Here's another poem by Emily Dickinson. It struck me as being quite optimistic and enjoyable. Remember how easy it is to enjoy more of the simple things in life that are all around us, if only we open our ears (as in this poem), or our eyes to enjoy the beauty of nature. If you'd like to read a little information about the poet, please look back at the blog: Emily Dickinson (1st Poem).
(Poem from The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson published by Barnes & Nobel, 1993.
Heart not so heavy as mine,
Wending late home,
As it passed my window
Whistled itself a tune, -
A careless snatch, a ballad,
A ditty of the street;
Yet to my irritated ear
An anodyne so sweet,
It was as if a bobolink,
Sauntering this way,
Carolled and mused and carolled,
Then bubbled slow away.
It was as if a chirping brook
Upon a toilsome way
Set bleeding feet to minuets
Without the knowing why.
To-morrow, night will come again,
Weary, perhaps, and sore.
Ah, bugle, by my window,
I pray you stroll once more!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Inheritance of Loss
Written by Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss was published in 2006.
As I read this novel, I was taken right into Sai's world with her, and could feel the invisible chains all around this young 17-year-old orphan, living with her cold and grouchy grandfather, in his delapidated and crumbling house. Though he is a retired judge, her grandfather simply cannot afford to make any repairs, and can just about manage to retain the services of his last servant, the cook. Likewise, they live their daily lives without any changes or improvements. Change is going on around them, however, as India experiences social unrest and insurgents roam around, some of whom even rob Sai's family. Sai is quite isolated in this environment and it is easy to understand how she might begin to fall in love with the only young man who regularly visits their home: her tutor.
I loved how Ms. Desai's developed the characters and thought that her ability to evoke sympathy for them was terrific. I understood the grandfather better after reading his experiences in England during his studies there as a young man. Because he was so lonely, he spent long hours studying.
Page 45
He retreated into a solitude that grew in weight day by day. The solitude became a habit, the habit became the man, and it crushed him into a shadow.
But shadows, after all, create their own unease, and despite his attempts to hide, he merely emphasized something than unsettled others. For entire days nobody spoke to him at all, his throat jammed with words unuttered, his heart and mind turned into blunt aching things,......
------------------------------------------------------------------------
New York was portrayed as being a really harsh environment for the young son of the cook who came to make his fortune. But so too was India upon his return.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The writer's descriptive abilities are excellent and as example, I have to share with you the opening sentences. They are simply beautiful and very poetic.
Page 1
All day, the colors had been those of dusk, mist moving like a water creature across the great flanks of mountains possessed of ocean shadows and depths. Briefly visible above the vapor, Kanchenjunga was a far peak whittled out of ice, gathering the last of the light, a plume of snow blown high by the winds at its summit.
As I read this novel, I was taken right into Sai's world with her, and could feel the invisible chains all around this young 17-year-old orphan, living with her cold and grouchy grandfather, in his delapidated and crumbling house. Though he is a retired judge, her grandfather simply cannot afford to make any repairs, and can just about manage to retain the services of his last servant, the cook. Likewise, they live their daily lives without any changes or improvements. Change is going on around them, however, as India experiences social unrest and insurgents roam around, some of whom even rob Sai's family. Sai is quite isolated in this environment and it is easy to understand how she might begin to fall in love with the only young man who regularly visits their home: her tutor.
I loved how Ms. Desai's developed the characters and thought that her ability to evoke sympathy for them was terrific. I understood the grandfather better after reading his experiences in England during his studies there as a young man. Because he was so lonely, he spent long hours studying.
Page 45
He retreated into a solitude that grew in weight day by day. The solitude became a habit, the habit became the man, and it crushed him into a shadow.
But shadows, after all, create their own unease, and despite his attempts to hide, he merely emphasized something than unsettled others. For entire days nobody spoke to him at all, his throat jammed with words unuttered, his heart and mind turned into blunt aching things,......
------------------------------------------------------------------------
New York was portrayed as being a really harsh environment for the young son of the cook who came to make his fortune. But so too was India upon his return.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The writer's descriptive abilities are excellent and as example, I have to share with you the opening sentences. They are simply beautiful and very poetic.
Page 1
All day, the colors had been those of dusk, mist moving like a water creature across the great flanks of mountains possessed of ocean shadows and depths. Briefly visible above the vapor, Kanchenjunga was a far peak whittled out of ice, gathering the last of the light, a plume of snow blown high by the winds at its summit.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
For the love of poetry
I believe that all poetry is meant to be read out loud. I believe that when you read a poem aloud, you are giving it life, and you feel the words, and the meaning, and the passion much more than just reading it silently.
