the pile. by my bedside.

here's a question:

if i'm partway into all of these books, am i actually reading any of them?

maybe it's time to just choose one and go from there. find some focus, perhaps?

the call of the Father.

sitting in church on thursday night i got this craving--a full-body calling.

to go to rome.

and sit in the cool, dark churches.

to saturate myself in the history of my religion.

to begin at the beginning.

the very beginning.

the ritual: incense. sign of the cross. prostration before the alter.

to feel God.

but not to pray.

to listen.

to sit and listen.

to kneel and listen.

to stand humbled before the yawning eclipse of eternity and listen.

and to allow the answer to erupt before me.

to give a direction to this directionless life.

but because i cannot go to rome.

i bought a fresh copy of beach music and called it a day. (or at least a start).

in defense of real books.

i feel guilty buying books.

there.

i said it.

i who value words above almost all else feel guilt when buying a book.

(though it should be noted that i who value words above almost all else also rarely know how to use them when it matters most).

the thing is, i believe in books.

not kindles. not ebook readers. not nooks.

but books. real-life, flip-the-page, spill-the-coffee-on books.

i know that as a woman who has no sustainable source of income (euf) books are a luxury that not only can i not afford, but i can easily navigate around--i mean, nothing is easier than borrowing and lending books--whole buildings have sprung up around this concept! (we call them libraries).

but i am selfish. and have no monetary foresight where stories are concerned. i want the paper. and the breakable spine. i want to scribble and write and underline and dog-ear to my heart's content.

the stories on my bookshelf are now my singular story. they are a part of me. and i want to be able to take them down again and again.

they are my proof of passing time. they are my life made tangible.

or so i feel.

there's this line from the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society that i keep thinking about:

"What did he look like?" I asked, for I wanted to picture the scene. I expected it was a futile request, given that men cannot describe eachother, but Dawsey knew how. "He looked like the German you imagine--tall, blonde hair, blue eyes--except he could feel pain."

sometimes i think, just for today--just for today i will be the woman with the perfectly manicured nail beds who does crossword puzzles to completion and listens to this american life on a regular basis.

just for today i'll be the woman in the three-inch-pumps who woke at seven for her five-mile-run. and who can smile just-so and melt the heart of many-a-man.

just for today i'll be the girl who doesn't need months to warm-up to someone, for whom shyness is not a reality, but something read about in literature or dissected in art-house movie theatres.

who sits down to a meal. by herself--without four years of ghosts trailing just beyond her field of vision.

for whom sadness is a singular event--occurring intermittently at best. who can speak three languages and laughs sans snort. who cuts her grapefruit gracefully and and prepares her meals in advance. who always responds to emails and calls in a prompt fashion. who mails thank-yous the days she's finished writing them. by hand. whose handwriting doesn't deteriorate to scribble. ever.

who knows what day of the week it is when she wakes in the morning. and how much money she has in her bank account--wait, scratch that, who has money in her bank account.

but i'm not. i am not that woman. not today. not tomorrow. probably, not ever.

but today--today i can feel pain. and that's something.

reading recap.

okay. so here goes. quick write ups and recommendations.

A HEARTBREAKING WORK OF STAGGERING GENIUS

by DAVE EGGERS

i might make a lot of non-friends by saying this, but i didn't like it. i took it to australia with me and it took an interminable amount of time to get through. i think it really is just a question of taste. yes, it was well written, but i lost track of the story being told and felt like i was just moving in circles with a marginal amount of forward movement (interestingly enough, this was the very reason i didn't like WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE {the film} co-penned by eggers). i will say, all the reviews and critics commented on eggers anger, while i was struck not by anger at all, but a profound sadness--which raises the question how different are the two things, really?

WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR

by DORIS KEARNS GOODWIN

one of the great things about the high school i went to was the caliber and frequency with which we received really unbelievable public speakers. and to this day, doris kearns goodwin (presidential historian) remains the best i've ever seen. this fact, combined with my love of baseball and history made this book a must-read for me (i'm actually surprised it took me so long to get around to it). while goodwin is not an unparalleled writer, her words are simple and clear and the story itself is lovely. i've come to realize there are two types of books i like to read--those that i read in bed in the morning or before sleep, and those that i take on the subway. the books i like to read on the subway tend to be more information based and this was certainly a great subway book. not to mention the love story of her mother and father was particularly moving--i blogged a wee bit about it, here.

