Debi Cates
I had seen the wonderful movie with Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson – must be 20 years ago. In spite of getting the usual process backwards, it did not stop me from enjoying this book at all. I think it might have gently enhanced it, actually, imagining much of Stevens' voice as if it were spoken by the indomitable Hopkins and imagining Miss Kenton having a crooked smile like Thompson.
Ishiguro has a deft, precise hand. I loved thinking the thoughts he wanted me to think, to read between the lines he wanted me to read, and to care deeply for a stuffy old butler whose only quirk is being a stuffy old butler through and through. Well, almost. And it's that slowly building, perfectly executed “almost” that makes the story something special.
Lagerkvist has given us a tale of two tormented, direct experiences with the divine: Ahasuerus (the Wandering Jew) who had a brief unhappy encounter with Jesus and the Sibyl who became a famous Oracle of Delphi for many years spouting messages from Apollo.
Lagerkvist made an intriguing story pairing these two traditions, the meeting taking place at the crossroads of history when there was a changing of the guards of god, so to speak. And yet age-old questions remained, like how to endure the whims of god, and then how to endure the absence of god.
Ahasuerus was neither good nor bad, but a rather ordinary man living an ordinary happy life who, in one unwitting moment was unkind to Jesus as he was on his way to crucifixion, then was cursed by god's son to roam the earth for eternity, alone, unblessed. He was seeking the Sibyl to tell him his future – hoping, I'm sure, to see some end to his suffering.
The Sibyl, who as a young country girl felt a vague lacking, was transformed when she was chosen to be a Pythia for Apollo. She gave it her all, accepted being a vessel to be used, and became one of the best ever Oracles, all without reward. In her 30s (the age when most priestesses were replaced but she was not because she was too profitable for the temple), she committed a crime against god by falling in mortal love with a one-armed man. Her punishment was the death of her lover, being violently raped by Apollo via a goat, and conceiving a half-witted, half-god (and half-goat!) son.
This is clearly not the experience one seeks when wanting to be closer to god. And is the sobering reminder of god's inscrutable and, from a human perspective, fickle nature.
The Sibyl had observed others, including her own parents, living quite peaceably and sincerely with god, and observed others living peaceably (and profitably) without god. There didn't seem to be a clear-cut right way or wrong way to garner a peaceful mortal life. Her hard-earned wisdom was whether god blesses, curses, or ignores, we are all under an erratic god. (And she experienced all three.) Thus she ultimately answers Ahasuerus,
“Perhaps one day he will bless you instead of cursing you. I don't know. Perhaps one day you will let him lean his head against your house. Perhaps you won't. I know nothing about that. But whatever you may do, your fate will be forever bound up with god, your soul forever filled with god.”
I'm not sure that will be a comfort to Ahasuerus. But it is the Sibyl's advice that acceptance is the only course for humans whether living under Olympian or Heavenly rule.
December 2024
After reading this several times now, I still think “A Christmas Memory” is a perfect story, one that makes me cry every time, overcome by that deep recognition of life's precious and fleeting goodness. But now I think also more highly of the other two stories, “One Christmas” and “The Thanksgiving Visitor.” We know Capote was a story-teller, not always to be trusted with the truth, but I'm convinced these three stories, featuring his much beloved older cousin Miss Sook, are the absolute truth of his love for her and her of him.
December 2013
The first of three short stories in this slim volume, “A Christmas Memory” was as perfect a story as I have ever read. The other two pale in comparison, but that isn't surprising, so good was the first. I've read where others make it part of their annual Christmas holiday tradition to read. I may do the same.
Another Librivox recording to listen to while I knitted, this one done by a variety of all female readers. I believe this short history of Elizabeth was written as part of a young adult history series by Jacob Abbott, but nonetheless did not shy away from most of the political complications, sexual intrigues, and violence. Not high literature, but well-written and lively. Enjoyed it!
Eudora Welty, a great writer, a great title, and a Pulitzer prize? Oh, this should be an excellent read! Except, well, I spent a goodly part of the novel not being an excellent reader.
