After reading a few of Doris Lessing's short stories, I realize how much great writing I have missed by not reading more of her works earlier. Of the few stories I have read lately -- "Wine," "He," "An Old Woman and Her Cat," "A Room," "The Unposted Love Letter" and "The Other Garden" -- the thing that struck me repeatedly was the universality, the timelessness of Lessing's stories.
In "Wine," for instance, a husband and a wife talk as they sip wine. Lessing does not give this couple names. After all, it doesn't appear as if they really know each other that well anymore anyway. And they could be any married couple, perhaps many couples -- those who, as they say, have grown apart or those who never were quite together anyway.
The story that most affected me, though, was "An Old Woman and Her Cat." This story is about a poor and lonely widow named Hetty whose only companion in her London flat is a once-stray cat named Tibby. She feeds it, she talks to it, she sings to it. So, when demolition in the name of progress threatens their home, she protects Tibby with her life, much as the friendly, trusting Tibby has protected her -- by bringing her birds to cook as she had no money to buy food -- and as the little cat ultimately will trust another less-deserving human for its own protection.
Humanity. Progress. Society. Trust. For me, the story was all about society's misplaced priorities and the dangers of misplaced trust. We trust political leaders filled with hate -- and money -- to guard our freedom; we trust often-greedy banks with our money; we trust our children with teachers who make less than plumbers, our lives with exhausted emergency-room doctors. We trust our safety with police officers who make less than men who can run fast and throw a ball far. We trust, and all too often we get burned, cheated, robbed, hurt because there's someone else who's richer, smarter, closer in kin, higher in rank, more powerful or just better-looking.
Our obituary may someday show up in a newspaper if any of our "survivors" sees fit to buy the space. But for the most part, most of our deaths will go unnoticed by the rich, the powerful, the smarter, those higher in rank or status. But our life will have mattered -- to ourselves and to the ones we helped, especially if their station in life was even lower than our own. And their life, no matter how unnewsworthy, will have mattered to us as well.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake by Anna Quindlen
In Anna Quindlen's newest book, she writes of life as she approaches 60. The book is a memoir of, to a limited degree, her young adulthood and, to a much greater one, of her marriage, her three children and her career as a journalist and successful author. Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake is largely written in essay form -- perhaps my favorite genre -- and reveals much about the woman behind the bestselling name.
If you didn't already know it, she supports, among other things, women's rights, including those that would open more high-ranking management positions to women.
Quindlen takes a generally optimistic tone, though she admits some fears -- along with hopes -- that many, if not all, people face as they grow older.
"Most of us convince ourselves that we will reach a plateau from our peak, not a valley," she writes.
"I try to imagine all the contingencies, but I admit I focus on the ones I like best" -- sitting at a book club with friends, not in the hallway of a nursing home, for instance, she adds.
Quindlen recalls the words of an elderly friend, Mrs. Smiley, who once said, "If you break a hip, you're finished."
To which, Quindlen observes, "It was an overstatement, but I think what she was really trying to say was that sometimes a single moment can mark the dividing line between who you are and who you never wanted to be."
I read those words, I agreed with them, I pondered the unfairness of them, and then I tried to pinpoint the dividing line in my own life, if it already exists. The very fact that I consider these words to be so unfair suggests I have at least approached that line -- or it has approached me. The line, the incident, the thing that changes everything, does not have to be an injury or an illness.
It can be a wrong decision, one we made as an immature teenager (as in Anne Tyler's wonderful novel Saint Maybe). Or it can be one we made as a mature adult but with naive expectations, with fanciful hopes or sometimes with greedy or sinister intent. Perhaps, the dividing line is a move we made, a job we turned down, a job we took, a marriage proposal we accepted or declined, a missed plane, a canceled doctor's appointment, a lie we told, a lie we believed, a lie we pretend didn't happen.
If it's not clear by now, I loved Quindlen's book, though, unlike her, I am less happy with my life at this point than I was when I was in my 30s. The 30s brought more choices -- in work, in health, in relationships, in the smallest of decisions and in the biggest of adventures. And yet age also has given me more self-confidence, along with a greater ability to understand why good people make mistakes and why we should be inclined to forgive rather than accuse. You see, as we live longer, we are bound to make more and more mistakes, some worse than others. So, we -- I -- can see more clearly than ever how I, too, have so often needed forgiveness.
