The Art of Losing

Dirge Without Music
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts
in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Dirge Without Music” from Collected Poems © 1928, 1955 by Edna St. Vincent Millay and Norma Millay Ellis. Reprinted with permission of Elizabeth Barnett, Literary Executor, The Millay Society. Online Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins, 1958)

Also in The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing, Edited by Kevin Young, (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2010).

I sat in the morning March sun's warmth on the floor in front of my old poetry books, wondering where to shelve The Art of Losing, marking my place, but reading ahead. The page fell open to this poem on page 103, the last in the chapter headed Regret. I began to read, and for reasons unknown to me, I reread the first sentence aloud. Then the entire poem. Aloud. Louder.
I made it through, but tears burned by the last verse, my voice shaking with regret and indignation. I felt it in my soul.
I reread the last two sentences several times.
Aloud, to myself, to the world.

When my tears were finished, I felt weary, but cleansed somehow.
I will carry these thoughts in my head now. I do not approve. I am not resigned. Perhaps someday, but not yet. Maybe when I've finished the chapter called Redemption.

This book is filled with some of the best poetry covering every facet of grief, loss, mourning, life and death. Highly recommended. Cathartic.
A suitable, healing gift for anyone who has lost someone they love.

East of Eden

"I'll want to hear," Samuel said. "I eat stories like grapes."

It has been decades since I read a book by John Steinbeck, although I remember being very touched and transported by them all these years later. It's a good thing I waited so long to read East of Eden, because I would not have been capable of appreciating all the subleties and layers hidden among the pages. I would have devoured it for the story alone, which is a masterpiece in itself, but I might have missed the point and the beauty in the meaning behind the words.

I've recently read some excellent multigenerational sagas by exceptional authors - John Irving's Last Night in Twisted River and Jeffery Lent's In the Fall - steeped in story, place and complex, unforgettable characters. Now I know that John Steinbeck did it first, and did it best, telling us "the story of my country and the story of me."

I was working at a school book sale, talking books, when an English teacher recommended East of Eden. She told us her son, and English major, recently read it as well, and they both felt it was the best book they had ever read. I agree.

The Solace of Leaving Early

The Solace of Leaving Early is a fascinating look at the people in a small town, through the preconceived notions they have of one another. A brilliant student walks away from her academic life, mothers and daughters navigate the mine fields of their relationships, a preacher struggles with his relevance, a marriage unravels with tragic results. As the unique characters in the story struggle to pick up the pieces around them, they find themselves made more whole in the process.

This is my third Haven Kimmel book, my first of her novels, her first novel. I've already gushed in my previous reviews how much I love her writing style, and again, yes, very much. She is unique, brutally perceptive and gifted with descriptive talent. I have to read her in spurts, each chapter is so riveting and thought provoking or ponderous to me that I plaster the pages with sticky notes. Also, I try to make it last, because I know I'll read it too fast. If I were ever to be stuck reading a book over and over, I'd like to start here. Her characters are all so very real and tragic and touching and human. People and relationships shine in every imaginable combination. And she writes a compelling, touching story. But that’s only a piece of my adulation.

Haven Kimmel is a smart writer, she's used her education and curiosity and intellect to great advantage, drawing from sources I can barely grasp. I wonder what she hasn't read or studied. Through her bright characters, she name drops authors of philosophy and theology that make me feel desperately that I need to learn more, read more, think even more, to help make sense of it all. She made me start another reading list, and not much of it fiction: Donne, Whitehead, Updike, Tillich - just to name a few. I think philosophy and reason and religion classes might have given me some perspective or foundation I lack. Luckily, none of that is required to enjoy this story, but it is always nice for me to leave a book enthused about learning more.

It is very hard to pick a favorite quote, but here is one:

Amos knew AnnaLee was nervous around the children. She couldn't determine how to be herself; she was just moved by the desire to save them, to rescue them from the flood. But she's just like the rest of us, Amos thought. The water is wide and her boat is so small.

The Spare Room

The Spare Room is a quick, engaging and insightful novel about the bonds and responsibilities of friendship in the face of death. Helen Garner is an exceptional writer, her spare prose so realistic and honest that I actually checked to be sure I was reading a novel, not a memoir. I have since learned that much of the book and the character Helen are based on her life experience. I enjoyed reading her work very much, finishing it in one day, captivated by her characters and the complicated emotional dynamics that unfold, particularly denial, anger and compassion. There are moments of discomfort, peace and heartache in this story, and much to think about when the book is finished. I felt the ending came too quickly, and would have preferred it lasted longer to provide more closure, but otherwise I highly recommend The Spare Room.

What Next?

My To Be Read Pile mocks me.

So What Next?