Being what felt like an unwitting part of Laurel's protracted numbness was unpleasant to me. Up until the last third, I wondered exactly what is this woman feeling, much like Laurel wondered what caused her father to lay languishing from what should have been a recoverable surgery. Was Laurel cold, or as emotionally shallow as her uncouth counterpart Fay? Was Laurel just too darn well-bred to mourn in a recognizable way? Or was there maybe some secret in the past of “the optimist's daughter” to be unhappily revealed? That emptiness of my understanding went on almost too long for me. If it weren't for Fay's outbursts and bad manners, my reaction would have been a bored flat-line. At least Fay and her lowbrow family gave me something to feel: outrage and insult on Laurel's genteel behalf, and I confess, an occasional superior guffaw.
Of course, all this was almost certainly under the complete control of Welty's mastery. I see now there was a clear trajectory to her story; it's just when she got there I was almost in despair that it would happen at all. Now I'm chagrined at my weak-reader impatience. I look back and recall certain bread crumbs that I couldn't savor because I was too impatient, too caught up with my thoughts, “Yes, yes, that's interesting, but for pity's sake, what's going on in that head of Laurel? Why doesn't she react to all these shenanigans?”
Then at last, when alone, after the childish Fay, the ridiculous Chisom family, the well-meaning bridesmaids, the drunk Major, and all the long-time friends leave, Laurel feels. Slowly but surely. Grief begins to roll over her. Grief over the death of her mother ten years before and memories of her mother's unhappy change of personality at the end. Grief over the tragic death of her husband cutting short their new life together. Grief over her father's puzzling marriage to the feisty Fay and his too willingly death. All of it catches up with her. So much grief, so much delayed grief. Oh, Miss Welty, I see. I see why Laurel was holding back. She had heavy losses and memories to sort out and I'm half-ashamed for wishing this on her. When that piece of paper with her mother's handwriting with the two words “this morning” flew up from the fire, tears filled my eyes. And that obnoxious Fay? Turns out in the end I realized Fay, too, had a lifetime of loss but of a different kind – the loss of never having. And the poor thing wasn't even possessed of enough sense to realize it. What she did have was the survivor's base instinct to propel her swiftly into the future, a future without a past worth remembering.
After closing the book, I was tempted to promptly go back to the beginning, this time to read with more sympathy, to let Laurel feel her slow-realized grief at her own pace as any of us should be allowed to do. To pick up those discarded morsels and to taste them fully. And to read a prize-winner with more confidence.
Yes, I'm 54 years old and haven't until now read Lord of the Flies. There's nothing I can say that hasn't already been said in a million different ways, all over the world in a million classrooms.
I'll just say that I can now use the phrase, “They've gone Lord of the Flies.”
P.S. If I'm ever in a plane crash on an deserted island, I hope I'm not the only survivor still wearing my glasses.
I thoroughly enjoyed this book, from its memorable opening line to its closing memorable line, and all its vividness in between. It was enjoyable to be not only so skillfully entertained but to be asked, without layers of subterfuge, the deepest philosophical question a person will ever ask at some point in their life. And I love the answer that I felt Wilder lead me to find within.
(Spoilers below.)
It's interesting that the church (who is supposed to lead us to those answers) finds Brother Juniper's work heretical. Here it is, the basic theological question, “Do we matter to God?” and the good monk is convinced the answer is Yes. But even after years of probing all the smallest pieces of evidence in the lives of the five, he feels he has never gained a firm understanding of the mind of God. The church judges, corrupt and barely tolerant of the question, certainly couldn't stand an unfinished answer and so condemns him in notorious Spanish Inquisition fashion. Consumed by his fiery fate, the monk never doubts God, only himself. He is the epitome of faith, believing while having no answers.
It is an interesting contrast, too, that while the pious monk's work is burned (and the other copy forgotten on a dusty shelf) the Marquesa's letters go on to great fame. The words of the drunk, the awkward, the laughable, the sincere-but-misguided Marquesa lives and inspires for centuries, an example of the fickle unpredictability of what matters and what doesn't in mere human annals.
Ultimately it's the nun, Madre Maria, who is affected in the most profound way by the collapse of the bridge and it's her thoughts on life's divine meaning that ends the novel so beautifully. She comes to believe that no, her life's work doesn't matter and that not even being remembered fondly by loved ones matters because those that remember will die soon, too. She concludes it is the love itself that matters to God. It is our love – love by human beings destined to be unremembered and often unrewarded – that matters by returning to “the love that made them.” It's not God's love for us, or our love for God, but our love for one another is the real divine exchange, that which has its source from and that which returns to God. It is the only meaning, the only bridge between man and God.
