Saturday, November 29, 2025

RIP …

Tom Stoppard, playwright of dazzling wit and playful erudition, dies aged 88 (Hat tip, Daxe Lull))

Solvej Balle

 


I'd read and seen more recently about the Danish author Solvej Balle, and so decided to take on the first installment of her extended series, On the Calculation of Volume

The premise of the novel is key: a woman falls out of time and begins to relive the same day -- for what amounts, in total, to a year. She cannot understand how or why this has happens, and those around her cannot help: for they remain in time, and experience that specific day -- the eighteenth of November -- as if it were their first and only time living it. The result, as Balle writes, in a situation in which the primary character, Tara Selter, becomes overwhelmed with an abundance of memories -- but of the same singular day. Everyone else, however, experiences the inverse: they have no memory of a day which they have yet to live: they are, in a sense, free. 

For me, On the Calculation of Volume read as an exercise in existentialism. At its core -- in my reading, at least -- this was very much a novel about the need for action: that is, without action, with the decision to act, there can be no life, no meaning. If Tara Selter is stuck in the eighteenth of November that must be because, on some level, she has not willed herself to seek the next day, to act in such a way that warrants that day, that continuation.

Toward the end of the book, Balle insinuates that Selter may be able to "make room" for the next day: that is, she may be able to let the eighteenth of November wash over her, once and for all, and thus conclude that she has acted in such a way that requires more room, more time. Again, for me, this was an effective rendering of the existential dilemma around repetition and nothingness. For Tara Selter to liberate herself from the banality of a single day requires that she take action, that she think her way into something new. That point, at least, is well made. 

Ultimately, Solvej Balle succeeds in casting this complex journey -- from nothingness, to thought, to action -- as an odd celebration: of the small wonders, of the beauty in repetition, and of the fading human capacity for patience and appreciation. 

A poem for this morning …

Lisa Russ Spaar — The Geese

Tuesday, November 25, 2025

Tracking the decline…

Don’t Be Fooled: Notre Dame’s About-Face Isn’t a Return to Faith

Remembering one of the true greats …

I've got you under my skin – Nicky Haslam on Cole Porter {Hat tip. Dave Lull)

These days …

I woke up this morning after having a wonderful dream that immediately turned sour. In the dream I was having a great time shopping for clothes at Joseph A.Bank, which had been my favotite clothing store. Immediately upon waking I realized those days were forever past. You don't go shopping for elegant new clothes while using a walker, as I must these days. No, now is the time for remembering and reflecting. At least I can still do that.

A poem for this morning …

Charles Wright — Roma 1

Sunday, November 23, 2025

Anita Loos


Gentlemen Prefer Blondes -- Anita Loos's celebrated novel of the inter-war years -- is one of those books I'd been aware of for a long time, but had never read. Last week, I rectified that. I'll say at the start that, despite the accolades, this is not a novel on par with the work of either Fitzgerald, neither Scott nor Zelda. It's a book, certainly, that explores similar themes and geographies, but it does so in a far different fashion: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is effectively a comedy -- almost, for me, in the vein of Three Men in a Boat or Diary of a Nobody. There's a predictability to these novels: which doesn't make them any less funny, but they function based on an implicit understanding of what comes next. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes was very much like that: there was almost a gimmicky quality to the whole thing. That said, despite the humor, Anita Loos does uncover a seriousness: about wealth and femininity, about education and accomplishment. The trouble, for me, was that each time one of those themes is probed, they seem almost to be invalidated by a joke or another dalliance. And I understand that is part of the way this novel operates. But I didn't take away much here: Lorelei Lee remains something of an enigma, despite her creed that "everything always turns out of the best." I suppose it does in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, but there might have been other ways to present the roots of that optimism. 

