Lucky Per read-along this May

C0353C75-F9E0-47D7-B1C4-083D27F8D434This painting by Paul Gustave Fischer gives an indication of Denmark about one hundred years ago, and I like the mood he creates in this winter scene. But I am even better able to create an image in my mind when I read.

As I read of Peter Andreas sneaking out of his house at fourteen years of age to go sledding in the moonlight, I immediately sensed the joy he must have experienced until he was caught by the night watchman. Undeterred, he tells a bald-faced lie about there being a knife fight at the top of the hill, and saying he will fetch the doctor he makes a quick escape. (How is that some people are able to lie so quickly, so effectively, and others, when caught, simply stammer or look blank?)

At this point in my reading, he has left his father’s home, determined to succeed in his lofty engineering plan (involving fjord realignment) which has already been proved faulty by his professor. He is borrowing money for suits he cannot afford, and sleeping with women he does not love. I am mesmerized by this novel, which “propelled its author (Henrik Pontoppidian) to a 1917 Nobel Prize for Literature.” (Introduction in the Everyman’s Library edition.) I am reading it, at the suggestion of Dorian, along with several others. You can find comments and observations on Twitter at #LuckyPer2019, and of course you are welcome to join in as we read this month of May.

1965 Club: Hotel by Arthur Hailey

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I had to read Hotel on my kindle, because while it may have been an international bestseller once, our library no longer carries it. Nor does our local Barnes and Noble, or Indie book shop. It is such a fun read, not only because it “catches the reader by the lapels and holds him through its last crowded page” (the Chicago Tribune) but because it reminds me of life in the sixties. When wake-up calls were made by real people at the front desk, when keys were real metal objects connected to a plastic tag with your room number, and when call girls’ phone numbers were written on the front pages of the Gideon Bibles. (Who knew?)

All the inner workings of St. Gregory, a fictional hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans, are laid out for us in intricate detail. From the frat party gone wrong, to the fact that Warren Trent may have to sell his hotel to Curtis O’Keefe due to lacking money for the mortgage, we feel the tension suffered by the employees and guests alike.

There is the Duke and Duchess of Croydon who have a hit-and-run to hide, employing the help of the hotel’s devious investigator, Oligivie. There is Peter McDermott falling in love with Trent’s secretary, Catherine. There is a thief, nicknamed Keycase, who obtains keys through tricky means and comes into people’s rooms at night to lift their valuables. And there are age old issues besides, involving things like unions and racial tensions.

This is a book that brings me back to an era I vaguely remember, while showing us that the “more things change, the more they stay the same.” It was a wonderful choice for the 1965 Club; it would be a wonderful choice for your reading pleasure alone.

(Thanks to Simon and Kaggsy for hosting this reading event.)

1965 Club This Week

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Both Simon at Stuck in a Book and Kaggsy at Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings are hosting the 1965 Club this week, for which one reads a book…published in 1965. Like Karen at Booker Talk, my library has a crap selection of books which qualify, so I have turned to my trusty kindle, as well as my personal collection, to queue up the following reads:

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1. Hotel by Arthur Hailey. I needed a break from some heavy reading, and so I’m indulging in a plot driven book of life in a hotel which is based on the extensive research Hailey did while living in one, having free reign to both observe and interview the employees.

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2. The Arm of The Starfish by Madeleine L’Engle is the first story with Polly O’Keefe, a generation after the characters in A Wrinkle In Time. How well I remember reading this in 1975, ten years after it was published, already fully enamored by Madeleine L’Engle’s work.

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3. Cosmicomics by Italo Calvino, for in a perfect world I will have time for all three. This collection of stories is based on his imagination around scientific “facts”; as a person who rarely takes science seriously, I am intrigued by what will come to light through the mind of this writer.

What will you read for the 1965 Club? Like me, do you even remember the year? I, do, just barely. I think it was the year my father promised me a “red renting car” when I turned sixteen, as the four year old me fell in love with a red Thunderbird we took on a trip…

Poem In Your Pocket Day is Today

 

I have loved to celebrate Poem In Your Pocket Day with my class in years past. I taught the children how to make an origami pocket, into which they would place a favorite poem, and off we would go to the school’s reading garden to share them with one another.

This year, my mother had a poem she wished to share. And so, we copied it, rolled it, and tied it in a ribbon for Spring. She brought these poems to our friends at Book Club yesterday, in early celebration of Poem in Your Pocket Day today. (Now the women are prepared to celebrate, too.)

I have to share the poem she chose because it is just delightful, for bibliophiles in particular:

I Opened a Book

I opened a book and in I strode,

now no one can find me.

I’ve left my chair, my house, my road,

my town, and my world behind me.

I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring,

I’ve swallowed the magic potion.

I’ve fought with a dragon, dined with a king,

and dived in a bottomless ocean.