I read some some exceptional books last year, and I see my trend is toward less books, not more, which is not likely to improve in the near future. Choosing the right book is essential, as I doubt I'll ever finish this pile, at least at the pace I keep adding to it.

I'm happy to report that of the 42 books I read in 2009, there were only 3 stinkers in the bunch. You know who you are.... And at least 20 I rated 4 or more stars who stole a little piece of my heart or fed my soul or fascinated me...There were a few monsters, huge, 700, 900 pages, labors of love or story lust. So I shouldn't be disappointed in myself for failing to hit the 50 mark. It's just a number, and I could read manja or kids books and get there easy. I don't do anything the easy way, do I?

I can't pick a favorite, and can only comment on some of the authors who touched me:

Haven Kimmel, I wish we were kids together, your memoirs made my year. A Girl Named Zippy, She Got Up Off the Couch - I laughed and cried and remembered so much I had forgotten about the magical fun of kidhood in an interesting family.

Jeffrey Lent, Lost Nation and In the Fall will linger in my memory for decades. You are another lifetime favorite author.

Olive Kitteridge and Abide with Me were revelations. I love the way Elizabeth Strout writes, and I will remember her characters for a very long time.

And for Charlaine Harris, a special shout out for the excellent diversion the Sookie Stackhouse books were over a wintry Christmas Break. I read until my eyeballs ached, each book just calling to me from the new shiny seductive kindle... 8 box set, sure! I lost myself in each book, guilty that I liked your sassy fashion forward chic lit so much. Well, I wish I'd stopped at the box set. Your last book was bleak, dark, painful, cruel and a bit sicker that the others, and you let me down, left me hanging on the hope that book 10 will redeem you, and salvage my chances at happy escape with Sookie once more.

So, 2010, we're off to a great start, with 2 by Amy Bloom under the belt, East of Eden queued up on top of the next pile, though Haven is winking at me from underneath you....so are the three Ellen Gilchrists I bought after I read A Dangerous Age. I love her writing very much, and these stories interweave with each other, so I can revisit the characters I loved in the first book. Hopefully before I forget who is who.

Maybe I should focus on deleting books from the tbr pile. Surely there are a few clunkers in there I should just set free in the world. So, feel free to nose through my library, tell me who I must read and who I should toss.

And hope you all have something good waiting to be read in your world. It's the best use of winter I can imagine.

Where the God of Love Hangs Out

Trying to review an author who writes this well, who paints such lyrical and haunting emotional landscapes - it's like trying to talk with a mouthful of marbles. Amy Bloom is an artist. A poet. She creates startlingly dense and rich vignettes, filled with unforgettably complex characters, conflicted and sometimes inexplicable emotions, each story a window into truth.

I found myself equally tongue tied trying to post a review of Away, which I received as my first Librarything Early Reviewer advanced book in 2007. What a gift. I feel like I'm only qualified to write a thank you note and some fan mail, not review any of her writing. Which I love. I would only ask that the stories and books be longer, as I always want just a little more.

She teaches creative writing at Yale, and is a psychotherapist. She's as good as I might expect that combination to be, even better, at telling people's stories, at pulling me into her character's lives, at surprising me. She clearly knows a thing or two about love and life, about painting a picture with words.
I'll read anything she writes.

Her website is a revelation. Lies, Memories and Other Research

Done.

I finished Last Night in Twisted River, reading 70 pages in October, a smattering in December and the back half of the 550+ pages in a three day reading marathon this week. It is a complicated novel, and I came so close to giving up, but thank goodness I kept reading. I am in awe of this novel, now that I understand what it is, and why it unfolds the way it does. It is not an easy read, but sometimes the best novels make you work for the payoff. It took me a lot of tears to finish this story, as it broke my heart in several places. Love and loss seem to strike a serious chord with me, and this story is steeped in both, spanning three generations and decades of US history, the vanishing logging trade, the artistry of cooking, the craft of writing, the serendipity of life and the comfort of love.

It's been a long time since the remembering the words in a story could make me cry days after I read them. I can't listen to After the Gold Rush without tearing up now. I don't want to go either. And I want an angel to rescue me too. I don't want love to always be about losing it, I don't want to be afraid or sad all the time.

I will remember this Irving novel for a very long time, and I rank it among his most honest and touching novels. It will resonate for a very long time.

And yes, of course there are loads of bears.