THE HELP

by KATHRYN STOCKETT

my mom insisted i read this debut novel by kathryn stockett and i'm really glad i did. it's the perfect in-bed read. stockett does a fantastic job of giving voice to a diverse group of women. set in a segregated mississippi, the novel depicts the relationships between an entitled upper-class and the women who care for them (and in most cases, raise their families).

SOUTH OF BROAD

by PAT CONROY

you know how i love pat conroy. if you don't, well now you do--he's just about my favorite. however, this book was not. while i liked it, conroy seemed to be trying too hard--reaching, a bit. but you should keep in mind, i wasn't that keen on prince of tides (which he seems to have garnered the most praise for). again, let me say, if you are new to this author, you must read beach music and the lords of discipline.

THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY

by MARY ANN SHAFFER and ANNIE BARROWS

i picked this one up on the recommendation of many of you lovely people. and i must say, good choice, ladies. i loved it. i mean, i really, really loved it. i read it quickly--unable to put it down and not since elizabeth bennett in pride and prejudice have i more wanted to be a character than that of the main voice here, juliet. it is the story of a writer and lover of literature as she learns about of the occupation of the channel islands in world war two.

EATING ANIMALS

by JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER

so this is what i'm reading now. i'll write more about it when i finish the book.

you know how i love pat conroy? well, the greatest threat to his status as my favorite author is jonathan safran foer (author of extremely loud and incredibly close {hands down, the best book i've ever read}. this book, eating animals, is about animal agriculture--its effects on the environment and our health, as well as what the animals experience. as someone who's had a tenuous relationship with food for a while now, i figured it was about time to start learning about food in the larger--societal sense--moving the idea from "me" to "us"--because believe it or not the choices we make about what we put in our bodies affect everyone.

oh for a book and a shady nook.

with the return of my computer (thank you paul from the apple genius bar for your goodwill and patience) and the restoration of my rightful place in the world, i have been scouring the internet in search of the one thing i would like for christmas, a reading chair.

olivia rae, author of everyday musings, gave thanks a few days ago for her morning coffee nook. i was taken by the image immediately. and then the idea. and since i secretly want to be her (desperately, actually) i realized i too must have a morning coffee nook/all-day reading corner.

and so i'm scouring the internet for ideas. turns out, this is glamorous, is a veritable treasure trove of reading-nook templates.

oh for a book and a shady nook, either indoor or out.

with the green leaves whispering overhead,

or the street cries all about.

where i may read all at my ease,

both of the new and the old;

for a jolly good book whereon to look,

is better to me than gold.

john wilson

ps: my imposed regression to a time before technology actually allowed for the discovery of some lovely reads. suggestions to follow shortly.

clare and henry, revisited.

i am the first to tell you that i usually loathe the movies based off of my favorite books. 

and i do not cry easily.

but this trailer made me cry. 

and i, who has never swooned over eric bana, think that yes, mr. eric bana will be the perfect henry.

rain, rain, come and play...

there's a slight, steady rain here in new york today.

which means i'm destined for a walk through central park.

where, for just a moment, i'll allow myself the luxury of pretending it's the villa borghese in rome.

but for now i'm in bed.

listening to an ever so slight pitter-patter. lost in a book. and dreaming of an unknown future.

this photo is from 

a trip to rome in 2005

with my mom and dad.

my mom and i pictured outside

the villa borghese gallery.

for you.

It occurs to me that you all so generously offered up book suggestions and I never gave you anything in return.

This morning I "attempted" to update the Book Club section of the blog. I added all the books suggested in the comments of that post. However, the suggestions scattered throughout comments of different posts have yet to be added...fret not, they will be!

However, here, I will "attempt" (not sure why I'm using quotes, but I am) to offer up my own suggestions.

First, I adore Pat Conroy. I was introduced to his works going into my sophmore year of high-school. I had never, ever come across so many i-need-a-dictionary words all at once. But after fifteen pages of struggling to take it all in, I fell. I fell madly and deeply and desperately in love with his words. 

The Lords of Discipline

and

Beach Music

It doesn't matter which you read first. They are both his. I've read each upwards of three times. And I think I'm due for another run of Beach Music, very soon. 

Others will say Prince of Tides is his best. I would disagree. The two books I listed above are perhaps my favorites of all time.

Though, Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close just gave them a damn-fine run for their money. I'll have a review of this coming soon. This book is the most genius thing I've ever read. Period. Hands down. It may now share the stage with the above two as my favorite.

