Books Archives - Page 28 of 52 - A Geography of Reading

On Lyn Hejinian and Reading Out of Your Depth

August 18, 2013 by Isla McKetta, MFA 4 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, I was talking with a friend about our mutual interest in Buddhism. She recommended I read Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With the Heart of a Buddha and I asked if she’d read the works of Thích Nhất Hạnh. We agreed that neither of us really understood him, but I said what I like most about his work is precisely that I don’t understand it and that every time I re-read one of his books, I take from it what I need that day, regardless of what’s on the page. That’s how I felt reading My Life and My Life in the Nineties by Lyn Hejinian.

Drowning in a Book

“I imagine a foreign language to be like a thin stick over a creek, one must run on it with great speed so it won’t have time to break and without stopping for a second so one won’t lose one’s balance.” – Lyn Hejinian

I’d been told that My Life and My Life in the Nineties was a difficult book. I don’t think that’s strictly accurate. What the book is is fragmentary. Each of the poems or sections or essays, whatever you want to call them seems at first to be a series of disconnected sentences. But I ran head first into the book, determined to achieve that perfect balance of comprehension and enjoyment. I found myself immersed in a collection of reminiscences, and even though I could not put together the narrative, I could feel Hejinian’s life moving forward in time as I progressed through the sections.

Finding Inspiration Anywhere

“I can type faster when I don’t hear my hands.” – Lyn Hejinian

As I was reading into this book, looking for that narrative I’m so accustomed to, I found myself grasping onto individual sentences but not in the way you’d think. Instead of clutching a gnarled sentence for meaning as I would with a writer like Faulkner, I was holding onto some of Hejinian’s clear sentences as they pulled me up out of the ocean of her book and into the surface of my own writing.

Let me explain that. Normally, when the style of a book pulls you out of the narrative, that’s a bad thing for flow and surrendering to the fictional dream, and all so on. But because I was happily wandering through this book without really knowing where I was, I was glad to stop when I encountered a sentence that reminded me of something from my own life.

If I’d been in a writing frame of mind, My Life would have been the single greatest set of writing prompts I’d ever encountered. Lines like, “Because children will spill food, one needs a dog” sparked memories from my childhood and I had a visceral feeling of having food licked off of my face. Different sentences will speak to different people, but over and over as I read the book, I could feel long-lost memories igniting.

What’s the Difference Between Prose and a Prose Poem?

“Consciousness is durable in poetry.” – Lyn Hejinian

I’m not a student of poetics, but what Hejinian showed me in My Life and My Life in the Nineties is that one big difference between prose poems and prose is whether narrative is a main thrust of the writing or not. The passages in the second part of the book, My Life in the Nineties, contained more contiguous sentences in the same narrative stream and the section read faster for me, but this book is still for me much more about the language than the narrative.

Another thing I came to appreciate in this book is the way Hejinian uses particular sentences as refrains. I was well into the book before I realized that some of her sentences felt familiar. I started reading closer and marking the ones I recognized. I couldn’t discern an intentional pattern, but they did feel like a key to another way to read this book. It was as though those sentences were the triangles on a sewing pattern and when I pulled the writing into three dimensions I would connect those triangles and appreciate a completely other creation.

“Please note that in my attempt to increase the accuracy of these sentences and the persistence and velocity with which they proceed, I’m pursuing change while trying to outrun the change that’s pursuing me.” – Lyn Hejinian

Reading out of your depth can be frustrating or it can be the most wonderful thing ever. I highly recommend that you pick a day where you have nothing pressing and the world will leave you alone, and then pick up a book you always thought was beyond your ken. Read the book for whatever strikes you. There is no wrong answer and there will be no test at the end. Let me know what you discover.

If you need some fresh inspiration, pick up a copy of My Life and My Life in the Nineties from Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Reconsidering Michael Ondaatje’s Hana in The English Patient and In the Skin of a Lion

August 12, 2013 by Isla McKetta, MFA 6 Comments

I have a confession to make. I am a bad reader. I chew up books and then cast them aside. I suck the marrow of inspiration from them and then leave them to gather dust. Sometimes I even discard them entirely–selling off boxes at a time at used bookstores. So when I read The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje, I read it wrong. And it wasn’t until years later as I was reading his In the Skin of a Lion that I realized my mistake.

Is There a Wrong Way to Read a Book?

There are one hundred and fifty thousand right ways to read a book. More than that even. And there are very few wrong ways to read one. You can pick up factual errors along the way or misread a line of text. But my sin was greater. I came to The English Patient with an agenda. I had watched the film over and over and loved its golden hues and the story of Katharine and Almásy. I’d been told the book was difficult to read so I ignored it too long. When I finally did read it, I read in search of that love story. I was hungry for Ondaatje’s gorgeous language and how he’d describe a love affair.

Isn’t That What The English Patient is About?

I actually hope you’ll never ask yourself this question. I hope you’ve read this beautiful book and saw in it what I failed to… Almásy, eponymous though he may be, is not the protagonist. Hana is.

“Words, Caravaggio. They have a power.” – Michael Ondaatje

It’s been years since I read The English Patient and I might never have discovered my mistake if I hadn’t been rushing through In the Skin of a Lion this week. I was feeling fitful and hoping once again that Ondaatje could quell my inner fuss. I read a few pages a night and then fell asleep and forgot what I read. I wasn’t considering the book. I looked for Hana and Caravaggio because the jacket copy said they had first appeared in this book, but when I didn’t find them, I convinced myself I’d misread that.

