Books can be like dominos. One leads to another and sometimes to the unexpected. Consider that after reading an online review of The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey, I made a point to read the non-fiction story of her journey with illness and nature.
In short, Bailey tells of a debilitating illness that left her confined to bed for years. During that time, she found solace in nature, specifically a small, pregnant snail found in Bailey's garden and given to her along with a plant by a friend.
The book began on a high note, with the story focusing on the author's own struggles as well as the snail's habits and ... personality, if you will. Yet, the book grew increasingly tedious as what had started as creative non-fiction slowly spiraled downward into a too-long research paper. Yet that overwhelmingly well-sourced paper led me to another writer and her works.
Bailey cited a wide range of reading on snails, mostly scientific works by the likes of Charles Darwin. But she also mentioned a short story, "The Snail-Watcher" by Patricia Highsmith, better known for the novel, The Talented Mr. Ripley. That Highsmith, known for her mysteries in which the bad guys sometimes win, had written a story about snails fascinated me in itself. So, after wrapping up The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating and learning the fate of the once-wild snail and its many babies, I began searching for the Highsmith story. I found it in a Highsmith short-story collection titled Eleven.
This story focused on a professor whose obsession with snails leads to a
deadly collection of the little critters not to mention a bit of
marital strife.The story proved bizarre and rather distasteful, pun intended. But I loved it.
I looked further into the Highsmith collection and found yet another snail story. This one titled "The Quest for Blank Claveringi" is about a professor who sets out to discover a creature -- in this case, a huge, man-eating snail on a remote island -- and have it named after him.
Once again, the main character's obsession gets the best of him. This story of a couple of overgrown snails -- yes, mates and their smaller offspring -- would have made a better Vincent Price movie than a children's fantasy.
Along the way, I read the entire book of stories and found my favorite was not the ones about snails but one about another small creature. That work, titled simply "The Terrapin," is not a horror story or even one as unlikely as the two snail stories. The main character is a young boy who lives in an apartment with his dim-witted, insensitive mother. Suffice it to say, the terrapin was only a vehicle to show how the mother's cruelty forever changes her son's life. In the final paragraph, we learn of the boy's devastation and revenge in a few, concise sentences that readers are unlikely to forget.
In Highsmith, I have found another author whose creativity and writing I like. I plan to read more of her works.
So, the next time you read a book or article with literary references, consider jotting down those that sound interesting and giving them a try. You may find a new favorite writer.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Life AND Death
Reading about death lately has taught me much about life.
First, I read Christopher Hitchens' Mortality, a book of unsentimental essays written after the author learned he was dying of cancer. While Hitchens' atheism and disdain for those who sought to convert him played a role in much of his writing, the essays also revealed a caring husband, father and friend; an intelligent observer and commentator; and a man who loved writing even in his final weeks. Sometimes as I read his essays, though, I questioned whether he was debating with himself the premise of God's existence and, hence, the hereafter. Otherwise, why go to such lengths to explain why he wouldn't convert as death closed in on him and why he didn't want others' prayers. Both answers already were obvious to anyone who had followed only bits of Hitchens' life. So, I wonder whether he wondered about God, whose name Hitchens spelled with a lower-case "g."
Later, I read former death-row inmate Damien Echols' essay collection, Life After Death. Echols, along with two other men, was imprisoned for almost 20 years in the 1993 murders of three little boys in West Memphis, Ark. In August 2011, the state released the three men from prison rather than retry them with one condition -- that they plead guilty but also be allowed to profess their innocence in court.
What most impressed me about Echols was his intellect, literary knowledge, his eclectic religious beliefs, which incorporated Catholicism and Buddhism, and most importantly his ability to survive so many years of forced isolation, suspicion and no doubt anger. He did not let that anger or bitterness destroy him. Rather, this man who was only a teenager when he went to prison and who did not finish high school educated himself by reading. He read and he read and he read. And he watched, becoming a close, if not always objective, observer of fellow inmates, relatives, attorneys and others.
Until his eyesight began failing, he was a voracious reader before and during imprisonment. He read works by and about such people and topics as diverse as Flannery O'Connor (not among his favorite authors); Stephen King; poet W.B. Yeats; Nostradamus; Latin American writer Julio Cortazar; Edgar Cayce; the Kabbalah, a book of Jewish mysticism; Eastern religions; Wicca; and the Medici period in Italian history. "I've read a few thousand books over the time I've been locked up," he writes. "Without books, I would have gone insane long ago."
