, she falls in love with it and wants to keep it. But she has no say in the matter.

This is, of course, a heartwrenching story that brings up the Magdalene Laundries. Sadly, those weren't contained to Ireland. O'Connor learns that her mother was born to someone other than the woman who had always been presented as O'Connor's grandmother. Her mother eventually takes matters into her own hands, and together they visit the Minnesota Historical Society, where they're able to pull up pieces of the truth.

But here's the thing. The pieces of truth they pull up don't tell a very full story. So O'Connor spent several more years researching this particular girl's home, and girl's home from the times (1930s) in general, to put together a story of what might have happened--to full in the blanks surrounding what is known to have happened.

This book then becomes part novel, part biography, part research document, and even part poetry collection. It's a quick read, but it's also deeply troubling. There were good intentions, of course. But we know the path to hell is paved with those. 

Read this book, knowing it's part fiction and part nonfiction, and see the bigger picture of what happened to so many, too many, young women in the early part of the 20th century--and not just in Ireland.

Take Courage: Anne Bronte and the Art of Life

Wow, did I love this book. It's less of a traditional biography and more of a look at the cultural context that Anne Bronte's literary works are situated in. Admittedly, there's not much known about Anne; for decades, she's been considered the "lesser" Bronte. Author Ellis argues, successfully, that that's a shame, and that Anne deserves more attention and respect. Drawing on her own research, as well as those who have come before, she paints a picture of Anne as not meek or timid, not unquestioningly religious, but a questioner, someone whose eyes were wide open, who had her own frustrations and concerns, and someone willing to stand up to the criticism of her book The Tenant of Wildfell Hall as being far too coarse--especially for a woman writer.

Ellis uses a wide range of contextual materials, many from Anne's time, including magazines and books of the era, as well as visual art, court cases, politics, and the various preceding biographies in their varied accuracy and viewpoints. She also uses contemporary references, including Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Dr. Who, which makes for entertaining reading. She's thoughtful, but also capable of being acidic and funny:

"It's impossible to say exactly what Anne's illness was. In Edward Chitham's 1991 biography, he suggests that it was 'a psychic crisis during which Anne subconsciously understood her feminine role as producer of children, and was both attracted and paralysed by it.' His evidence is that...Anne made, he says 'several' drawings of babies' heads in 1837. Actually, she made three. She also drew an oak, an elm and some wooded landscapes, but no one has suggested she was having a psychic crisis about trees."

Aside from Ellis' humor, though, is righteous indignation at Anne's lack of renown and respect:

"As I sit in the cold Parsonage library, reading in mounting fury, the staff tell me no visitors ever ask about Anne except, sometimes, vague questions such as 'What was the name of the "other" sister?' or 'What did Anne write?' but it's rare for a day to go by without someone asking where Heathcliff is buried. Anne is less solid, less known, than even her sister's fictional characters. She has become a byword for underachievement, neglect and exclusion."

She brings up interesting propositions, including the possibility that Charlotte and Anne were not that close and that, in fact, Charlotte was not exactly a stellar sister, and she makes a persuasive case. I also learned that Anne' scandalous Wildfell novel is today still being published in an abridged form that a scurrilous publisher had done not long after Anne's death, weakening the overall book and diluting its strength. Ellis helpfully notes which editions today have the full text as Anne intended: There's a 1996 edition edited by Stevie Davies and a 2017 edition published by Vintage Classics. This is a lot of indignity for what appears to have been a thoughtful, ethical author who wanted the truth to be told as she saw it.

But Ellis takes some major steps in fixing these indignities. Her passion for her subject shines through from beginning to end. She's making assumptions--a no no normally--but she backs them up as best she can. Even if she's wrong, she makes a compelling case to restore Anne to equal footing with her sisters.

All this is to say: I loved this book, and now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go acquire one of the accurate Tenant editions. I'm long overdue for a reread.

The Only Plane in the Sky

This book. I mean, what can I even say? September 11 is, of course, a seminal event in my life, and the lives of pretty much any American who was sentient that day. I was glued to the news for weeks and months after it happened, and have followed up on the anniversary with watching documentaries and reading new books. So I came into The Only Plane in the Sky thinking I wouldn't necessarily learn much.

Boy, was I wrong. The book is an oral history, and the author wisely lets the speakers tell the story, interjecting occasionally only for context. The book starts chronologically with a nearly minute-by-minute account of what happened that day, gradually spreading out to include the aftermath and things like a chapter focused on what children remember from that day. There are, of course, heart-breaking accounts of people watching others died in front of them, or the man who picks up his toddler from daycare and goes home to wait for a call from his wife, or the various fire fighter and police accounts. There's the man who was at Cantor Fitzgerald that morning, where so many died, and got a call from security that an expected visitor had arrived without ID (remember how before 9/11, ID wasn't all that big of a deal?), and so someone from Cantor needed to come down and vouch for him. The man thought about sending his assistant, but given that it was two elevator rides, decided he'd be kind to her--she was 8 1/2 months pregnant--and go himself. It saved his life, and cost her hers. Or the man that was one of the airline staff that morning who checked in some of the terrorists and cannot come to terms with his guilt, nor does he feel worthy of joining survivors' groups.

I had no idea that the maritime evacuation that day was one of the largest done since WWII. I didn't know that so many fire fighters never realized until much later how bad things actually were. I never knew how the Trade Center security guards, those with low pay and without anything near the training received by the fire fighters and police, stayed on their jobs and tried to help people leaving the towers. These are only some of the things that I learned in reading this book.

I worked in the nonprofit sector for several years, and the mantra there was: the power of the individual story. You can hand people horrifying statistics, but talking about people in terms of numbers rather than flesh and blood doesn't have nearly the impact that giving people one person's story. This book gives many people's story, one at a time, and it's almost overwhelming--but it drives home what the true losses of 9/11 were. It's important. It matters.

It's harrowing. It's the kind of book that's hard to recommend because it's such a brutal read. But it's also essential reading for anyone who was affected by that day--and who wasn't?--and who wants to pay tribute to those who lost so much. 

Five Days Gone

Author Laura Cumming wrote this book about her mother, who has an eerie and fascinating childhood. At the age of 3, she was kidnapped and turned up, 5 days later, in different clothes, but unharmed. Her mother didn't remember this later, but it came out, as family secrets tend to do. 

But that wasn't the only family secret, as it turned out. She'd been adopted, something that wasn't explained to her until she was in her early teens. Even then, most of that story wasn't revealed to her, and she ended up piecing it together over many years, eventually with the help of her daughter (the author). It's a heartbreaker of a story, with twists and turns and unexpected (at least to me) revelations. It's also about what constitutes a family, and how small communities often close ranks to help families keep their secrets. Sadly, it's also the story of an only child, adopted fairly late in life by people perhaps not best suited to raising children. 

The heart of the book is a fascinating exploration of what happened and who was involved, as well as the discussions of families and community. However, the book is longer than it needed to be; it might have been better as a long New Yorker piece. The author is an art critic, and both of her parents turned out to be artists, so she brings in repeated stories of different artworks that she uses to compare her mother's situation to. These become a digression from the main story, and end up feeling overwritten and unnecessary, when the main story itself was so compelling. It slows the book down in places in a way that's unfortunate.

Still, I finished the book and found myself thinking about the author's mother and her strange, often sad, life. I don't regret finishing it.