 

Tuesday, November 18, 2025

Stefan Zweig

 


It had been many years since I last encountered a book by Stefan Zweig, but over the past month, I've read and finished perhaps his most acclaimed novel, Beware of Pity. Let me say at the start, this book is a triumph: it's everything I'd associated with Zweig -- and more. Published in 1939, the novel focuses on the relationship between a crippled young woman of aristocratic stock and an Austrian military officer, only slightly her senior. The complexity of that relationship allows Zweig to explore a range of themes, including love, patriotism, and wealth. But there's more than that: Zweig is also attuned to matters of identity, psychology, and control. In some sense, Beware of Pity is very much a reflection of its time: Zweig and Freud maintained a relationship for many years, and the influence of Freud on Zweig's characters and their motivations is clear. Then, too, there's the First World War, which comes crashing like a wave at the end of the novel, and serves, in some sense, to liberate Zweig's primary character, Anton Hofmiller, of his guilt, his lingering pity: in effect, nothing so small as actions in defense or rejection of love could escape the slaughter of the war. But then, Zweig offers a caveat: guilt, he writes, is never truly forgotten so long as the 'conscience' is still aware. Beware of Pity is wonderfully written, perfectly ordered, and evocative, in its characters, scenes, and scenery, of the fading days of the Austro-Hungarian empire. This is a paean to a lost time, and also, in many ways, to a lost love. 

A poem for this morning …

Lewis Warsh — Drops

Sunday, November 02, 2025

Blogging note …

I continue to languish in rehab. i may blog more later today. Right now I am in a mood to ponder, not write. i stare out the window at the trees, wonderfully graced with dazzling sunlight. May everyone have a blessed day.

Friday, October 31, 2025

Hmm …

… ‘href="https://archive.is/ykTJY">Nothing is real but sex and death’ — the private world of John Updike (Hat tip, Dave Lull) can't say I agree. sex is feat (or at least can be) and death is, well, inevitable. But life has a good deal more to offer than just those.

Rehab report …

I remain in bed at Saunders House, a very nice rehab facility. My right leg feels much better. So discharge may be near. As someone who has been remarkably healthy throughout my life, being an invalid is a peculiar experience. And an enlightening one. So many people are so kind. This afternoon I shall be ensconced in front of the stationay bike, which I enjoy. Soon there will be a meeting to decide if I am ready for discharge. Pray that I am. I long to be at home.

A poem for this morning …

Silvia Guerra — Presumption of Heaven

Saturday, October 18, 2025

Resolution …

i have decided to blog on a more regular basis — observations, opinions, and the like. I have been in the hospital since the operation on Monday to remove bone fragments from my hip, the result of a fall. So I have plenty of time to reflect. I spent most of last year in the hospital and rehab. I had a water retention problem that was finally resolved. And now a fall in my bedroom haslanded me back in the hospital. More later.

A poem for today …

John Yau — O Pinyin Sonnet

Friday, October 17, 2025

Natalia Ginzburg

 


I was recently recommended the work of the Italian writer Natalia Ginzburg. I didn't know much, if anything, about her, but I was intrigued, and so this week read and finished her Little Virtues. Separated in two parts, this collection of essays and reflections focuses, first, on place, especially on Ginzburg's sense for England, Italy, and Europe in the post-war period. The second part shifts its emphasis to what Ginzburg calls 'human relationships.' This section is primarily interested in experiences of youth, family identity, and friendship. Between the two, I far preferred the first, which contains a number prescient observations regarding English society, in particular. That section also achieves something unusual in terms of its narrative structure: here, Ginzburg constructs a narrative in the first-person, but the effect is something closer to what Rachel Cusk has more recently attempted: a sort of auto-fiction with the author seemingly at the center, but also hovering above, an observer to an intimate unfolding of events. The second portion of Little Virtues read a bit too didactically for me, with a number of suggestions regarding parenting, for instance, which seemed too prescriptive (and, in some ways, too political). That said, though, the whole of Little Virtues was a refreshing read, and a potent reminder of life's wonders. The final sentence, often quoted, says it all: a love of life does, indeed, beget a love of life.

Monday, October 13, 2025

Marilynne Robinson

 


It's been many years since I read Gilead, Marilynne Robinson's celebrated novel of history, faith, and mortality. I never loved that novel -- at least not in the way the critics suggested I might. But now, after all those years, I've returned to Robinson: this time via her first novel, Housekeeping

Here, again, the critics would have you believe you've encountered a masterpiece. And in some sense, I suppose, you have: the first half of Housekeeping, which establishes a sense of time and place, is highly effective. There's a clear evocation of the American west -- along with its history, people, and struggle. Indeed, struggle is at the heart of this novel: both against the land, but also against the strictures of society.