If Winesburg, Ohio had gone on for just another 10 pages, I would have started looking for a razor blade. Oh, this work deserves its place among classics, sure, because you could read and re-read and still have plenty of “grotesque” meat left to chew on. But, good lord, who would want to? A therapist?
I had to force myself to finish the long parade of people nursing old hurts, sabotaging themselves with actions sure to shame them, and often blaming others. Granted, Anderson wrote some amazing, delicate moments of the human condition but I was still much relieved at the last page. I made it through. Alive!
There was one character who made me smile, Joe Welling. He's the tiny volcano of a man in “A Man of Ideas,” who quietly works around town until suddenly charged by an idea, big or small, an idea he finds so fascinating he erupts with enthusiasm, accosting any hapless soul. Gee, one guy in the whole town who is undamaged by childhood, made no bad life choices, and is not steeped in brooding. Just a half-nutty, likeable guy being true to himself.
Call me well-adjusted, but I wish the town had had half a dozen more Wellings.
Among the email notifications I receive from GR, today I received notification that a person I follow and admire, Klowey, read and reviewed this story. I had read it 15, 20 years ago, but wanted to read it again, see if it was still as vivid and immersive as I remembered it being.
It was! And I've updated my previous rating of 4 stars to 5.
Do yourself the favor after you've read it, and read this really excellent GR review:
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1453277309
I listened via a YT channel, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, (the channel name would normally not appeal to me). The channel produces produce their own audio narrations with subtle sound effects. The narrator, Jesse Cornett gave it an excellent reading full of apt anxiety. They've produced other titles that I've meant to read and will see if I like their renditions as well as I did this one.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFLlaS68AtE
Next I'll have to search out the short film based on this short story that is supposed to be very good too.
I'm already sad that I have only one more Doerr remaining to read. There are just three titles. I first fell in love with her writing in [b:Stones for Ibarra|76986|Stones for Ibarra|Harriet Doerr|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1346008427l/76986.SY75.jpg|1634347] which I've often said is my all time favorite book. Then came [b:Consider This, Señora|137851|Consider This, Señora|Harriet Doerr|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1347224505l/137851.SY75.jpg|132871] (the one remaining to read), and this title, the last book she would write.
Her very limited canon is because, in spite of having a very long life, dying at 92 years old, she only began writing when she was in her late sixties.
In her long life, she must have been collecting, savoring, and “taking heaven pictures” like a friend of mine once called moments captured on the film only in your mind. Doerr described her heaven pictures like this in a passage about a sunset after a day at the beach with her young children and young husband, “exerting the full force of my will” she would “hold up the sun, hold back the wave, long enough for me to paint and frame the low tide.”
I forgive this collection of short stories – some autobiographical, some not, some better than others, some out of step or odd to be included with the group – because she knew she was aging, going blind, and must have known this would be her last collection.
But an uneven collection by Doerr is still something splendid! She can write like no other writer I've read. She indeed does paint and frame. It is immersive to read her, especially if you read her slow, like I did intentionally. Her use of language is as careful as the best poetry, is sparce and sharp. With one sentence and with one phrase in that sentence, you know the resentments, the laments, the long history of moments of happiness or unhappiness of a character. Doerr grants you room to think for yourself, to be still in a place you've never been, to grow to love people who you'll never meet or have never existed. In between her passages, you love your own life because it is yours.
I couldn't be happier this was the first book I selected for my 2024 reading adventures.
This evening I talked on the phone to my little brother (little? he's 57). We had one of those nice chats about all sorts of subjects, about shared memories and about our life's current little details.
He was telling me about a TV program he's enjoying, called Alone, I believe. I haven't seen it but it reminded me that in my teens I dreamed of moving to Alaska to homestead. Our maternal grandmother had a subscription to National Geographic and during one visit, while the grown ups were catching up in the kitchen I'm sure, I sat on her couch and picked up the January 1973 issue and happened upon an article, “Alaskan Family Robinson.” It mesmerized my 15 year old Wannabe Earth Mother self. I can still see the photos, emblazoned on my heart: the man building their log cabin, the woman nursing one son while homeschooling the other, the family bundled, trekking in snow shoes with all their cold cheeks cherry red. There were pictures of homemade bread baking, picking wild berries, heating water on an old big wood burning stove for a Saturday bath. I wanted all of that. Or at least I thought I did.