Like his religious views, his taste in art if you will is equally eclectic. "I see no reason why I can't love pornography and the art of Michelangelo equally," he writes. "I want to see life from every angle."
I neither have the time nor the ability to read as much as Echols. But like him and others I, too, find comfort and knowledge in the written word, whether the author is a poet I've never met, a contemporary novelist or just myself. Sorting through storage boxes of clutter and memories recently, I found a childhood diary where I wrote about one of my first unrequited crushes. I found a journal from the mid-1970s, a time when my life was changing as was my chosen career. I had great dreams then. I still have a few, but then I had more hope of achieving them. And for the first time during those years, I said my final goodbyes to two of my closest relatives -- grandparents whose two-bedroom home with feathered mattresses, a rocking chair, biscuits and red-eye gravy, and always forgiving but quiet love felt as much like home as mine did. Decades later, the goodbyes are more frequent but no less difficult these days. I rarely talk about the sadness that accompanies deaths, one of a single mother I never met but who, like me, had adopted from China. I deal with death these days through writing, reading, prayer and none-too-seldom tears. And I dream not only of the future but of the people who are now gone but who helped define my life after I close my eyes at night.
First, I read Christopher Hitchens' Mortality, a book of unsentimental essays written after the author learned he was dying of cancer. While Hitchens' atheism and disdain for those who sought to convert him played a role in much of his writing, the essays also revealed a caring husband, father and friend; an intelligent observer and commentator; and a man who loved writing even in his final weeks. Sometimes as I read his essays, though, I questioned whether he was debating with himself the premise of God's existence and, hence, the hereafter. Otherwise, why go to such lengths to explain why he wouldn't convert as death closed in on him and why he didn't want others' prayers. Both answers already were obvious to anyone who had followed only bits of Hitchens' life. So, I wonder whether he wondered about God, whose name Hitchens spelled with a lower-case "g."
Later, I read former death-row inmate Damien Echols' essay collection, Life After Death. Echols, along with two other men, was imprisoned for almost 20 years in the 1993 murders of three little boys in West Memphis, Ark. In August 2011, the state released the three men from prison rather than retry them with one condition -- that they plead guilty but also be allowed to profess their innocence in court.
What most impressed me about Echols was his intellect, literary knowledge, his eclectic religious beliefs, which incorporated Catholicism and Buddhism, and most importantly his ability to survive so many years of forced isolation, suspicion and no doubt anger. He did not let that anger or bitterness destroy him. Rather, this man who was only a teenager when he went to prison and who did not finish high school educated himself by reading. He read and he read and he read. And he watched, becoming a close, if not always objective, observer of fellow inmates, relatives, attorneys and others.
Until his eyesight began failing, he was a voracious reader before and during imprisonment. He read works by and about such people and topics as diverse as Flannery O'Connor (not among his favorite authors); Stephen King; poet W.B. Yeats; Nostradamus; Latin American writer Julio Cortazar; Edgar Cayce; the Kabbalah, a book of Jewish mysticism; Eastern religions; Wicca; and the Medici period in Italian history. "I've read a few thousand books over the time I've been locked up," he writes. "Without books, I would have gone insane long ago."
Like his religious views, his taste in art if you will is equally eclectic. "I see no reason why I can't love pornography and the art of Michelangelo equally," he writes. "I want to see life from every angle."
I neither have the time nor the ability to read as much as Echols. But like him and others I, too, find comfort and knowledge in the written word, whether the author is a poet I've never met, a contemporary novelist or just myself. Sorting through storage boxes of clutter and memories recently, I found a childhood diary where I wrote about one of my first unrequited crushes. I found a journal from the mid-1970s, a time when my life was changing as was my chosen career. I had great dreams then. I still have a few, but then I had more hope of achieving them. And for the first time during those years, I said my final goodbyes to two of my closest relatives -- grandparents whose two-bedroom home with feathered mattresses, a rocking chair, biscuits and red-eye gravy, and always forgiving but quiet love felt as much like home as mine did. Decades later, the goodbyes are more frequent but no less difficult these days. I rarely talk about the sadness that accompanies deaths, one of a single mother I never met but who, like me, had adopted from China. I deal with death these days through writing, reading, prayer and none-too-seldom tears. And I dream not only of the future but of the people who are now gone but who helped define my life after I close my eyes at night.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver
I've been a Barbara Kingsolver fan since I read her novel, Bean Trees, about a decade ago. I also have enjoyed many of her essays and her non-fiction book, Animal Vegetable Miracle. Overall, I liked Flight Behavior, but I found her/it to be more concerned with the evils of global warming and religion, especially that of the so-called fundamentalist variety, than the story she was telling.