The tragedy which unfolds at the end of the novel is meant -- in my reading -- to bring the book full circle, to establish a link between it and a separate human struggle which starts the book. These episodes are different in their severity and context, but they share something which Robinson reinforces throughout the novel: water. This is a theme, a trope, a framing which guides Housekeeping

If I was disappointed by the second half of Housekeeping it's because Robinson introduces -- as she does in Gilead, too -- a secondary narrative drawing heavily from religious ideas and texts. I understand why she does this -- in Gilead, especially -- but here, in Housekeeping, it did not seem necessary: and the result was a powerful story which seems to have lost at least some of its momentum. (Faith is not a central theme in Housekeeping, and the inclusion of Robinson's secondary narrative seemed extraneous.) 

I don't want to be overly negative, though: by any measure, Housekeeping is a succesful, powerful novel. For a glimpse of the American temperament, the American frontier, and the development of the American economy -- for these concepts alone, the novel is worth the time. It is a book very much of individual characters in juxtaposition to forces larger than themselves.

Just so you know …

i won't be blogging todafor a while. i'm in the hospital awaiting an operartion.

Sunday, October 05, 2025

Thomas Bernhard

 


I recently finished The Loser, Thomas Bernhard's celebrated novel of artistry, excellence, and failure. At its core, this is a book about competition and comparison: about how, despite ourselves, we cannot avoid the tendency to differentiate, to distinguish. Bernard's focus is on elite piano players and their evolution over time and space. To label one of the three "a loser" is a bit of a stretch as that player is himself an exceptional talent. But compared with the virtuoso, with the genius, he can be nothing, at that level, but a failure. The plot of The Loser is not, though, what has attracted attention: instead, is is Bernhard's style, which fluctuates between the present and a sort of perpetual past. Bernhard captures that sense of the past in a number of ways: via memory, recollection, and imagination; but mostly, through an unusual interplay of syntax, repetition, and conjugating verbs in all forms of the past tense. A character had done, or was doing, or did do, or will have had to have done: it's almost to the point of Gertrude Stein, but that is not, in my reading, Bernhard's objective. Instead, he seems to be making a point about our ability as humans to construct entire stories from memory, from supposition. And even if I found the style here a bit, well, a bit gimmicky at times, I take the point that events are, by their very nature, transformed into the past, and that history, no matter how recent, can only be made real through the articulation of memories. In this way, at least, Bernhard packs a considerable punch: his story, told largely in the past tense, becomes immediately present, casting a double sense of sorrow: for what was, and for what now is. 

Saturday, September 27, 2025

Charlotte Bronte

 


Well, it took me a few weeks, but I've now finished Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte's mid-century classic. No doubt, this is a big book: not only in terms of its length, but in terms of its emotional depth. That said, it's not a novel that stretches with time -- nor, for that matter, with place: this is a book that captures a period of about twenty years. And of those, at least half are not described in detail. And more: the novel takes as it location a specific set of shires in northern England. 

None of which is to critique Jane Eyre -- because, by almost all measures, the novel is a triumph. But I was surprised, upon reflection, how limited the novel is in terms of its historical and geographical range. That said, what the book lacks in terms of time and space, it more than makes up by way of character and journey. Jane Eyre comes of age at brutal time in English history: one of  disease, emotional repression, and industrial awakening. There are moments early in the novel when Jane confronts unspeakable sorrow and violence. That violence, mercifully, retreats: but it's never forgotten; it lurks just below the surface of Jane's story. 

Jane Eyre is a novel that focuses almost entirely on a single character: Jane Eyre. It's a memoir of sorts, with a handful of other figures introduced in order to advance Jane's evolution. The most significant among them are men: two men, actually -- Jane's suitors. True, there are other women in this novel -- and for that matter, there are other men, too. And those tertiary characters do exert their influence: but this seems a book, in the end, guided by the influence of men, by their power to dictate: whether through financial means or religious conviction. Again, upon reflection, this is a novel that seems, at least in part, to be focused on women, and yet cast as a sequence of events largely constructed by men. 

I don't want to overstate the case: I know that Jane exercises her own agency and that she's by a profound courage. But -- in my reading, at least -- it is men who dictate the terms, and who drive the novel toward its various crescendos. 