Another that keeps coming to mind is Anita Shreve's Light on Snow. It's an easy, fast read and undeniably lovely and moving. 

And finally, two books I've written about before, but must, must suggest again: The Time Traveler's Wife and Dancing on Thorns. 

As for books of poetry: The Forgiveness Parade and The Splinter Factory, both by Jeffrey McDaniel. 

There you have it. 

If you read any of these (or have read) you must let me know what you think.

photo via visualize.us

of course.

"Why do you think you're here, Oskar?""I'm here, Dr. Fein, because it upsets my mom that I'm having an impossible time with my life." "Should it upset her?" "Not really. Life is impossible." 

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

by Jonathan Safran Foer

i've never read anything more heartbreaking and funny and beautiful all at once. in fact, i think it may just be the most genius thing i've ever read. 

ever. 

book club updates coming soon...

"my apartment is basically a couch, an armchair, and about four thousand books." the time traveler's wife

I suppose I should admit I finished this a week ago. Sitting in my favorite cafe, eating organic greens, tears careened down my face. 

The night before, I had cried so hard and tried so valiantly to not disturb the roommate that a high-pitched whistle (much like a tea kettle when it sings) arose from some place deep inside.

I don't have much to say about the book. It was pure poetry. Brilliantly written. 

It was difficult to get into because I wanted to understand the logistics of the time travel. And other times I had a hard time falling into the images because another part of my brain was going, my god--that turn of phrase--how did she just do that?

It was heart-wrenching in all the right ways. And it got me thinking about time and life and our different ages: sometimes I feel like I'm failing my eight year old self--the little girl who has yet to get to this point--the little girl who is still out there in the world (back in 1993). I want to be better for her. 

Yes, it may be hard to get into. But it's worth it. 

Want to know the moment I fell into the book--the exact moment I fell in love:

pages 70-71:

After an interval of tickling and thrashing around, we lie on the ground with our hands clasped across our middles and Clare asks, "Is your wife a time traveler too?"

"Nope. Thank God."

"Why 'thank God'? I think that would be fun. You could go places together."

"One time traveler per family is more than enough. It's dangerous Clare."

"Does she worry abut you?"

"Yes," I say softly. "She does." I wonder what Clare is doing now in 1999. Maybe she's still asleep. Maybe she won't know I'm gone.

"Do you love her?"

"Very much, " I whisper. We lie silently side by side, watching the swaying trees, the birds, the sky. I hear a muffled sniffling noise and glancing at Clare I am astonished to see that tears are streaming across her face toward her ears. I sit up and lean over her. "What's wrong, Clare?" She just shakes her head back and forth and presses her lips together. I smooth her hair, and pull her into a sitting position, wrap my arms around her. She's a child, and then again she isn't. "What's wrong?"

It comes out so quietly that I have to ask her to repeat it: "It's just that I thought maybe you were married to me."

Now I'm onto The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. The woman I babysit for said it's one of the best things she's read in years. It was sitting on her shelf. We're doing a book trade. She gets The Time Traveler's Wife for a while and I get The Namesake (one has to figure out ways to save money you know). I'll be sure to let you know what I think.

Keep the suggestions coming. My list is growing long and I'm loving that. And my pile of books on the windowsill is climbing. I will update the post on books soon enough to include all your fantastic suggestions.

image via ffffound

dog-eared pages and coffee stains: a book club of sorts

This post led to many a marvelous suggestion about books that I should read. And this list is lighting a fire under my oh-so-lovely-behind to get crackin'...a book club to form and books, books, books to read (25 before the big birthday). So... all this got me thinking. I'm adding this little collage above to my sidebar. One click on it will lead you here to this post (this ever-evolving, constantly in need of edits post). The idea is that this is a place where you (yes, you!) can leave suggestions or book reviews. It's (in a sense) a little online book club. I'll let you know what I'm reading and publish reviews as I check off those 25 books. And I'll pass on my all time favorites. So, here we go...