My Twisted Journey

I find myself entangled in Last Night in Twisted River two months after I started it, officially past half finished, picking up steam and in need of catching my breath. The story is massive, almost 600 pages, and dense, with sentences that go on for paragraphs. I forget how much a writer likes writing sentences. The story unfolds slowly, in bits and pieces, remembered in extraordinary detail, often distracting amounts of detail, by likable characters caught up in complicated lives. I'm trying not to notice or count the insane number of paranthesis, hyphens and italics on each page, and struggling to keep track of the timeline and lives intertwined in this story. I keep reading because I want to know what happens, the suspense is dragging on for generations, and because every now and then John Irving writes something so true or so meaningful or beautiful that I remember why I read him in the first place. I'm wishing I remembered all the details from all his previous novels, as I'm sure I'm missing references galore, and I can't resist looking for parallels between the lives of Danny Angel and John Irving. It's everything quirky and man-centric I would expect, and maybe it would have helped me connect if there were a consistent female character, as dozens of women pass through the men's lives. Much sex, not much love, though there is the love of father, son and grandson holding everything together.

And one more thing: this novel makes me yearn for good food, inspires me to cook something from here or there, to see how hot my oven can get, to add a little honey to my pizza dough. I'm going to gain a few more pounds before I am finished. And finish I shall.

About those tears of joy....

I know I am supposed to be a patient reader by now, but John Irving's latest book is a test. The incessant details, the parenthesis riddled asides, the meandering plot have just about bored me or frustrated me to tears and I'm struggling to resume at page 78, knowing there are almost 500 more to go. I find myself drifting off on Irving's laborious history of river logging in New England to Jeffrey Lent's masterful depiction of harsh American history in Lost Nation or After the Fall, wishing to be swept away like that again. I need a story to carry me along this twisted river, and I need it soon. I will dig in, I will finish, no matter what Irving has in store for me, I owe him that much. I'm sure there is drama waiting to unfold, words waiting to pierce my heart, if I will just be more patient.

Currently Reading....

The LibraryThing Early Reviewer program has gifted me with my most prized new book. I cried actual tears of joy when I got the email telling me I was one of 30 out of 1508 who requested a copy. I cried again when I went to Amazon's page and heard John Irving himself read this excerpt:

We don't always have a choice how we get to know one another. Sometimes people fall into our lives cleanly - as if out of the sky, or as if there were a direct flight from heaven to earth -the same sudden way we lose people who once seemed they would always be part of our lives.

I cried a few more tears of joy when it arrived at my door three days later. Yes, I'm a bit moody lately. No excuses.

I've been holding out, waiting for a day when I have some uninterrupted time to read it. Today is the day. I'll keep you posted.

A Supremely Bad Idea

This could be a great title for so many books, but works surprisingly well for Luke Dempsey's memoir of the madness of birding. I'm a nature nut, and enjoy feeding and watching the local birds, marking each new bird with a shiny star sticker in my Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds. In winter's doldrums, I'll sit at a window with binoculars and watch the show, but the urge to hit the road for serious birding has never called me.

Luke gets the calling, with the help of his friends Don and Donna, who coordinate escapes from the city to bird watching hot spots across America. From the first pages, Luke's wry British humor shines through as he takes us along on his adventure. I could listen to a lovely British accent all day, and Luke's Bill Brysonesque witty, informative writing style make me feel the same way about his book. It is funny, educational (there are even bird pictures!) and has much to say about life as the quest to find birds helps the author find himself in the bargain.

I think I'll be putting my binoculars in the car just in case.......

Olive Kitteridge

Olive Kitteridge is a gift, a gem. From the first sentences in this beautiful work, I was smitten, and from the last, deeply sorry for the stories to end. Elizabeth Strout took me to a vivid small town world filled with beautifully complicated, conflicted, real people and their intricate, multifaceted lives. In each poignant chapter, constantly shifting characters and perspective reveal rich human experiences and emotions, spanning all life’s stages, twists and turns, and prove how very hard it is to truly know another person, or yourself.

The author writes with beautifully reticent honesty as she shares these stories, collections of people’s secrets in the world as they choose to see it, and the parts of themselves they wish to show, or need to hide. Some stories sparkle, some startle, with characters ranging from broken or damaged, weary, lonely, fragile or desperate, to surprisingly tender, honest or strong, through love, loss or betrayal, with yearning and need strewn through their lives as randomly as the rocks along the coast.

The characters are so skillfully created that the more I came to know them, the more I wished to know and understand them, especially Olive. She is an enigma, and a perfect vantage point to view the town, and herself: from afar, from her imposing size to her brusque, often rude assessment of her former students or associates or family, her curt, weary, reluctant interaction with the world. Through Olives eyes, and the eyes of those who know her, the stories unfold to paint and unforgettable portrait of life, and of people painfully flawed and human.

I found the novel luminous, haunting and at times, profoundly sad, but true and touching and heartwarming. Olive Kitteridge has my highest recommendation, particularly and especially to book clubs, as there is so much to explore, and so much to learn from bringing our own perceptions and biases and stories into the discussion.