Jane Eyre is a lyrical, thorough, difficult novel: one about a young woman in her time, and about the limitations imposed on women by that era. Charlotte Bronte is a tremendous writer, and there is never any doubt about how her characters feel, how they experience triumph and regret. One of my favorite lines from Jane Eyre comes toward the end as Jane reflects on her suitors and their love; it's at this moment that she recognizes that there is a difference between an error of judgement and a violation of principle. 

In many ways, that subtle distinction -- that reflection of personal awakening -- defines the entire novel. 

Thursday, September 04, 2025

Andre Breton

 


I was familiar, of course, with the work of Andre Breton as it relates to the world of visual art: but I'd not associated him with literature -- until now. Over a few days, I've read his most recognized book of prose, Nadja

Let me say at the start: this is not a perfect book -- and it's certainly not a perfect novel. What it is, exactly, is unclear: but perhaps that's part of its allure. For me, Nadja read mostly as an homage to Paris. Breton casts his enigmatic, tragic love -- that is, Nadja -- as a foil for the city, populating the book with images of its many districts and personalities. That visual quality endows Nadja with a sense of reality: and the book does present a certain historical rendering of the city. But more often, the novel is surreal, with self-conscious reflections on the nature of writing, on love, and on narration. Breton never seems to fully believe in what he's doing: namely endowing certain dialogue with more meaning than others -- simply by including it as part of the book. He critiques this power: acknowledging its selective nature, its artificial qualities. The result is a novel about infatuation and regret, but which reads less as a love story and more, to borrow from Breton, as the "sketch of a mental landscape." Indeed, that is exactly what Nadja is: and while it's not for everyone, it is a work occupying that unique juncture between history, geography, and individualism. For the reflections on Paris alone, Nadja is a satisfying read. 

Something to think on …

Quotes To Inspire You

Wednesday, August 06, 2025

Angus Wilson

 


I can't remember where I first encountered that name -- Angus Wilson -- but I'm glad, having now finished one of his early collection of stories, that I did. Published in 1949, The Wrong Set and Other Stories is an exceptional collection: indeed, some of the stories here are among the finest I've read. Which is saying something -- as I often lose my way with short stories. But these are entirely different: whereas short stories often serve as vignettes, Wilson's work functions -- in my reading -- as an attempt at crescendo. Each story in The Wrong Set culminates in a localized crisis, a moment of understanding, or reckoning, or revelation. And then, in most cases, Wilson leaves it there: the crisis speaks for itself; there is nothing more to say because its arrival is so clear, its meaning and implication so obvious. Wilson wrote after Fitzgerald, of course, but there was something reminiscent of the American master here: like Fitzgerald, Wilson wrote well, for instance, of drinking and of social custom. And more: there's an element in Wilson's stories -- as in Fitzgerald's -- of powerful personalities, of local figures made grand: only then, in a moment of weakness or exposure, to be cut down to nothing. The Wrong Set is very much a product of its time: the inter-war period, leading to the Second World War. And in this way, it's more than literature: it's a historical work as well, highlighting facets of British society at this time, and the way they mixed to generate equal measures of beauty and catastrophe. 

Thursday, July 17, 2025

In memoriam …

Connie Francis "Where The Boys Are" on The Ed Sullivan Show

Mihail Sebastian

 


It's an interesting experience to read a novel seemingly at random. This was the case recently when taking up Mihail Sebastian's For Two Thousand Years. Published in 1934 in Romania, this is a book far from my usual tastes and interests. 

Strangely, I'd read another of Sebastian's novels -- Women -- a few years ago, and I'd enjoyed it. But this novel -- Two Thousand Years -- is far darker, far more foreboding. This is a book, in effect, which charts the emergence of a more virulent form of anti-Semitism in Romanian culture. The novel does not makes its way to the Second World War, but the themes which are uncovered anticipate what was to come. Except, of course, that what came was far worse. 

Two Thousand Years is more, though, than a historical novel: it is one profoundly focused on identity, and on Sebastian's conflicting, almost tortured, sense for his own Judaism. There are parts of this novel which are very difficult to read -- in part because Sebastian has allowed that anti-Semitism to encroach on his moral judgments. Much more can -- and has, I'm sure -- be written about this troubling dynamic: as I say, I found it to be quite upsetting, not least because Sebastian seems at moments to negate Jewish contributions to the European past. 