But even more troublesome to me was that Kingsolver seemed intent on making sure readers knew how smart she is when it comes to science. Like many readers, I already knew she had a science background. And frankly, I found her sometimes overly complex details about climate change and at other times condescending explanations of it a huge turnoff.
Do not misunderstand. I agree that global warming is a serious problem. I agree that more people should listen to scientists, less to politicians when it comes to climate change. But Ms. Kingsolver, it's not just fundamentalists who reject climate change. There are others who do as well -- many solely for political reasons, some out of ignorance or apathy. And it's not just poor Southerners as one might think after reading your latest novel.
Kingsolver also is more than a tad harsh in her portrayal of the news media -- which she seems to lump into one stereotypical TV reporter -- long, blonde hair, perfectly manicured nails, sound bites only, happy news only. Kingsolver is so harsh in her presentation of this character, it makes me wonder if she had a bad experience with the media. Granted, I'm not keen on TV and radio reporters either. Few, if any, newspaper reporters and editors hold TV reporting "personalities" in esteem. That's why it's so disturbing that she lumps all the media together as she does.
All that and I heard Kingsolver tell an NPR interviewer that she tried to make sure that she didn't cast anyone in the book as the "right" ones, for no one had all of the right answers. If that's true, she didn't try hard enough, for her novel made it more than clear who had the right answers and who had the wrong ones -- at least from Kingsolver's point of view.
Two things I did respect about the novel were Kingsolver's depiction of Dellarobia's mistaken view of her mother-in-law -- not all bad, not all stupid after all, it turns out. The ending of the book, while a tad too tidy for me the cynic, was interesting and even thought-provoking. And I speak not only of the butterflies that survive but also of Dellarobia's escape from a bad relationship -- the kind so many of us never escape, whether in friendships, marriages or jobs.
The novel is worth reading, but with the mind of a skeptic and the heart of a bird -- or butterfly -- watcher.
But even more troublesome to me was that Kingsolver seemed intent on making sure readers knew how smart she is when it comes to science. Like many readers, I already knew she had a science background. And frankly, I found her sometimes overly complex details about climate change and at other times condescending explanations of it a huge turnoff.
Do not misunderstand. I agree that global warming is a serious problem. I agree that more people should listen to scientists, less to politicians when it comes to climate change. But Ms. Kingsolver, it's not just fundamentalists who reject climate change. There are others who do as well -- many solely for political reasons, some out of ignorance or apathy. And it's not just poor Southerners as one might think after reading your latest novel.
Kingsolver also is more than a tad harsh in her portrayal of the news media -- which she seems to lump into one stereotypical TV reporter -- long, blonde hair, perfectly manicured nails, sound bites only, happy news only. Kingsolver is so harsh in her presentation of this character, it makes me wonder if she had a bad experience with the media. Granted, I'm not keen on TV and radio reporters either. Few, if any, newspaper reporters and editors hold TV reporting "personalities" in esteem. That's why it's so disturbing that she lumps all the media together as she does.
All that and I heard Kingsolver tell an NPR interviewer that she tried to make sure that she didn't cast anyone in the book as the "right" ones, for no one had all of the right answers. If that's true, she didn't try hard enough, for her novel made it more than clear who had the right answers and who had the wrong ones -- at least from Kingsolver's point of view.
Two things I did respect about the novel were Kingsolver's depiction of Dellarobia's mistaken view of her mother-in-law -- not all bad, not all stupid after all, it turns out. The ending of the book, while a tad too tidy for me the cynic, was interesting and even thought-provoking. And I speak not only of the butterflies that survive but also of Dellarobia's escape from a bad relationship -- the kind so many of us never escape, whether in friendships, marriages or jobs.
The novel is worth reading, but with the mind of a skeptic and the heart of a bird -- or butterfly -- watcher.
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