And so I was intrigued by the essay written by Jim Holt in tomorrow's The New York Times Book Review (Sunday, April 5, 2009). Essentially, Mr. Holt feels that we should memorize poetry, and then we should recite the poem or poems aloud, from memory. He says that this method is deeply pleasurable, because, he writes, "the sensation is far more powerful when the words come from within."
Nice essay, Mr. Holt!
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/05/books/review/Holt-t.html?_r=1&scp=5&sq=Book%20Review,%20Sunday%20April%205,%202009&st=cse
And so I was intrigued by the essay written by Jim Holt in tomorrow's The New York Times Book Review (Sunday, April 5, 2009). Essentially, Mr. Holt feels that we should memorize poetry, and then we should recite the poem or poems aloud, from memory. He says that this method is deeply pleasurable, because, he writes, "the sensation is far more powerful when the words come from within."
Nice essay, Mr. Holt!
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/05/books/review/Holt-t.html?_r=1&scp=5&sq=Book%20Review,%20Sunday%20April%205,%202009&st=cse
Friday, April 3, 2009
A Very Long Engagement
Un long dimanche de fiancailles by Sebastien Japrisot was first published in France in 1991 by Editions Denoel (sorry that I cannot put in the French accents with this keyboard). It was translated into English by Linda Coverdale.
This novel is set in World War I France, and introduces us to the lives of several soldiers, the horror of war and the mystery of their deaths. And we meet Mathilde, the young girl left at home to await the return of her boyfriend, Manech, from the war. She does not believe it when she is told that he has been killed. She tries to find out what really happened to him. A lot of intrigue is revealed as the story unfolds.
When we first meet Manech on page 15, we learn that:
he'd already spent more time at the front than the pitiful buffoon staggering along ahead of him, and, given his fevered imagination, he was even more tortured by fear than his companion.
And then there is a list of all his fears. It is such a compelling list that we know we would feel the fear too:
He was afraid of the war and of death, like almost everyone, but he was also afraid of the wind, that harbinger of gas attacks, afraid of a flare tearing through the night, afraid of himself, for he never knew what he might do when he was afraid, afraid of his own side's artillery, afraid of his own gun, afraid of the whine of aeriel torpedoes, afraid of mines that explode and engulf a whole section of infantry, afraid of the flooding that drowns you in the dugout,....
This novel is set in World War I France, and introduces us to the lives of several soldiers, the horror of war and the mystery of their deaths. And we meet Mathilde, the young girl left at home to await the return of her boyfriend, Manech, from the war. She does not believe it when she is told that he has been killed. She tries to find out what really happened to him. A lot of intrigue is revealed as the story unfolds.
When we first meet Manech on page 15, we learn that:
he'd already spent more time at the front than the pitiful buffoon staggering along ahead of him, and, given his fevered imagination, he was even more tortured by fear than his companion.
And then there is a list of all his fears. It is such a compelling list that we know we would feel the fear too:
He was afraid of the war and of death, like almost everyone, but he was also afraid of the wind, that harbinger of gas attacks, afraid of a flare tearing through the night, afraid of himself, for he never knew what he might do when he was afraid, afraid of his own side's artillery, afraid of his own gun, afraid of the whine of aeriel torpedoes, afraid of mines that explode and engulf a whole section of infantry, afraid of the flooding that drowns you in the dugout,....
Thursday, April 2, 2009
That They May Face the Rising Sun
That They May Face the Rising Sun by John McGahern was published in 2002 by Faber and Faber. In this novel, McGahern shows his wondrous talent for writing beautiful descriptions of the most ordinary circumstances and weaving great stories out of everyday occurences. He is outstanding at character development and the people you will meet in this novel will almost come alive.
A couple have partially dropped out of their working life in London and have bought an old house in Ireland. The man is originally from the area and his wife is English. The novel's depiction of them and their interactions with the locals is beautifully written and a delight to read.
This is the first book by John McGahern that I have read. Since I had picked it up at Dublin Airport before the long flight back to the US, I was especially glad that it turned out to be really good. Just look at the opening paragraph below. I was, and still am, awed by the beauty, by the poetry, of it.
Page 1
The morning was clear. There was no wind on the lake. There was also a great stillness. When the bells rang out for Mass, the strokes trembling on the water, they had the entire world to themselves.
