There's a funny thing that happens when you stop writing your own books—when you cool the fever, when you walk the garden, when you do not rise at 3 AM, determined. Other people's books become your obsession. Their stories, their words, their worlds. You grow responsible for understanding. You yield your empathy, devote your time. The days are long and hot and languid, and
New Orleans wafts by courtesy of Ruta Sepetys, and
Haiti, thanks to Edwidge Danticat, and the humor of
Haven Kimmel, the confessions of
Caroline Knapp,
the daughter of a salt god (Ilie Ruby),
Cambodia at war (Vaddey Ratner), the
very secret life of objects (Dawn Raffel).
Over the course of the last month, I have bought nearly 100 books and others, due out soon, have made their way to me, courtesy of publishing houses and authors. My triple-stacked shelves in every book-devoted room are officially overtaxed. Book piles approximate architecture. Most women get up and ask, What will I wear? I wonder, upon rising, what to read.
My mind is clear; it is at peace; it is satiated. I sleep better than I did. I want less. I am comforted by books, comfortable around them, and the words I do write these days are reviews and essays, opinion pieces, suggestions. Short pieces, perhaps 1,000 words a day, that help me put into context those things that I'm learning about language and how it works for others.
It seems enough, for summer.
Long ago, in my snowy city, Dawn Raffel read from her then-new novel in a Walnut Street bookstore. No, Dawn did not read from her book. She evoked it, reciting the words without ever once consulting the bound pages before her. It was extraordinary. A writer in tune with the rhythms of her story. A book night I will always remember.
Just as I will always remember my own sweet yesterday afternoon as I read Dawn's new book,
The Secret Life of Objects, to myself. This enchanting
Jaded Ibis Press production, illustrated by Dawn's son, Sean Evers, is a suite of miniature essays about things—found things, lost things, remembered and misremembered things. The rocking chair. The lock of hair. The nesting bowls. The moonstone ring. The glass angel. The father's hat. It is an exploration of attachments, a series of prose poems, a little bit of memoir as well as commentary on memoir. It's an archeological dig, of sorts. It's scrapbook and philosophy.
And it is so easy to love. Its sweet brevity. It's uncoiled profundity. It's kindness toward others.
Secret Life is an original book, destined, I think, for classic status. It's a perfect teaching book; I know precisely how I'll use it next spring at Penn. For now I share the essay that hit me hardest. It's a paragraph, only, three sentences. It is the right enough:
The Frogs
My husband saw me looking in the window of a store at five wooden Balinese frogs, each playing a musical instrument. A week later, on our anniversary, those frogs were on our bed. This is why we're married.
Love that line, "I wonder, upon rising, what I will read." That's what summer's for!
What to read is always an extremely important question, and most especially in these sweltering days when any clothing at all is an encumbrance!
Oh no. The more you read and review here the bigger my list grows!
Ah, the sweet and simple joy of words, of reading.
I love finding that I have a free week in review obligations so I can pick what I want to read blindly.
I just ambled into your weblog from the tangled paths of the internet and am captivated - I've seldom read an ordinary, everyday kind of post like this one written so poetically. I shall enjoy reading more here.