In the end, Two Thousand Years is a novel in search of Romania: of its workers, its ethos, its history and culture. That does seem, truly, to be Sebastian's objective: to describe this place through its people and their conflicts, and their intractable march toward something far more sinister. Sebastian has an aphoristic way of writing which provides rewards to the patient reader. Here is one of the most memorable: 

"Aren't you traveling light for a man who's making history?"
"No. It's all I need. I'm leaving the rest behind." 

The waythese things happen …

An Organized Retail Theft Story

A poem for this morning …

Anne Sexton — The Poet of Ignorance

Sunday, July 13, 2025

The finish line …

Poet Mary Jo Bang reaches the end of her 20-year journey through Dante's 'Divine Comedy' (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

More about Updike

The Complicated Brilliance of John Updike: A Conversation with Biljana Dojčinović (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Something to think on …

Quotes To Inspire You

One a believer, the other not …

Reading Two Thomases (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Surely worth reading …

New Yorker previews upcoming John Updike Selected Letters volume (Hat tip, Dave Lull)

Something to ponder at Harper’s Pond

Thinking about the end…

One can only hope …

Can Americans Love Poetry Again? ( Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

A tale worth reading …

My Crime Fiction: 'Mouth'

A poem for this morning …

Morgan Parker — The High Priestess of Soul’s Sunday Morning Visit to the Wall of Respect

Sunday, July 06, 2025

Appraisal …

Toni Morrison, Editor (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

In case you wondered …

Why did the Romans consider butter a "barbaric" food. (Hat tip, Felix Giordano)

Testimony …

H. L. Mencken On Hot Dogs

Our faithful grounding …

Nature and the God of the Declaration of Independence (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Preview …

from “Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs,” by John Berryman (Hat tip, dave Lull.)

William Carlos Williams at Harper’s Pond …

Between Walls

Something to think on …

Quotes To Inspire You

A poem for this morning …

William Carlos Williams — About a little girl

Wednesday, July 02, 2025

RIP …

David Rytman Slavitt Obituary (Hat tip, Dave Lull)

Something to think on …

Quotes To Inspire You

Just so you know …

Male Novel Readers Are Not Fiction (Hat tip, Dave lull.) Liberal politics have destroyed the space for male readers. The women who “dominate the publishing industry” are the same kind of women that dominate Hollywoke — man-bashing, woman-mutating feminists. They’re the reason my four novels thus far aren’t published by major presses like Hachette, Harper Collins, and Random House but by boutique publishers (very discriminating ones).

In visions of the dark night …

I have dreamed of joy departed—

A poem for this morning …

Tom Clark — Where I Live

Monday, June 30, 2025

Stella Gibbons


I'd been aware of Cold Comfort Farm for a long while, but it was only recently that I had the opportunity to read it. And I must say: this novel is fantastic. Indeed, it's everything you'd like to see in a literary comedy: equal measures seriousness and parody, wrapped in superb prose. Stella Gibbons produced something tremendous when Cold Comfort was published in 1932. 

Like other novels of this period, Cold Comfort has assumed a last quality: the characters emerge in three dimensions; they are funny, even absurd; but they are also representative, in their thoughts and actions, of themes larger than themselves. This is not an exercise in belittling; it is instead an effort to uncover, with humor, the shifting social plates of interwar period. 

Gibbons, of course, produced a number of memorable scenes in Cold Comfort, including several with her primary character, Flora Poste. In many ways, and at many moments, Poste serves as the hinge: she embodies a polite mannered culture, while, at the same time, flirting with modernity, with private jets and birth control. She plays the traditional matchmaker, but again, without hesitation, acknowledges the less predictable worlds of sexuality and romance. All of which is to say: Cold Comfort sits at the very lively intersection between Georgian custom and contemporary liberation, between rural tradition and urban sophistication. 

Ultimately, Cold Comfort reads as a classic comedy -- one employing all the tricks and crafts of the trade: it's a very well written novel with a tangled web at its start and a long gilded line at its end. I enjoyed Gibbon's achievement throughout. After all, there's nothing funny about great writing.