The Awakening, by Kate Chopin
I'm shocked I did not know about this book before I found it at
Normal's, just a thin little thing by the Byatt books. Written by
Kate Chopin at the end of the 19th century,
after her husband died, it's a story about a woman who realizes that she
can do the things she wants. And I don't mean the usual when it comes to these matters (college, be a doctor, etc.) I mean simple things.
Mrs. Pontellier, in this novel, wants to practice her painting. She does, to her husband's chagrin. She wants to take walks. She wants to not be relied upon to be home for Tuesday visits. She wants to have the same independence of movement as her husband, deciding to go for a walk, to visit a friend, to read a book, and not seek out permission to do so. In the end, however, she still has two children, and for their sake, she must make a sacrifice.
I read the first ten pages and was sure it would only piss me off. Her husband, insolent, dense, putting her in her place.
If it's not her job to look after the children, then whose is it? But I read on. I liked Mrs. Pontellier, but sometimes saw her as stubborn... but I was rooting for her through and through.
It's a quick read and I'm afraid I'm going to give it all away--so I suggest you pick an afternoon and just read it. It's great.
Possession, by A.S. Byatt
I have found a new love. A new author to think about, to read, to emulate, to go to when I need some kick in my ass to write.
A.S. Byatt, to put it bluntly,
FUCKING ROCKS. That's just simply put. Simply
it. I went to a great used bookstore here in Baltimore called
Normal's, a most excellent wealth of ... well, everything. Their stacks secretly remind me of a closet I hope to have one day, books books books. On one trip, I picked up
Possession, along with
Dr. Faustus and a few others.
Possession, is, I think, the first book of that shopping day I've stopped to read.
The story is labeled "a romance," and indeed it is, but none of that Steele, Garland or other bubbly-naked-cover romance you may associate with the word. It takes place in two different times: 1986 or 87, and 1859-61. Two present-day scholars, academia in poets, long-dead, and the two long-dead poets, up until one fateful day, were never to be related to each other further than the opposing readings of each. One labeled a mysogynist who cared only for words, found women weak, etc. and the other a lesbian, fiercely independent, fiercely an artist, fiercely claiming a place in intellect. But one of these present-day scholars, Roland, fumbles, and finds a handwritten, unfinished letter by the man-poet, Randolph Henry Ash, and recognizes a sense of intimacy never before seen in his writing. Not knowing why, only that it touched him more than mere intellect, he took it.
What unfolds is absolutely FANTASTIC. Studies, researches, trips, underhandings, discoveries, sex that's not sex, intrigue, mystery, desire--they're all there.
In looking for the appropriate cover (the version I read), I found a movie cover and did not realize that
a film has been made based on the book. Which I must check out immediately. However, I did see
Angels & Insects and discovered, on a return trip to Normal's, that Byatt also wrote that, and
Babette's Feast, another book-cum-movie.
As a shameful side note, I was distraught to find that I immediately assumed A.S. Byatt was a man, based on the name alone. I was thrilled to learn otherwise, quite by surprise. This makes me wonder: what name will I use when I publish? Because... I do intend to publish.
On the Road, by Jack Kerouac
Dave got me this book for my birthday, and I started reading it while we were in Krakow, Poland. I'd always wanted to hear it simply for his "historical"--if you will--importance in literature. I honestly thought, before opening the pages, that it was supposed to be a sort of epic poem
a la The Odyssey (why does that spelling look so funny to me?), or am I mistaking that for
The Illiad? Either way, I was excited to get the book, and then get down and dirty with the reading.
I had, without even reading the book, assumed that the fun vivacious character of the book (the crazy one), Dean Moriarty, was supposed to be a fictional representation of the author. The introduction, however, written by someone else, quickly quieted that all-too-popular assumption, which, it turns out, actually pissed Jack off. The character is actually based on a Cassady, an ADHD sort of fellow who had a life that seems hard to imagine, but makes for a great story. Jack jumped on that--and I would have too.
Although the story didn't remark too much on writing or the art of writing, knowing that Jack/Sal Paradise is a writer really got my fingers itching to write myself. But being with a partner in Europe and writing would be a bit rude and not all that fun considering the conflict of ... um ... hello! Being in Europe! I'm not an expatriate, though that'd be fun, so to sit and write for hours, as grand and wonderful as it might feel for me, would not be all that intriguing to a partner, who may go off and see the great outdoors without me, only for me to be incredibly jealous later when he tells me of the great sights. So writing was... I fear to admit... coming second on this trip. I'm a horrible writer, aren't I?