Truth is, I don't like the cold much. Winters spent in New Mexico, and later, in Texas, are the limit of my cold tolerance levels. Even winters living in Oklahoma and Kansas seem bitterly cold to me now. I would not have enjoyed Alaska, I think.
Still, over the years I've continued to be attracted to reading about living in Alaska. And tonight I remembered this memoir! And I recall it was so good, even though she is tragically mauled by a dog. Her writing was superb. So remembering it was a delight and then another delight when I saw to my shock I had not added it to books I've read. I've tried to add books as they come to mind and it's been a good little while since I've added a pre-GoodReads Era one.
I went to Kusz's GR author page. I'm so glad she kept going, kept writing. Taught at Harvard even. Yay you Natalie!
After watching 84 Charring Cross Road movie again, I recalled that I had read Hanff's book about Q more than a few years ago. I remember I didn't enjoy it as much as Charring, but beyond that I can't remember enough about it to write about or rate it accurately. For now, a middle of the road 3 Stars will have to suffice. However, I might look into reading some other title by her in the near future.
Seek and Find for readers 2025/08/15While asking GR author, [a:Teresa Tumminello Brader 4348288 Teresa Tumminello Brader https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1697659392p2/4348288.jpg] (I'm currently reading her collection of short stories, [b:Secret Keepers 220815164 Secret Keepers Teresa Tumminello Brader https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1731532140l/220815164.SY75.jpg 227764142]) about her workspace and process today, I recalled this collection of Jill Krementz' photographs of writers.In one of my decluttering episodes of winnowing books, I donated this one. I wish I hadn't done that! Luckily, Open Library has a copy. Although the scan cuts off the left center and right center where the pages meet, it's still lovely, like a kid's Seek and Find adventure book.I found:⚫a bottle of Perrier next to an American Heritage Dictionary⚫very early laptops–they look so clunky, so strange⚫variety of electric typewriters–they don't look strange⚫a glass of whiskey with ice in it (surprised?)⚫a matchbook, an ashtray⚫two standing desks⚫a blackboard with the writer's notes written on it in chalk⚫hundreds of pens and pencils⚫a cat, a dog⚫a pair of baby twins drinking milk bottles while lying on the floorI remember when I owned this book, trying to decern each item, its use, its memory to the writer. Seems also as if every room in the house was used by one writer or another. Some work spaces were cluttered (Kurt Vonnegut), some were minimalistically austere (E.B. White). I love the short texts included, too, writers writing about the nuts and bolts. Some wrote best in the morning (Katherine Anne Porter), some find later in the day best (4pm to 7pm after a walk, P.G. Wodehouse), and others feel more desperate, lucky if they write a page in a day (Edmund White). Some found writing is “hell” (William Styron) and others likened it to slow carving in marble to chip away at the beauty of a “pigeon” within (Archibald McLeish). As you can see, there are all manner of techniques, some even regimented, dispelling the idea of twiddling a pencil waiting for the Muse to arrive. Although, some have no writing habits and often do just that, wasting away the day doodling, while waiting (Joyce Carol Oates.)Apparently there is no magic formula, only words strung together one at a time to create fairy lights for the minds of loving readers. I will find a copy of this book again, put it in my favorite shelf (my “granite” shelf I call it, next to my reading chair) and one day while away the time from 4pm to 7pm, finding more seek and finds.
It's been ages since I read this, but I remember being utterly transported by Ms. Colt's ill-fated adventure and cried my eyes out a number of times. For a long time, it was one of my favorite books and certainly my favorite memoir. I originally borrowed it from the library, but loved it so much I went on my own adventure (pre-Internet) for a copy for my own shelves. I found one at long last at Larry McMurtry's bookstore in Archer City, Texas. It cost me a pretty penny then, $45.00. But seeing it on my shelf all these years has rewarded me – the memory of the book, the memory of the long search, the memory of the trip to Archer City bookstore and the thrill of finding a beautiful copy. Bless you Ms. Colt and Mr. McMurtry.
