Sunday, May 04, 2025

Apologies …

Blogging took a bit slowvroday, i spent a good part of today in a nearby hosoital. I have an infection and was given an antibiotic. luckily, i have dear friens who watch ober, evereyone han a blessed night,

Peace comes dropping slow …

I will arise and go now…

Wednesday, April 30, 2025

Torborg Nedreaas


About Nothing Grows by Moonlight, all I can really say is wow: this is a brutal, terrifying novel. 

Set in Norway following the Second World War, the novel provides an unyielding view into the experience of women in working class communities. Torborg Nedreaas, who was born in Bergen, and who, I've learned, emerged as of the preeminent Norwegian novelists of the last century, knew exactly what she wanted to say, and presented that vision with tremendous courage: this is novel about the abuse of women, about gender inequity, about violence, and, to a certain extent, about the relationship between motherhood and childhood. 

Norway today is seen as a progressive nation with considerable financial means, but the country eighty year ago -- the country that Nedreaas knew -- was entirely different: this was an impoverished, solemn, isolated nation concerned less with the rights of working woman than with the evolution of a capitalist system. 

Nedreaas tells a simple story about this world, but it is one of tremendous emotional weight: it is one of pregnancies and abortions, alcoholism and loneliness. The story is also one of psychological and religious awakening, followed by unrelenting waves of economic tumult, turning everything black. 

Nothing Grows by Moonlight has much to say about what happens at night: about the silence and the stars and the things which intrude upon them. I can't remember the last novel I read which struck such a nerve, and which served as a reminder of how brutal -- truly, how brutal -- life was for so many, so recently. This novel is an exercise in honesty and clairvoyance, a paean to the strength of women forgotten by time. I could not put Moonlight down. And yet, when it was over, I felt a palpable sense of relief.

Words to live by …

Quotes To Inspire You

No mere stroll …

Sauntering is hard work ( Hat tip, Dave Lull,)

And so it began…

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

Remembering …

Murray Kempton, Around Forever: Resurrecting a Forgotten American Journalist (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Reading a classic …

Trustee From The Toolroom (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

A poem for this morning …

Xi Chuan — Mourning Problems

Tuesday, April 08, 2025

John Berger

 


I returned recently to the essays of John Berger, and finished a collection edited by Geoff Dyer -- this one called Understanding a Photograph. It's a selection of works, most of them previously published, which provides an orientation to Berger's critical themes: the role of the photographer in contemporary society; how photographs function; and the relationship between between photography and history. Taken together, the essays serve as a reminder of Berger's key insights: his uncanny ability to read photographs as something more than two-dimensional representation. Not all of the pieces here are perfect, and some are perhaps overly political; but the few that strike a chord -- that truly resonate -- get at the decisions a photographer makes when framing an image: when that image, if successful, becomes something more transcendent, more lasting than a static moment in time. This was not my favorite collection of Berger's essays, but having not read his work for several years, I was pleased to be back, and was reminded of his unusual ability to interpret photographic imagery. 

"An instant photographed can only acquire meaning in so far as the viewer can read into it a duration extending beyond itself. When we find a photograph meaningful, we are lending it a past and a future."

RIP …

REMEMBERING THE BLEAK, BEAUTIFUL POETRY OF KEN BRUEN'S NOIR

William Blake at Miscellaneous Musings 15135 …

Ah! Sun-flower

Friday, March 21, 2025

Arnold Bennett

 


Apologies for my absence from the blog: I've been immersed in, well, in a very long novel. But I've finished it now, and have a few observations to share. 

The novel in question: The Old Wives' Tale by Arnold Bennett, published in 1908. I must say, when I first encountered this book, I had limited expectations. This is a big novel, set very much in the realistic style of later nineteenth century French fiction. Put differently, this isn't the sort of work I'd usually enjoy. 

But let me say at the start: wow -- The Old Wives' Tale is an absolute triumph. I could not have been more attached to these characters, nor to Bennett's uncanny ability to chart the impact of time, of history.

The Old Wives' Tale is masterfully written: this is the work of an author who knows how to wield not only language, but syntax and structure. The result is a detailed portrayal not only of the Baines sisters, but of the events surrounding them. In that sense, this is a novel from the inside: industry and early commercialism emerge as characters in their own right, pushing and pulling the sisters from one year to the next. 

And more: there is a very effective element of this novel focused on the emotional lives of the Baines sisters, and what their lives "mean," what legacy they've left. For one sister, the answer must be the defense of place -- of, literally, the family home. For the other sister, the answer is different: it is work, and accumulation of material reward. In the end, however, home and labor result in very little: both sisters are overwhelmed by social and economic factors subtly presented by Bennett. 

It's that presentation -- that conclusion -- which renders this novel so powerful: the Baines sisters struggle and succeed, but then, in the end, the question becomes: for what? Their legacies are washed away by a more modern version of politics, by the emergence of consolidated industry, and by the fading tides of memory. 

