the april 2003 issue of Harper’s had a review of the two new collections of Gallant’s stories—being published by The New York Review of Books (one of which has just been released)—and called her an “unknown master.” at first i felt like reading the review had pushed my expectations too high; while the first three stories were interesting, all centering around the same family in montreal with some interesting language dynamics, they weren’t as altogether astounding as i’d assumed they would be. then in the middle a couple of the stories were just amazing and i understood where the reviewer was coming from.

at times Gallant’s style reminds me a little of Alice Munro, a similar sort of subtlety with momentous insights. sometimes she seems really cold, there are these unexpected distances between writer-character-reader. it’s strange feeling like reading these stories tells nothing about who wrote them. but eventually it makes it all seem more real somehow.

my reading of “Mlle. Dias de Corta” was unfortunately marred by a previous library borrower’s pencil markings—forcing certain lines to stand out and a seemingly unnecessary margin note of “list lots of info quickly.” the presence of this book in the lunchroom inspired one of the more heated lunchtime arguments lately; somehow “ah, a library book” made the jump to “let’s debate world politics with a special focus on nuclear weapons” in just a few short moves.

i picked this up last summer when i was temping at a publishing company, and i started to read it but never finished. the book is comprised of two extended poems, one, one dated 1962 and one 1974, each made up of 45 smaller poems. the two series of images and memories and dreamlike scenarios don’t seem like solid pieces in themselves. the individual poems feel incomplete and arranging them together does not make the extended poems feel any more whole. somehow he manages to remember these moments in clear detail without becoming nostalgic. i feel just as distant from it all.

undoubtedly my favorite book of poetry, though having read so little it probably means a little less than it could. though reading this, i hardly expect to find a complete work that will resonate with me as much as this. it’s calm and striking; her way of phrasing things perfectly and the sudden moments of stark understanding and images of sky and melancholy make this something to return to again and again.

A Seasonal Dwelling

The thinking soul is conducting an experiment. The method
of investigation: as soon as you have felt something,

throw it away.

She has discarded several
large cities. There are porches
she refuses to return to.

Rivers and dresses
already seen-through.

Rows of almond trees.
Bridges.

She has never seen the Southern Plains.
Has never dived for memories into a swimming hole
or an ocean. Tomorrow night she hopes
to be lifted once again by painfully clear sky.

To be disappointed once again by aurora borealis.

last summer, during my total short story fixation, i read The Unknown Errors of Our Lives, also by Divakaruni—it’s probably one of my favorite collections, so i was curious to read something else by her.

this novel is such a well-spun story, each chapter just barely resolving, strongly pulling into the subsequent chapter. ceasing to read became a very purposeful action. the chapters alternate points of view of two cousins who are, some people think, unnaturally close. the alternating is done so well—their voices are so unique but still tied in to each other that the story doesn’t jolt between them. the full ensemble of characters are dynamic and everything is nicely focused. there are no loose bits of extraneous information or description here.

usually i can figure out where everything is going beforehand, at least at some point before it happens, but there was at least one part that totally got me. the ending leaves off a little abruptly, but i wonder if there is really story left for the sequel.

i managed to rent this movie right when my roommate received the book as a gift. i didn’t really care for the movie at all. so much of the story seemed painfully undeveloped, major events slipped in casually and then never referenced again. reading the book, it’s a novel i would have never predicted to be hollywoodified, but i would have expected the results.

basically this is the aftermath of a tragic school bus crash that leaves few survivors. the book is told through a sequence of narrators and it’s all very internal. basically everything that makes this story interesting can’t possibly be translated into a film. without massive voiceovers, which were spared. the story does allow for some interviews between a lawyer (who ends up being the main character in the movie somehow) and a few of the characters; it does fill in some of the gaps. overall it just seems weird to consider the two sweet hereafters the same story, even though the major plot points are the same.

i can’t decide if it would have been better to have just read this and never seen the movie or if seeing the movie first and reading/analyzing the book was actually more entertaining than just reading it would have been. at least the movie of this marginally better than the film version of mrs. dalloway, which is perhaps too true to the story and therefore entirely boring.

i just read this for the first time this past autumn, so this may constitute the fastest desire to re-read a book yet. it is just so vast and focused, beautiful, brilliant. it’s pointless for me to describe it as the words will probably just sound trite. a definite favorite.

i read a rather obscene amount of agatha christie in junior high, and i really haven’t read anything in that vein until this murder mystery, set in an italian abbey in the year 1327. this is a weightier story than most of those books i read back then—the history is amazingly researched. every detail is placed meticulously. the story takes place over just seven days, so it’s the equivalent to “real time” or even some kind of magnified time.

the postscript, written three years after the book was initially published, is probably the best part of this edition. after reading through over 500 pages of story, even though the ending is no letdown, eco’s collection of thoughts on the novel round it out perfectly. it just confirms how well constructed the work is to read his intentions and thoughts after sharing the book with an audience.

the first hundred pages or so are pretty slow, but eco says that while people suggested that the first section be edited down, he refused.

… if somebody wanted to enter the abbey and live there for seven days, he had to accept the abbey’s own pace. If he could not, he would never manage to read the whole book.

this isn’t really a book to read or even take in with a page-by-page manner, but i suddenly thought of it this morning, thinking about searching for a certain kind of striped shirt. it reminded me of a little part in here where there is a search for a blue-striped search. it’s difficult to describe this, but the title explains a little: it’s a journal of a year spent in the south of france, all told through drawings and watercolors and lists and menus.

watercolor can be a disparaged medium, but i really love how sara midda uses it in this book. her detail is pretty amazing and the colors are just fabulous. one of my favorite things in this book is this little hours-of-the-day colorwheel:

(shared with you so you’ll see why this is so brilliant)

it’s rather pleasing to read this all at once: 74 poems compoased of couplets of questions (320 in all), most of which have no true answer. there are many repeating themes, like the moon and the seasons, especially autumn. some questions are more severe:

What forced labor does Hitler do in hell?

most seem more lighthearted, whimsical:

But is it true that the vests are preparing to revolt?

and thrown in are series of more philosophical questions:

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities?

Or will it not be a clarity
between two dark triangles?

Or will life not be a fish
prepared to be a bird?

Will death consist of nonbeing
or of dangerous substances?

In the end, won’t death
be an endless kitchen?

it seems like one could endlessly pull out favorite questions.