Page 68
'What about Mary and Jamesie?'
'Mary's the best in the world,' his face brightened. There's none better than Mary. Jamesie would give you the shirt off his back. Once I was coming to borrow their mule. He had the mule tackled and was putting out topdressing. As soon as he saw me come he had the mule untackled in seconds. He declared before God that he was doing nothing with the mule. The mule was there for me to take.'
A couple have partially dropped out of their working life in London and have bought an old house in Ireland. The man is originally from the area and his wife is English. The novel's depiction of them and their interactions with the locals is beautifully written and a delight to read.
This is the first book by John McGahern that I have read. Since I had picked it up at Dublin Airport before the long flight back to the US, I was especially glad that it turned out to be really good. Just look at the opening paragraph below. I was, and still am, awed by the beauty, by the poetry, of it.
Page 1
The morning was clear. There was no wind on the lake. There was also a great stillness. When the bells rang out for Mass, the strokes trembling on the water, they had the entire world to themselves.
Page 68
'What about Mary and Jamesie?'
'Mary's the best in the world,' his face brightened. There's none better than Mary. Jamesie would give you the shirt off his back. Once I was coming to borrow their mule. He had the mule tackled and was putting out topdressing. As soon as he saw me come he had the mule untackled in seconds. He declared before God that he was doing nothing with the mule. The mule was there for me to take.'
Sunday, March 29, 2009
In the Time of the Butterflies (revised post)
By Julia Alvarez, In the Time of the Butterflies, was printed in 1995. This is a well-written and heart-wrenching work of fiction, and apparently is based on the history of the Dominican Republic from 1938 to 1960. Ms. Alvarez points out that in this novel "what you find here are the Mirabals of my creation, made up, but, I hope, true to the spirit of the real Mirabals." And she adds, "A novel is not, after all, a historical document, but a way to travel throught the human heart."
Page 114
Trujillo puts his dice back on the empty try. It's then I notice the sides don't balance. Of course, my good-for-nothing uncle would give his buddy loaded dice.
Page 115
Quickly I reach for the heavier set of dice and begin shaking them in my fist. Trujillo studies the wobbling scales. But without my set there, he can't tell which are his loaded pair. "Go ahead," he says, eyeing me closely. "Highest number wins."
Page 57
Later, lying in the bed we were sharing, I joined Mama in her goodnight rosary to the Virgencita. Her voice in the dark was full of need. At the first Sorrowful Mystery, she said Papa's full name, as if she were calling him to account, not praying for him.
"What's wrong, Mama?" I whispered to her when we were finished.
Friday, March 27, 2009
First Confession
A Penguin Books volume of short stories by Frank O'Connor entitled My Oedipus Complex and Other Stories contains one called First Confession. I love this timeless story and hope you will too.
Only eight-and-a-half pages long, it describes in great honesty and simplicity the trials of a young Irish boy who has to put up with frequent torment by his sister, the rough manners of his granny, and overcome his great fear of having to confess his sins for the first time.
It did not help that his mother was unable to take him to make his first confession and sent his sister instead. She taunts him all the way to the chapel.
Excerpt:
'Isn't it a terrible pity you weren't a good boy? Oh, Jackie, my heart bleeds for you!'
Another excerpt:
'There you are!' she said with a yelp of triumph, hurling me through the church door.' And I hope he'll give you the penitential psalms, you dirty little caffler.'
Penguin Books first published these stories in 1963, but they had been previously printed in 1953 and 1957 by Hamish Hamilton. Frank O'Connor is the pseudonym of Michael O'Donovan (1903-1966).
Only eight-and-a-half pages long, it describes in great honesty and simplicity the trials of a young Irish boy who has to put up with frequent torment by his sister, the rough manners of his granny, and overcome his great fear of having to confess his sins for the first time.
It did not help that his mother was unable to take him to make his first confession and sent his sister instead. She taunts him all the way to the chapel.
Excerpt:
'Isn't it a terrible pity you weren't a good boy? Oh, Jackie, my heart bleeds for you!'
Another excerpt:
'There you are!' she said with a yelp of triumph, hurling me through the church door.' And I hope he'll give you the penitential psalms, you dirty little caffler.'
Penguin Books first published these stories in 1963, but they had been previously printed in 1953 and 1957 by Hamish Hamilton. Frank O'Connor is the pseudonym of Michael O'Donovan (1903-1966).
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