25 books before

25th Birthday:

1. Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies

2. The Emporer's Children by Claire Messud

3. Dancing on Thorns by Rebecca Horsfall

4. The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

5. The Namesake

6. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

7. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers

THE READERS SPEAK...THEIR SUGGESTIONS:

The Hero and the Crown

by Robin Mckinley

suggested by Sarah-Lucy

The Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius

by David Eggers

suggested by Red

The Opposite of Fate: Memories of a Writing Life

by Amy Tan

suggested by Sarah-Lucy

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

suggested by Megan

The Poison Wood Bible

by Barbara Kingslover

suggested by Katie

Suite Francaise

by Irene Nemirovsky

suggested by Katie

Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

suggested by Katie and by Red

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

by Haruki Maurakami

suggested by Katie

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

by Junot Diaz

suggested by Katie

The Sex Lives of Cannibals

by Maarten Troust

suggested by Christie (she said it was quite possibly the funniest book she's ever read)

The Unwanted

by Kien Nguyen

suggested by Christie

Observatory Mansions

by Edward Carey

suggested by Christie

The Shadow of the Wind

by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

suggested by Mariah

The Historian

by Elizabeth Lostova

suggested by Mariah 

The Bone Man of Benares 

by Terry Tarnoff

suggested by Tina Tarnoff

The Feast of Love

by Charles Baxter

suggested by Thao

The Time Traveler's Wife   (NOW READING)

by Audrey Niffengger

suggested by Micaela 

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

by Mark Haddon

suggested by Krysta

The Dud Avocado 

by Elaine Dundy

suggested by iheartkiwi

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

by Jonathan Safran Foer

suggested by Krysta

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

by Barbara Kingsolver

suggested by MMW

The God of Animals

by Aryn Kyle

suggested by Lauren

The History of Love

by Nicole Krauss

suggested by JulieD

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

by Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie Barrows

suggested by Tina Tarnoff

On Beauty

by Zadie Smith

suggested by hay

The Blind Assassin

by Margaret Atwood

suggested by Gabby

photo credits (clockwise): 

kate spade ad, yellowbird on flickr, 

(need your help on this one), 

and found via {this is glamorous} 

love after love

I've just begun The Time Traveler's Wife (apologies, apologies to Krysta who advised against this book) and as of now I'm totally confused. 

But...

Just before the dedication page there is a poem by Derek Walcott. And I had to share it...

LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

Isn't that perfect? Isn't that exactly what everything is all about?

image at fffound quoted by Oh Joy 

in a corner of nyc in 1949...

after a lovely dinner thai dinner, with my friend angela, that ended in a search for mr. softie ice cream--i sauntered over to the bookstore to troll the aisles in search of some of your suggestions

i ended up getting The Time traveler's Wife because i was told that it's wildly sexy (and because it was a today show book club selection--and since i stood in line behind matt lauer at the ice cream shop yesterday--i took it as a sign)

after passing up countless books that i could have snatched up in a second if it weren't for my tight purse strings, i ended up in the postcard section

years ago, when i first became a wee bit sad my general practitioner sent me to a fantastic life coach in houston. life coaches focus not on the root of the problem but rather what can be done to improve your life immediately--little things: making lists and collages, identifying what makes you happy, and so on and so forth

one of the things this life coach asked me to do was cut out pictures from magazines that in some way lit a fire under me...well i'm doing this again. now.

above my work desk (in the corner of my bedroom) i'm gluing images right onto the wall. blogs are veritable treasure troves of delicious images so that's where most have come from.

but tonight, in the postcard section, this one struck me:

i flipped it over.

"Tanaquil Le Clercq, Donald Windham, Buffie Johnson, Tennessee Williams and Gore Vidal at Cafe Nicholson, NYC, 1949. Photograph by Karl Bissinger"

holy smokes. 

the quintessential Balanchine dancer, the pioneer of female painters, and three of the greatest, most prolific American writers. ever.

you think gatherings like this still happen anywhere? i sure hope so.

it's going up on the wall. now. 

books books books

i'll not forget the moment i learned to read. i was relatively young--preschool, maybe. sitting in the sunlit hallway--my legs dangling from the navy plastic chairs with slats--i pieced a sentence together. i sounded it out and made one word, then another, then another and just like that the code was broken. what had once been strange hieroglyphic symbols became moving thoughts. i understood. and so i spent that first weekend sitting in a multitude of different chairs reading that same book, max the cat, to anyone who would let me. 

the perk of living down the street from my elementary school was that i didn't need to wake up early. but i did. i'd set my alarm for six and spend a good hour (maybe more) curled up on the game-room couch getting in some good solid chapters before begrudgingly rising to dress. and i didn't mind the long afternoon ride across town to pick my brother up from school. i amused myself with books. i look back on these things now and laugh. you couldn't pry me out of bed before ten (if i could get away with it) and the motion sickness i now get from attempting to focus on anything in a car is enough to keep me from ever again trying. 