This long novel functions very much as a serialized television show might today: there is no rush; there are episodes upon episodes to build characters and place; and there are distant plot sequences which intersect, bringing everything together at last. The Old Wives' Tale is a tremendous accomplishment and one of the most effective examples I can recall of an accessible, readable, realistic novel composed in English. (Between Bennett and Hardy -- I'd take the former!) 

Sounds very good …

‘Wolf Hall: The Mirror and the Light’ Review: Mark Rylance’s Master Manipulator (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Goodbye winter …

Today’s Poem: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening (Hat tip. Dave Lull.)

Something from SOTY …

My Long Night by Charles Simic

Wednesday, March 12, 2025

It is tempting …

lionelShriver: Am I a culture war addict (Hat tip, Dave Lull.) It may be too early to say if the woke wars are over. The perceived Trumpian “vibe shift” may constitute a mere temporary setback for the inexorable “march through the institutions” by the deranged progressives who’ve dominated us commonsensical normies for over a decade. More ideally, a loudly slammed door consigns all that racial hysteria and gender woo-woo behind it to the status of a bad dream. But the dogma is still out there, and the same brainwashed fanatics still occupy many positions of influence

Sonnet from somewhere on the Yough …

Singular syntax

Thursday, March 06, 2025

Interesting …

Trump Names COVID Contrarian to Head NIH, Restore Faith in Science In 1928 , Dr. Alexander Fleming was investigating the properties of Staphylococcus bacteria. He grew some in a petri dish before leaving for vacation. When he got back, a strange mold had attacked the bacteria, destroying it. He noticed the mold seemed to be preventing the bacteria around it from growing. He correctly deduced that the mold must have been secreting a substance that acted as a self-defense chemical. Fleming also had some good luck. The preferred lab animals at the time were dogs. but for some reasonreason, none were available at the tupime. so he had to settle on white rats. Luckily for him and us. dogs are allergic to penicillin. White rats react as we do. hHence, we have penicillin.

A poem for this morning |

Emily Fragos — The Suicide of Cesare Pavese

Sunday, February 16, 2025

Kazuo Ishiguro

 


It had been quite some time since I last read a novel by Kazuo Ishiguro, but over the past week, for whatever reason, I found myself reading -- and enjoying -- An Artist of the Floating World

This is one of Ishiguro's earliest novels, and while it may not be as evolved as Remains of the Day, say, it is a succesful work in its own right. Much of that success owes, in my estimation, to Ishiguro's narration: this is book which embarks on a series of tangents and asides, and for every step forward, there are several backward or to the side. The result, though, is not confusion: it is a holistic sense for the primary character, his history and evolution, and his relationships with family and friends.

If I had a critique of Floating World it would focus on its politics: Ishiguro flirts with Japan's imperial past and its authoritarian governments leading to the Second World War. But he never fully exposes this: his characters reference the war -- and Japan's eventual defeat -- but they do so from a distance: all of the politics here are cloaked in generalities or innuendo. It is the art which seems to draws Ishiguro's attention.

I recognize, of course, that Floating World was not strictly intended as a political novel: nor, specifically, as a history of Japan. Instead, it is a novel about reputation, apprenticeship, and advancement. Ishiguro's central character -- the aging Masuji Ono -- represents the arch of artistic fulfillment. (That fulfillment may have achieved a sort of transcendence, but it is also checkered with regret and contrition.) At the same time, however, Ono represents the sum of his memories, which take him from one story to the next. I hesitate to use the word "fractured" -- because that is not what this is novel is about: instead, it is about, perhaps, the potential for memories to come together to forge something profound: something approaching identity. 

An Artist of the Floating World has lots of interesting things to say about art and its interplay with personal identity (and yes, politics too). This is an eminently readable novel worthy of thought and reflection.

Tuesday, January 28, 2025

Janet Malcolm

 


I didn't know much about Janet Malcolm, but this past week, I finished Still Pictures, a posthumous collection of essays loosely focused on Malcolm and her family. I say loosely because, in the end, as Malcolm's daughter notes in her afterward, this collection is not strictly autobiographical. In each chapter, Malcolm takes a grainy old image and uses it as an entry point into the past, into her past. There are essays focused, primarily, on Malcolm's family and their emigration from Czechoslovakia to America; there are other pieces, though, about religion, American culture, and intellectual life -- both in Europe and the States. For me, what was most refreshing about this collection was its brevity, confidence, and wit: Malcolm does not reach for too much, and she does not focus her gaze entirely on herself: instead, her view is outward, from the original image to its context and history. In many ways, the result is a social history of the first half of the twentieth century: from the wars to the Cold War and beyond. For those with a special appreciation for Czech history, this collection will be particularly rewarding. All told, Still Pictures was a book to savor, and was evocative -- in all the right ways -- of Sebald, Berger, and other greats.

