This is the sort of book I can’t really talk about, the way I’d like to talk about it, as then if you wanted to read it, there would be little point. It’s written as a series of letters from the mother of a teenager who murdered several classmates and school faculty/staff to her husband (and his father). It’s the sort of book that carefully reveals information over a long period, so there is a lot of suspense, methodically-built, yet paced languorously. It’s also kind of a downer due to the subject matter.
And, well, there’s not much else to say without getting into things you wouldn’t want to know if you were to read it.
It was a small thing, but it was a thing, and things have a way of either dying or growing, and it wasn’t dying. Years went by. This thing grew, like a child, microscopically, every day. And since they were a team, and all teams want to win, they continuously adjusted their vision to keep its growth invisible. They wordlessly excused each other for not loving each other as much as they planned to. There were empty rooms in the house where they had meant to put their love, and they worked together to fill these rooms with midcentury modern furniture. Herman Miller, George Nelson, Charles and Ray Eames. They were never alone; it became crowded.
Outwardly Miranda July’s stories are quirky, funny, and at times a bit creepy, but in a clever, humorous way. But underneath all that lies an inherent sadness. Constant undercurrents of loss and profound yearning churn beneath the wry comedies. That is exactly what is so great about them.
(with Alex Prud’homme)
I mentioned when I read Julie and Julia that I felt this book might be more up my alley. Indeed, I sped through this in a matter of days. While the book is focused on Julia & Paul’s time in Paris and France and later time spent in Provence, it oversees the entirety of their life together, with just enough background on the non-France parts to give context without detracting from that focus. There isn’t necessarily always a steady narrative flow—things, like her younger sister’s pregnancy for instance, are introduced, but then it isn’t until years later that the child is discussed again. But then seeing as Prud’homme collected these stories through interviews and casual conversations with Julia and wrote them into vignettes for her to read and amend up until her death in 2004 when he pieced it all together, it’s amazing how well it all comes together.
A really lovely book and ultimately sad because nothing lasts forever; here the wonderful good times become the past all too quickly.
The best parts of this anthology are the overlays of drawings that interpret the certain poems’ structures. Being that Stoner chose the poems based on her own collection, it’s not necessarily a comprehensive look at poetry that tackles themes of space, like domesticity, urbanism, and form. But it is an interesting concept—how poetry can influence architecture.
I really like this line for Thedore Roethke’s villanelle The Waking: “I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.”
I was a little dubious of the usage of Futura Light as the typeface, but by the end was swayed that it’s a really good choice for the book. Usually sans-serif faces are harder to read, but the thin forms actually felt more legible than the regular weight. Her reasoning is that the typeface requires less ink and therefore “it manifests the direction in which architecture must go.”
I started reading this novel in the fall, got halfway through by mid-December, and then wound up abandoning it when I decided not to lug 800 pages with me while going out of town for the holidays. Luckily last month I had a lull in novels and a bit of insomnia and hadn’t yet forgotten who all the characters were.
Shortly after starting the book I got two spoilers about the dramatic ending, which I had somehow never been exposed to (or stored away, I suppose) before that point. A testament to my stubbornness in reading, I continued on to see exactly how it would all pan out, even though knowing what was coming detracted enormously from the impact.
This book has one of the best opening lines:
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
Yet unless you are into classics or enjoy the challenges of making it through long books and keeping track of Russian names, I can’t say that there is anything incredible about the story. The core draw is the plight of Anna who has an affair and leaves her husband, entirely unheard of in late 19th century Russia. The difficulties she faces in dealing with the situation are interesting in terms of historical and feminist perspectives.
But then there is the complementing story of Kitty and Levin’s gradual progression towards marriage—initially thwarted by Kitty’s hope for a proposal from the guy who falls for Anna. Tolstoy explores his ideas on Christian socialism through Levin’s struggles as a landowner. Many chapters are devoted to Levin’s existential angst, whether he is being a loner with his thoughts or in a group distracted by his thoughts. Eventually at the end of the book he has a big revelation and reaches some sense of peace, but it was a rather lackluster resolution for me.
Wish You Were Here
Postcard of time, stolen time. And I have such wide need. How can I tell you of all the birds visiting me? First, geese at night—just as you said—flying by the light of the river. No, I mean by the absence of the light of the river. Then, cranes, three: a dream, a painting, a photograph. Also, this paper if you fold it: origami sign of—what? Good fortune against great distances, against exhaustion, or so I’ve read. Remember, you said you wanted birds at parting. OK then, take mine. Let this be the feather in your mailbox.
The Path from You Back to Me
Then just as suddenly the poems returned.
I had said this red room could trap any bird,
it is so loud.
But then it quieted.
And the bird just flew off
as though the hurt never was.
What gesture is extravagant enough now?
What better praise then fine,
I’ll take it—