The story was AWESOME (to get back to the actual book). The story just kept going, characters flitting in and out, adventures had everywhere, details irrelevant when action is the jist. Apparently, Jack wrote the book in a sort of freewrite. Automatic writing. On a typewriter. He also took many drugs to stay awake for the writing which he finished in some ridiculous amount of time but spent the next few years editing and rewriting. I have a friend or two... actually, only one, who reminds me truly of Dean Moriarty.
I see him wanting to be on the road, getting into danger, lost in drugs... why this life is appealing, I see only dimly. For the most part... it's a character, not a person. Except for the person Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg knew. Which reminds me--Allen Ginsberg is gay or bisexual? And I have to read the poem that begins with the lines used in a
They Might Be Giants song, "I've seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness starving hysterical..." Yes, yes.
Currently, I'm reading A.S. Byatt. I'll let you know what I think.
I Survived Auschwitz, Krystyna Zywulska
I got this book while visiting the camps as well as the one reviewed below (
By Bread Alone). The account is tremendously different for very important reasons. 1) It's a different person. Obviously. But 2) The subject is a woman, and 3) She was not a Jew--as far as I could tell. It was difficult to understand this point exactly. She was labeled in the camp as a political prisoner from Poland, and she was treated as such--not an immediate target for execution as the Jews were, yet references I find online suggest she somehow masked her true identity. I think it may go beyond my knowledge of Jewish and Polish names, because it was very clear that she kept her real name a secret, which perhaps has Jewish origins. Most Holocaust accounts I've read are written by Jewish men, so the perspective of a political prisoner (whether she was Jewish or not is irrelevant, because she was treated as a political prisnoer) and a woman who works registering those next in line to die, is fascinating for this completely different perspective. It goes to show that even if their suffering was "logically" less, it's still far too immense to imagine. Another good read.
By Bread Alone, by Mel Mermelstein
The above picture was taken by US troops when they liberated the Buchenwald Concentration Camp, located on the outskirts of Weimar, Germany, home to Goethe and Schiller. The last small face you see on the top bunk to the far right is supposedly that of
Mel Mermelstein, the author of
By Bread Alone, which I bought while visiting the Auschwitz camp during my trip to Europe this last month. However, it should be noted that the last full face on the second bunk is rumored to be that of a very famous camp survivor, Elie Wiesel. I've also read his books. I don't recall his recollection of this photograph being taken, whereas Mermelstein gives a detailed account. But to claim either as fact would be hasty, if you ask me.
The account is, and I doubt any account can be anything but, amazing. Mel Mermelstein was a young 17 years old and Jewish when his family was transported from the Czech Republic in 1944 and transported to camps. At the urging of his father, after it was clear their mother and two sisters had already been gassed, they vowed to separate in order not to see each other's suffering.
His story is easy to read through. Though horrific in all its detail, though emotional in its story and its
fact, something about how he relates it keeps you at a safe enough distance that you'll read on; your humanity isn't crushed the way you'd imagine it could be, but it is indeed touched.
It is loaded with photographs, documentation, newspaper articles (mostly from the Los Angeles Times) showing that the world was far more knowledgable about the Nazi crimes than those from history would like to admit. It makes you feel sick to imagine that in that time, it was simply news to people overseas, while the book you hold in your hand prove it was much more.
In the 1980s, Mel Mermelstein challenged a California-based Revisionist History group, who promised anybody that could prove gassing happened at Auschwitz would receive a $50,000 reward. Mel Mermelstein took their bet. He mailed in all his documentation, his book, a picture of his own tattoo, and they did not issue him the money. Therefore, he sued them for breach of contract. They were taken to court, and they were ordered to pay him because he did indeed prove that such things occurred. It's weird though--when you're online, some revisionist groups call this a "triumph," for themselves, and I'm so digusted by the groups in general, that I don't linger to read why. I'd rather not know.
To see photos taken by Dave at Auschwitz, refere to his
page dedicated to the trip. I'll add an update when I finally post my pictures.