Another poem

Today’s Poem: A Flower Given to My Daughter.

Classy mail …

The Illustrated Envelopes of Edward Gorey.

Arise and go now …

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Stars of the mind and heart …

Constellation of Genius: Miłosz, Camus, Einstein, and Weil.

A poem for this morning …

Robert Creeley — Night

Sunday, January 26, 2025

On the road …

Mexico City 1: Some Observations & Comparisons

Chance encounter …

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Remembering …

Bruce Charlton's Notions: The poet Stevie Smith (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Q&A …

The Art of Fiction No. 78 James Baldwin.

Listen in …

A Fork in the Road with Glenn Reynolds | Starting Strength Radio #301

Turns of phrase …

With reference to … (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

When the dead return …

They will come to you in dream and in waking.

In case you wondered …

Did Bernard Mandeville deserve his reputation? (At tip, Dave Lull.)

I never knew this …

The Little-Known Story of John Wayne's Deathbed Conversion to Catholicism

Friday, January 17, 2025

Remember to celebrate …

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Tennesse Williams

 


Much has been written about A Streetcar Named Desire -- and I won't attempt to rehash that here. But having just read the play for the first time, I will offer one point: this is a dark play, punctuated by acts of deliberate cruelty. I was surprised by this, actually: because while I had a general sense for the play and its position in the pantheon, I was not expecting such a dire view of, well, of the human condition. This is a play with very little remorse: characters come into repeated conflict, but rarely apologize for it. The nature of playwriting -- the very structure of a play -- magnifies this conflict as the scaffolding of a novel is peeled away. Without the narrative, and the description, and the literary enclosure, all that's left in Streetcar is pain and loss. This moment in time -- this vision of characters, in a specific place, with a specific set of concerns -- is one, in my reading, of unyielding despair. 

A field of snow without a single footprint …

This is the feast of our mortality,

A real journalist …

Paul Davis On Crime: My Washington Times On Crime Column On The Life Of Jimmy Breslin

Coming to terms with now …

Richard%20Fleming%2C%20%u2018In%20Grace%u2019%20%7C%20Form%20in%20Formless%20Times (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

A poem for this morning …

Claribel Alegría:— Documentary.

Sunday, January 12, 2025

One greart writer on another …

Auden reviews Tolkien | Epistle of Dude The demands made on the writer’s powers in an epic as long as “The Lord of the Rings” are enormous and increase as the tale proceeds-the battles have to get more spectacular, the situations more critical, the adventures more thrilling-but I can only say that Mr. Tolkien has proved equal to them.

On the binnacle list again …

On the occasion of COVID’s attempt to destroy me

Appreciation …

The Annotated Big Sleep: A Look Back At The Late, Great Raymond Chandler And His Classic Crime Novel, 'The Big Sleep'

Listen in …

This year will mark the 50th anniversary of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Listen in …

The U.S. takeover of Canada, and mice

A poem for this morning …

Raúl Zurita — The Pacific Is the Sky

I’m sure he does rise up some days …

The ashes of Mark Twain.

Rachel Cusk

 


I've written on the blog before about Rachel Cusk. I think she's a singular novelist: her Faye trilogy represents a high point in modern literature. Those books occupy their own space, and they have a lingering quality very rare in this world of unrelenting content. 

Having so enjoyed the Faye novels, I recently read another of Cusk's book, Second Place. There's much here which is similar to the earlier works: the uncertain relationship between Cusk and the narrator, the interjection of philosophy and reflection into common experience, and the ability to universalize the banal -- to quietly endow it with an unexpected weight. 

True, Second Place is a book about a second physical space, but equally, it is about the sensation of feeling that you, as a person, have perpetually come in 'second place.' There is a lot here about the dynamics between men and women, and about what it takes to generate great art. There are reflections about the hierarchy of that art, and about the effects of the artistic impulse, especially on families or friendships. 

Second Place is at times a dire, brutal recounting of one woman's interactions with two different types of men: one silent, one aggressive. But it is more than that: it is a story of this woman's gradual awakening to her own sense of power and artistry. Second Place is not as strong, perhaps, as the Faye novels, but that is not a critique as much as a further celebration of those earlier books. In the end, Second Place takes on a tremendous amount -- art, gender, power, space -- and distills it to its core. These things are real, Cusks seems to suggest, while we experience them, and not only in hindsight, not only upon reflection. We would do well to remember this.

Saturday, January 11, 2025

Thursday, January 02, 2025

Sounds wonderful …

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Nice to know …

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In the beginning…

Kentucky by Heart: Mark Twain had real connections to Kentucky, with mother born in Adair County

Sounds like it’s worth reading …

BOOKS | g emil reutter

Confession of an evil man …

Fairy Tale.

A good suggestion …

Spark Your Creativity - by tspoetry

In case you wondered …

Why poetry matters - The Conservative Woman

A poem for this morning …

Mary Kathryn Stillwell — Travel Plans.