I opened a book and made some friends,

I shared their tears and laughter

and followed their road with its bumps and bends

to the happily ever after.

I finished my book and out I came,

the cloak can no longer hide me.

My chair and my house are just the same,

but I have a book inside me.

~Julia Donaldson

Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day! Be sure to share one with someone today.

If Cats Disappeared From The World by Genki Kawamura

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Soon after a young postman learns that his migraines are due to a cancerous brain tumour, he is visited by the devil and offered a deal.

“In order to gain something, you have to lose something…It’s just a matter of a simple exchange.”

“Exchange of what?”

“All you have to do is remove one thing from the world and in return, you’ll get one more day of life.”

Now I love getting rid of things. I’m not diagnosed with cancer, and I don’t make deals with the devil, but purging the house? Emptying shelves, closets, and drawers? I feel very liberated after doing that. So, the deal doesn’t sound all that negative to me. Especially when the first thing to disappear from the world is his phone. And not only his; cell phones are gone from the world. What commisseration I felt in reading this:

Mobile phones have been around for only about twenty years, but in just that short amount of time they’ve managed to take complete control over us. In the span of two decades something that we don’t really need has come to dominate our lives and make us believe we can’t live without it. When human beings invented the phone, they also invented the anxiety that comes with not having one on you. (p. 35)

The next things to go are movies, clocks, and then the issue of cats. Does the postman have it in him to rid the world of cats just so that he can live?

The book is a bit “lumpy”, whether that’s due to translation or the youth of the author I can’t quite tell. There are things that don’t quite connect; for example, what has happened to all the things the devil made disappear from the world when he made a deal with previous people? The theology is a bit wonky, too, in the idea that the devil represents all the regrets one has in one’s life. (If only he was that innocuous!)

But, when I step back and look at it as a whole, I find some very pertinent issues are addressed, such as the relationships in our lives which may need to be healed. Or, the recognition of how fragile we all are. It is the journey which the author takes us on, the discovery through the postman’s eyes, which is what makes this book special.

Yeah, but just being alive doesn’t mean that much all on its own. How you live is more important. (p. 152)

Yes, to that.

Have Dog, Will Travel by Stephen Kuusisto (“…a dog-driven invitation to living full forward.” A tender, lovely book.)

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Each step is good. Every footfall. “Walk as if you are missing the Earth with your feet,” said Thich Nhat Hanh, a Zen master whose writings I’d always loved. “Now walk as if you are kissing the Earth with six feet,” I thought, “and say, ‘Good dog!'” (p. 57)

It isn’t until Stephen is 38 that he gets his guide dog, Corky. And then, his life opens up for him. He can move past an alcoholic mother who denied his blindness all her life,  never “permitting” him to admit to a disability.

But, when a social worker gives him a pamphlet about seeing eye dogs, he goes to New York to find connection with a Labrador named Corky.

This is a beautiful book. It isn’t just for dog lovers, and it certainly is not just for those with difficult seeing. For all of us bear wounds of some kind which make passing through this world a bit tricky at times. My life was affirmed as I read Stephen’s story describing his life. How fortunate we are when something can make the journey easier, especially if that is a joyful, loving dog.

Palm Sunday in the Snow

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The palm branch signifies victory, triumph, peace, and and eternal life. It was given to triumphant athletes in ancient Greece, and it was one of the most common attributes of victory found in ancient Rome.

It is no wonder then, that palm branches were given out to us this Sunday, and waved before the Lord on His triumphant entry into Jerusalem.  The crowd took branches of palm leaves and went out to meet Him shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” (John 12:12)

We wave the palm branches in praise, the thing we were designed to do. We won’t let anything steal our praise. (Not fear, or doubt, or even a titch of snow in April.)

New Every Morning

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The Lord’s unfailing love and mercy still continue. Fresh as the morning, as sure as the sunrise.

~Lamentations 3:22-23

(Good News Translation)

When I came downstairs this morning, there was so much rose gold in the living room I thought that my husband had turned on the lights. But, he was sitting with his coffee, and he said, “Look out the window,” at the same time my friend Robert texted, “Look at the sky.”

I grabbed my phone quickly to try to capture a bit of the sky outside of our front door, but it only ends up looking like a Hallmark card. There is no way to capture the glory of His handiwork with a piece of technology.

Nevertheless, I am reminded that His mercies are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness, Oh Lord.

A Brief Summary Of Each Book Long-listed for the Man Booker International Prize, and My Favorites in Order

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1. The Four Soldiers by Hubert Mingarelli: an impeccable portrayal of friendships, told with the hope and innocence of young men who are facing danger ahead, the kind only war can bring.

2. Drive Your Plow Over The Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk: a mystery of sorts, with the love of animals at its core, but also including the eccentricities of a woman dismayed by the world around her.

3. Celestial Bodies by Jokha Alharthi: a story of several generations living in Oman, showing me life in the Middle East in ways that do not make me feel the need to writhe against their culture, nor defend my own.