but the love of a good book. that just won't change. not ever. reading was the first thing i was ever good at. my greatest talent. of course, it's my greatest talent--it's the one thing that i get to be good at and never have to share with anyone else. i wouldn't be able to share it even if i tried. convenient, isn't it? no one can say that it isn't my greatest talent? no one can fight me on this one, you see?but what i mean is--my ability to fall into a story--for the words to fade away behind images that arise naturally without conscious thought--is this making sense? any of it? not to worry, in this thing (at least) words fail me. 

i only bring it up because...all my life i think i've striven to make manifest the talent lost to solitude. acting seemed the natural solution. and oh how i love to act. and any talent i have to acting i owe entirely to my love of reading. the love of reading that cultivated the love of words. the love of structure. the musicality of language itself. someone recently told me (i think it was his way of flirting) that i seemed to possess a musical soul, and did i? i laughed brazenly. i played the clarinet for over five years and was a disaster with it. and much as i love to sing--rhythm has never been my thing. i can't stand jazz (oh trust me i wish i did, i inherently get that it's just so damn cool) and i actually loathe opera (even if the note on my sidebar suggests otherwise). so i laughed brazenly, looked him in the eye and said,  do words count? because if they do then yes--yes, my soul is terribly musical. 

sometimes i would be asked, just what it is about the act of acting itself that you love so much? and i wouldn't know how to answer. there was no tangible reason. i swung miserably in the air grasping at straws. and then i would ask myself, why do i love this? why am i doing this? and slowly and surely i'd pick up a good play and read a brilliant passage and lose my breath because between my fingers i held the answer. the plays. the ideas. the words. oh, my god, the words. 

you know why shakespeare is so good? have you ever seen macbeth? well, there's this moment where the son of the slain king attempts to avenge his father by getting this other noble man who's just lost his wife and two kids to macbeth's hands on the merry bandwagon of revenge. and this guy--they guy who's just lost his wife and two kids--do you know what his response is? okay, ready yourself for this (i even pulled out an old signet edition just to be sure, Act IV, scene III, line 216):

He has no children. 

read it again. sound it out--as if you're learning to read. the line is gloriously monosyllabic! He. has. no. children. imagine this--as an actor you're thinking oh my god, i have no idea what it feels like to lose a wife and children. this man must be beside himself. how can i ever hope to act this part? don't. don't act it. for the love of god, please don't act it. just turn round, look the other bloke in the eyes and speak the words that shakespeare has given you--put them out into the space. He has no children. holy smokes. he's saying, there is no possible way to hurt macbeth as he has just hurt me. because he has no children. no flowerly language. direct to the point and absolutely deadly. 

it all seems a bit ridiculous now that it didn't strike me sooner--that i'd like shaping the words just as much as i loved to speak them. don't get me wrong--i am not a playwright. i have no intention of becoming one. but here i am a year out of school, no acting to be seen anywhere and words--the writing of them--no matter how silly or seemingly unimportant--these little words, their creation is saving me. saving my life. introducing me to myself. little gulps of air that i manage just before falling back beneath the rising water as my legs keep kicking me upwards. 

i don't know why i'm writing all this. perhaps as an explanation...if i've been a little absent lately it's because i've been working tirelessly at my penultimate talent. i copied down all of your book suggestions into my barnes and noble book journal entitled book lust, and decided to begin instead with novel on my roommate's shelf, Dancing on Thorns. The cover made it look a little trashy and quite a bit of fun and after weeks of sludging (ugh, the sludge) through The Emperor's Children, i felt entitled to a bit of fun. 

ohhhh, my friends, i'm loving it. i've spent hours reading it. it's quite long and i wouldn't have it any other way and I don't want it to end. i was up till three in the morning last night (and i had to be up at seven). it's all about the world of ballet and the genius of a true artist and the toll that takes and what must be sacrificed and is the sacrifice worth it--i could go on and on. i find that it's quite well written. and it is unbelievably, undeniably sexy--i've never read a sexier book. it's poignant and moving and far from perfect and i'm loving every second of it. so you put it on your list. and i promise to read the one's you've left me (my aunt texted me because she couldn't figure out how to leave a blog comment, so i'll pass on that she suggests Steinbeck's East of Eden). 

oh and did i mention this is set in london? i've been before but the constant references to the west end and covent gardens is...oh i just have to go again. and soon.