All Around My Reading Week

Eeyore and me.

Last week was all over the bookworm place. I had the sweetest book hangover that I did not want to get over; revisited a lifelong favorite; stalled and stumbled around in a novel that I read a long time ago, according to my 1990s book journal; meandered into a sequel without reading the prequel; flung myself with abandon into a new and promisingly scrumptious read; and flung (with a curse) a 1950s classic(???) as far as I could without getting myself thrown out of the county library.

No, it didn't all happen in this order. Yes, I am fond of the word "flung".

Sweetest book hangover:
Rules of Civility by Amor Towles. I loved this book so hard that I both audiobooked and printed-paged it. Can't remember exactly what I said in my last blog post, but double that. I'm in awe: How did Towles convey through prose, the satiny, silvery effect of old movies while making 1938 feel as immediate as 2017? New York! Walker Evans! The days are just packed; I have tons of new things to feel obsessive about.

A lifelong favorite:
Recently, I bought the 50th anniversary edition of The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. I don't recall when I first read this book. Sixth grade? Seventh grade? I remember the mod-looking cover where the greasers are looking tough (and tuff), slouching and leaning nonchalantly on one another's shoulders. Not a big fan of the movie when it finally came out. Tom Cruise as Two-Bit? Noooooo. What struck me during this reread? I didn't remember the fever pitch of emotion that permeates the novel. Sandy, Sodapop's girlfriend is sent away to live with her grandmother when she turns up pregnant -- that went right over my head during my first few readings. DX gas stations! Full service! Times have changed. I felt much more empathy for Darry, Ponyboy's oldest brother, who is trying to keep the family together since their parents were killed in a car wreck. Otherwise, everything was the same: Cherry Valance still annoyed me, Johnny and Dally broke my heart, Two-Bit made me laugh, and Ponyboy? He digs okay.

Stalled and stumbled around:
 I started Clockers by Richard Price a few weeks ago, but I'm having trouble getting into it. The novel seemed familiar, so I rummaged back through my first book journal, and there it was, one of the first books of 1994. Not ready to give up on it yet -- the cadences of the novel are jumpy and jerky, much like its urban setting, and I can't settle in, but I will. It's good.

Flung myself with abandon:
After Rules of Civility, I became a one-track bookworm. Happily, Amor Towles published Rules back in 2011, which means that enough time had elapsed for him to craft another treasure, which I promptly found: A Gentleman in Moscow (2016) takes place in Russia, 1922. Count Alexander Rostov has written a poem that has put the Bolsheviks' noses out of joint. Instead of execution, he is sentenced to house arrest in the Metropol Hotel. I've only just started this novel, and I want to be put on house arrest with lots of coffee and sandwiches and chocolate while I read uninterrupted. So far, no luck on that part. Oh, come on, world! I've been a bad, bad girl!

Meandered into a sequel:
For my audiobook, I'm listening to Everybody's Fool by Richard Russo. At first, I was having some trouble getting into the story and feeling as if I should have read Nobody's Fool first. This is not my first outing with Russo. I read The Risk Pool, which didn't excite me, and Pulitzer Prize-winning Empire Falls, which I did like. Russo is like the male Anne Tyler: quirky characters, strange situations against the backdrop of everyday life and the bigger questions about life, love, suffering and death. I'm on disc 4 and finally settling in. Hell, I may go on a Richard Russo binge read.

Flung with a curse:
I haven't flung a book since I hurled Atlas Shrugged out of a window back in 2005 in Korea! The projectile in question this time was Marjorie Morningstar, a 1955 novel by Herman Wouk. For a few days after, all I could say was: "Umm, no. Hell no." The book may be a brilliant snapshot of New York in the early 1930s, but Herman Wouk is a bit tone-deaf, writing from the female point of view. When the male characters are given voice, they're just cringe-y. Milton Schwartz needs to be hung out on the line with Angel Clare. I thought this book might be a classic, finely aged like wine or cheese, but it's aged badly -- more like dairy or vegetables. I cursed and flung and I'll never be sorry.

That Time I Got a Little Weird and Misery-like with an Author

I had a wonderful time with the Misery read-a-long, sponsored by one of my favorite book bloggers, Care. 