Another reading day with the Littles (granddaughters ages 7 and 9) and this time was unexpected: Mom was heading out of town and Dad's return flight was delayed. Would I pick them up from school? You bet I would.
I quickly grabbed two books out of the book box I have for them and was on my way.
What's not to love about this book, one I read to their mother when she was a Little herself. This is the traditional Princess story turned on its head. It is the Prince that needs rescuing. Fearlessly she outwits the dragon and saves her beloved. Then finds out she's quite okay not having him as her incompatible beloved, after all.
My kind of chick. The Littles kind, too.
Sweet, now Bitter
It's 2024 and I'm here to reduce my rating from 3 stars to 1 star. Why go back to a book I read in the 1990s and change my assessment? Because Forrest Carter was a terrible racist. How racist? He was a member of the KKK and heartily, loudly promoted segregation a mere decade or so before this book was published. And the thought that he wrote as if he was of Cherokee culture, not possessing just some fractional heritage in his DNA, was all too much.
The book was sweet and I enjoyed it when I read it unawares, but now it is bitter and false on every level.
What was this man thinking? Was this book an apology of some sort? As Forrest Carter he denied he was also active segregationist Asa Earl Carter after the deception was discovered in the 70s. Had he admitted it then and publicly denounced his former acts then that, my friends, would be an apology.
This book does not deserve its current 4.13 star reader average, not for its false content nor its craft. It was sweet and touching but, good gravy, it was more than a smidge heavy-handed in sappiness.
But it's the entire falsity that has me riled up about a high rating. I apologize for leaving 3 stars even after I learned of the deception, I should have given it some good ol' fashioned backlash and cancel culture on bad humanity right then and there.
Today I take a tiny notch out of that undeserved excellent GR rating.
Prerogatives
Why today?
Because of a different book.
I was about to attempt another stab at reading [b:To the Wedding|462503|To the Wedding|John Berger|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1485720555l/462503.SY75.jpg|450952]; GRers that I admire and follow admire it. Deciding maybe some background would help, I read about the author, John Berger. Incidentally, I had read his [b:Ways of Seeing|2784|Ways of Seeing|John Berger|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1703328414l/2784.SY75.jpg|2507145] back in the late 70s and continue to be aware of Berger's phrase, “the male gaze,” in the Arts. I count it as a gift to generations, dare I say, to posterity.
I still don't know more about To the Wedding, but after learning that Berger's reaction to receiving the Booker prize (for [b:G.|299813|G.|John Berger|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348551394l/299813.SY75.jpg|295874]) was to donate half those earnings to the British Black Panthers because the Booker family built a large part of their wealth on de facto slavery and exploitation of Caribbean workers, I had to give him more of my admiration – that's putting his money where his mouth is, for sure. And thus was inspired to more heartily give To The Wedding a more sustained try.
My mind then wandered to a dilemma that I've often tried to resolve to my own satisfaction: does the writer/artist's real life matter or not when assessing their work? In the case of Berger, I apparently thought it did in a good way, urging myself to give To The Wedding more than a 30 page go. In the case of Forrest, his real life also mattered to me because his deceptions made that book go from sweet to shit.
For those others that aren't practicing deception – let's say, Orson Scott Card – but simply stating their firm “beliefs” in their public discourse, then I think it's fair, and to be expected, that what they pronounce in their real lives also matters and I can prefer not to suffer ideas that are repugnant to me, and not support those ideas by implication.
So, writers, that's the deal we make: You be you. I'll be me.
I'll suffer the deprivation of your genius (ahem); it's not like the world is short on genius writers who don't dump intolerant garbage onto the public reading table. I'm tolerant of your intolerance, but I won't buy or read your books. Meantime, your deprivation is the dip in revenue and admiration from more than a few readers. And likely from posterity too.
I was appalled. As I recall it proposed to base happiness in a marriage on superficial, co-dependent “needs.” Good for shallow couples, I guess.
If I'm remembering right, it did have one point that I could agree with – that is, to think of a relationship as having a “love bank,” meaning that you couldn't keep making withdrawals without making deposits. If that is done by a partner or both partners, eventually the love balance is zero.