Unlike the high school senior who didn't get asked to her prom, who was made to believe she was obese at 130, 140 pounds, who felt such irrational guilt she washed her hands over and over and over -- the woman I have become is moderately self-confident, not content but no longer embarrassed by her weight. Now, I can more freely call a supervising editor by a first name instead of Mr. (There weren't many upper-management figures in newsrooms with a Mrs., Ms. or Miss title in the 70s and 80s, and frankly there still aren't.) I now can even express disagreement when I disagree. I will defend myself and rarely apologize unless I believe I am in the wrong or unless I see no other logical recourse: I am pragmatic. And despite the feeling by many younger men and women that it's time for people of my generation, especially women, to quit being ambitious, to step aside and let them replace us, I shall continue working for a better life, a better job, another start if you will -- I'm not quitting and have no intention of doing so.
In many ways I'm braver, more courageous than I was at age 30. In other ways never before expected, I'm more vulnerable than ever, afraid of the unknown, of what lies ahead.
But fears or not, if I live to be 80, 90, 100, I won't go out sitting quietly "in my place." I fully intend to speak up for women's rights and against gender, racial and age discrimination as long as I can -- unless both my verbal and written voices give out on me first.
As Quindlen writes, "To be continued. It's another day, and I'm off and running. See you."
If you didn't already know it, she supports, among other things, women's rights, including those that would open more high-ranking management positions to women.
Quindlen takes a generally optimistic tone, though she admits some fears -- along with hopes -- that many, if not all, people face as they grow older.
"Most of us convince ourselves that we will reach a plateau from our peak, not a valley," she writes.
"I try to imagine all the contingencies, but I admit I focus on the ones I like best" -- sitting at a book club with friends, not in the hallway of a nursing home, for instance, she adds.
Quindlen recalls the words of an elderly friend, Mrs. Smiley, who once said, "If you break a hip, you're finished."
To which, Quindlen observes, "It was an overstatement, but I think what she was really trying to say was that sometimes a single moment can mark the dividing line between who you are and who you never wanted to be."
I read those words, I agreed with them, I pondered the unfairness of them, and then I tried to pinpoint the dividing line in my own life, if it already exists. The very fact that I consider these words to be so unfair suggests I have at least approached that line -- or it has approached me. The line, the incident, the thing that changes everything, does not have to be an injury or an illness.
It can be a wrong decision, one we made as an immature teenager (as in Anne Tyler's wonderful novel Saint Maybe). Or it can be one we made as a mature adult but with naive expectations, with fanciful hopes or sometimes with greedy or sinister intent. Perhaps, the dividing line is a move we made, a job we turned down, a job we took, a marriage proposal we accepted or declined, a missed plane, a canceled doctor's appointment, a lie we told, a lie we believed, a lie we pretend didn't happen.
If it's not clear by now, I loved Quindlen's book, though, unlike her, I am less happy with my life at this point than I was when I was in my 30s. The 30s brought more choices -- in work, in health, in relationships, in the smallest of decisions and in the biggest of adventures. And yet age also has given me more self-confidence, along with a greater ability to understand why good people make mistakes and why we should be inclined to forgive rather than accuse. You see, as we live longer, we are bound to make more and more mistakes, some worse than others. So, we -- I -- can see more clearly than ever how I, too, have so often needed forgiveness.
Unlike the high school senior who didn't get asked to her prom, who was made to believe she was obese at 130, 140 pounds, who felt such irrational guilt she washed her hands over and over and over -- the woman I have become is moderately self-confident, not content but no longer embarrassed by her weight. Now, I can more freely call a supervising editor by a first name instead of Mr. (There weren't many upper-management figures in newsrooms with a Mrs., Ms. or Miss title in the 70s and 80s, and frankly there still aren't.) I now can even express disagreement when I disagree. I will defend myself and rarely apologize unless I believe I am in the wrong or unless I see no other logical recourse: I am pragmatic. And despite the feeling by many younger men and women that it's time for people of my generation, especially women, to quit being ambitious, to step aside and let them replace us, I shall continue working for a better life, a better job, another start if you will -- I'm not quitting and have no intention of doing so.
In many ways I'm braver, more courageous than I was at age 30. In other ways never before expected, I'm more vulnerable than ever, afraid of the unknown, of what lies ahead.
But fears or not, if I live to be 80, 90, 100, I won't go out sitting quietly "in my place." I fully intend to speak up for women's rights and against gender, racial and age discrimination as long as I can -- unless both my verbal and written voices give out on me first.
As Quindlen writes, "To be continued. It's another day, and I'm off and running. See you."
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