There was no way I couldn't participate. Misery is my very favorite of all of Uncle Stevie's novels, one that I have recommended for years, sometimes several times a year. I had only read Misery once, back in the late 80s, when the paperback version came out, so I was startled to see how much of the book I remembered with such clarity. Annie Wilkes, yikes. What a creation. A three-year-old (I think. At what age do children employ and enjoy expressions like "doody"?) in a crazy-strong woman's body. Did Stephen King have preschoolers around the house during the writing of this novel? He got the language, the cadence so right.

Whatever Annie's many faults though, you have to admit that she got Paul Sheldon to get up off his talent and tell a story properly. I loved the Scheherazade theme and the twin threads of creativity and destruction that run throughout. Stephen King has revisited the disgruntled fan angle in his latest novel, Finders Keepers, and I couldn't be more delighted. Being #7 on the waiting list is a little less delightful, but no disgruntled reader here...as long as they keep the queue moving.

I thought I was all out of cringeworthy bookworm stories to share on this blog, but as I read Misery, an uncomfortable memory stirred. I didn't chop off any body parts or make anyone swallow their meds with dirty mop bucket water, but I did get a little intense. Maybe even creepy:

The year was 1995, and I had just read a first novel by a female writer that I'll refer to as A.S. On the back flap was her picture and a brief biography as well as something I had never seen before: An email address with a warm invitation to readers to contact her there. Email was something that was still relatively new in my life, and I was feeling quite cutting-edge as I composed a short note to A.S. saying how much I had enjoyed her work. Then I clicked 'send'. Sophisticated me.

Much to my surprise, A.S. wrote back! I remember seeing it early on a weekend morning and screaming and waking the whole house. So much for sophistication.

I don't have that email anymore, or even that email address, but as I remember, A.S. thanked me for my email and alluded to working on something new. I felt compelled to write back and thank her for thanking me, and thanks were unnecessary, because my god, she was a writer and I was unworthy. No, it didn't say that, but that was the general tone. I also asked about the work she had mentioned. She replied again saying that the new work would feature some of the same characters.

Now I must rinse.

 No, not really, but my reply was ill-considered. I not only blame myself, but the rapidity of our exchanges and the casual nature of email.

Again, I can't quote directly, but my lengthy reply advised her strongly (did I really have to say 'You'd better not...'?) not to switch from the first person narrative she'd used to third-person. I went on to explain that another author had done that (Barbara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees, Pigs in Heaven) and I had been really upset, Actually angry and betrayed at being distanced from characters that I had taken to my heart. I wish I could forget, but I do remember using that rather intense language. I remember thinking that A.S. would be pleased by my insight and by the fact that I was more than a mere reader; I really got into books. I remember clicking 'send' with such conviction.

Guess what? A.S. never wrote back.

 I told someone what I'd written, and this person grimaced and said, "Oh, God, Susan.  Did you really? You didn't. Please say you didn't."

I read over what I'd written, and horrible realization set in. I sounded like Annie Wilkes before she picked up her ax!

Sick, clammy sweat covered me. The forehead-smiting began. For days it was a pattern: Read my stupid email, smite my forehead, Read, smite. Read, smite. Should I write and apologize to A.S. for being presumptuous? No, I couldn't even stand the click-click-click of my own typing; it brought on nausea. I finally deleted our whole exchange.

For years, I couldn't bear to see A.S.'s book in the odd library sale or used bookstore both here and abroad. When I came across it in my reading journal, I hurriedly flipped the page, feeling that same sickening feeling.

Finally after 20 years, I'm over it. I can rationalize: Sometimes ardent readers get a little carried away, and A.S. could probably appreciate that.  I'm just glad I got carried away in the days before social media.

Recently, I looked up A.S. on Amazon and saw that no novels followed that first one I admired so much. What about the new work she'd mentioned? Did I stop her creativity in its tracks with my tirade? That's ridiculous...or is it? I'll always wonder.

March March

I'm really into reading Emile Zola's Rougon-Macquart series right now, but I'm going to take a short break from that and participate in Fizzy Thoughts' Little Women readalong.  My fondness for Little Women knows no bounds.  It's part of my personal fabric. (Something like muslin or crinoline.)

I did a long post here about a book of criticism called Little Women and the Feminist Imagination.  Fun reading.

I even dreamed about it once.

Fizzy has encouraged us to tweet #marchon  #marmeeon

 (#marchon was grabbed up by basketball fans. The two could not coexist peacefully, although Jo played a pretty fierce game of croquet in Chapter 12.)

OK, enough.  It's time to find a comfortable place at the hearth.  Later on, I might grab a couple of apples and head to the garret.