4. The Shape of The Ruins by Juan Gabriel Vásquez: a disconcerting view of history as we’ve been taught, reminding us that what we know to be true probably isn’t. Especially if it comes from the hands of the government.

5. The Death of Murat Idrissi by Tommy Wieringa: depicting the difficulties of immigration for those who need to leave their country and those who try to help them.

6. The Pine Islands by Marion Poschmann: a German man travels through Japan tracing Basho’s footsteps as he describes nature and tries to find himself.

7. At Dusk by Hwang Sok-yong: an architect recognizes the mistakes he made for his own growth and profession at the expense of others when it’s too late to do anything about them.

8. The Faculty of Dreams by Sara Stridsberg: a bitter account of the dreadful life led by Valerie Solanas, the woman who tried to kill Andy Warhol.

9. Love In The Time of The Millennium by Can Xue: a bizarre, nonlinear account of characters searching for love and meaning in China.

10. The Remainder by Alia Trabucco Zeran: counts and recounts the bodies of the dead in Santiago, Chile, through the eyes of two friends, hoping to make sense of the city around them.

11. Jokes for The Gunman by Mazen Maarouf: short stories about war, pain, and disappointment told with distressing irony, often from youthful points of view.

12. Mouthful of Birds by Samanta Schweblin: incredibly imaginative short stories of the vilest nature with not a shred of hope or redemption in any of them.

13. The Years by Annie Ernaux: one woman’s memoirs, with a particular emphasis on France, ultimately reflecting her disappointment with authority in general and men in particular as she recounts the experiences of her life. Some of which are universal.

And now I await the official announcement of the short list from the Man Booker International Prize judges, due April 9, wondering which six of these thirteen will be the favored ones. Meanwhile, the Shadow Jury finishes their reading of the long list and is compiling a list of our favorite six. Do not expect that my favorites will reflect the Shadow Jury’s favorites. From the comments and scores we have determined in private so far, I can already see that there are large differences of opinion. But, this is what makes reading together so much fun: finding out what is critical to one another in the literary world.

Love In The New Millennium by Can Xue (translated from the Chinese by Annelise Finegan Wasmoen, Man Booker International Prize 2019)

Reading Love In the New Millenium is like dreaming a bad dream: disjointed things are happening on every page, with no clear significance or meaning (to me).

“Do you understand everything now?” she asked.

Wei Bo did not understand at all. What sort of woman was A Si’s mother? Why had Long Sixiang wanted him to come here? His sole impression was that the old woman had a cruel temper.

“No, Sixiang, I don’t understand.”

“Good!” Ling Sixiang clapped her hands. ” Your not understanding is understanding!”

These are the kind of nonsensical sentences that fill the pages at the beginning of this book.

“People come and go so quickly here!” said Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. And they do in Can Xue’s world, too. We don’t really know Wei Bo, except that he is forty-eight and works in a soap factory. We don’t really know any of the women who are a part of his life: Niu Cuilan or A Si (his lovers); nor Xiao Yuan, his wife. We discover that Cuilan and A Si worked in the cotton mill, and then gained employment in the health spa as prostitutes; the later life-style seems easier than the former. There are also Long Sixiang and Jin Zhu, the Gold Pearl. They have left working in the cotton mill as well, to become prostitutes though they are old and had a hard time getting started in the business. These women come and go from Wei Bo’s life with relative ease.

Many things go in and out of Wei Bo’s life. I don’t know what to make of paragraphs like this one, involving an elderly woman who has sung La Traviata for forty years, and walks with Wei Bo after the performance.

“Where do you live?” (He asks her.)

“Over on that side, in the fifteen-story building. It’s been lovely to take a walk with you.

The actress walked in the direction of the tall building. A gust of wind lifted her black skirt, and Wei Bo saw her fly upward like a great bird, both feet leaving the ground. She alighted at the entrance to the building. The door opened itself, she all but flapped through it, then the door shut. The large black door with its pair of copper ring handles made a mournful impression. Before long her aria emerged through an upstairs window, although Wei Bo could not understand a word…” (p. 74)

Wei Bo could not understand a word? Neither, sadly, could I.

Most of this novel was incomprehensible to me, and it frustrated me as I read. But, I could not put it down. It called me to continue, to wander down the path that Can Xue created so that I could see what might lie ahead. Or, under a leaf. Or, in the fifth room of a cave dwelling. The occurrances in this novel are bizarre, to be sure, but the imagery is quite astonishing. Like the vivid cover on the front, there is a richness in design and color which mimics the writing inside. It is like nothing I have ever read before. I don’t know what to make of it. But, I think I like it.

Her songs aren’t about our past life, or about the emotional life of people today, but instead about the life we have never even imagined.

(Thanks to Yale University Press for a copy of this book to review.)

Find a most excellent review of this novel here.