And then I had lunch with a writer friend and we talked about In the Skin of a Lion and how it was her husband’s favorite book and that she enjoyed it as well. I started to think about how much I enjoy Ondaatje and why I was so impatient with him just then. I thought back to a gorgeous scene on a bridge as Nicholas saves a nun. I decided to slow down. I read the book when I had time for it instead of trying to make it bend to my sleep schedule. And like a flower in the desert, I met Hana.

Hana isn’t a main character in In the Skin of a Lion. In fact, I’d wager Caravaggio gets more pages. But it didn’t matter. All of a sudden I realized that Hana and Caravaggio came first. When Ondaatje wrote The English Patient, it wasn’t Almásy and Katharine at the front of his brain. It was Hana and Caravaggio.

How Did this Change the Book for Me?

“Do you understand the sadness of geography?” – Michael Ondaatje

With Hana at the front of my mind, I was compelled to pick up The English Patient again. You can ask my husband, it was one of those things where I picked up the book and was reading snippets of it between conversations or when he went outside. I even read a couple of passages aloud. What I realized is that the book starts with Hana. Almásy is there and there are allusions to Katharine, but that love story I’d rushed to find doesn’t actually start until page 142. A page on which I’d had the audacity to write “Now it starts.” That’s more than one third of the way through the book.

As I started reading for Hana, I saw the tenderness between her and Caravaggio and their history. I saw the connection to a life she could no longer relate to–to parents who had died and to a continent and a life far away. I could see her struggle against the pains of her very short adulthood. I realized the big role that Kip plays in her life and the smaller one that Almásy does. I watched Hana open herself up, even against all the pain in the world. I saw her become.

“She had grown older. And he loved her more now than he loved her when he had understood her better, when she was the product of her parents. What she was now was what she herself had decided to become.” – Michael Ondaatje

And of course the book is about the other characters as well and what’s most beautiful is how they interact and form in relation to one another. But I was so grateful I had this opportunity to reconsider Hana. To find the girl who became a woman and who chose, in the face of war and loss, to blossom instead of wilt.

I can’t promise that I will always read books well. I think I failed Danilo Kiš last week. But I hope I will always be lucky enough to re-encounter those beautiful books when I am ready to read them for what they have to offer.

If this review made you want to read more about Hana, pick up a copy of The English Patient or In the Skin of a Lionfrom Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Writing Around the Holocaust with Garden, Ashes by Danilo Kiš

August 11, 2013 by Isla McKetta, MFA 2 Comments

I have read a lot of books about the Holocaust. Memoir and fiction, books set in World War II Europe and in the US before and after. But until reading Garden, Ashes by Danilo Kiš, it had never even occurred to me that a book could be written about Yugoslavia during the 1940s without writing directly about the war. This story of a young Catholic boy, Eduard Scham, who loses his Jewish father, Eduard, attempts to focus so directly on the personal that the historical context is nearly absent.

Are All Holocaust Books the Same?

When I said I’ve read a lot of books about the Holocaust, I mean I’ve read so many that I’ve lost count. In my early teens I was so interested to understand the depths of human depravity that I read every Holocaust memoir and novel I could get my hands on. Kids in school called me a Nazi because I carried around a copy of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich for weeks trying to understand the history as well as the personal stories.

But aside from a few snippets of Anya by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer and images of a Jewish girl dying her hair in a barn from a book whose title I can’t even remember, the stories ran together in my mind. Each ghetto was individual. Each child who was saved or died was an individual with a full life of potential. But I could not then (and cannot now process) that many individual horrors. The events are too big. The lives lost too many. The closest I’ve come in recent years was reading Tadeusz Borowski’s This Way for the Gas Ladies and Gentlemen back to back with Fatelessness by Imre Kertesz and letting myself be jarred by the juxtaposition between Borowski’s story of unloading prisoners at Auschwitz and Kertesz’s description of being unloaded.

So no, all Holocaust books are not the same, but I can understand Kiš’s desire to try and tell a different kind of story.

How do You Write Around the Holocaust?

“You can’t play the victim all your life without in the end becoming one.” – Danilo Kiš

My absolute favorite part of Garden, Ashes is the first chapter. Kiš begins his book with a description of summer days and Andi’s mother carrying in a tray of honey and cod-liver oil which he describes as the “amber hues of sunny days, thick concentrates full of intoxicating aromas.” This first passage ends with how the children would on rainy days, “sad and disappointed, hating to get up, we would back under the covers to sleep through a day that had started badly.”

This contrast between sunny and rainy days continues throughout the first chapter and I realized (too late perhaps) that Kiš was building a metaphor. He’s telling a story that ever so subtly illustrates the differences between life before the war and life during the war. When he writes about how Fraulein Weiss could not be killed–not by the Titanic, her suicide attempt, or the numerous carts that had run over her–he is writing about surviving through the worst whether you want it or not.

Then the chapter, yes, this is all in one short chapter, turns toward the last days of summer when the leaves are changing color and Andi’s mother “had a peculiar presentiment about the advent of autumn” that leads them to jump on the last train and then “the dark cloud was upon us and rain began to patter down.” When they return to town, Kiš begins to use military language like the “signs of autumn’s offensive” that surround them. And then his mother announces the death of an unknown uncle and it seems as though the rest is inevitable.

By continuing to use metaphors, Kiš manages to write an entire book about this family and their experiences in the war that hardly ever mentions the war directly. I began to notice moments when he mentioned his mother but not his father. I felt fear and dread every time a train journey was mentioned. When Andi describes how his relatives are leaving, I wonder if they are going into exile or being deported to camps.

Is Kiš Successful?

“The eternity of the world and the worthlessnes of my own life within this enormous passage of time had become obvious, almost palpable.” – Danilo Kiš

I found this book maddening. The metaphors were amazing and the writing was gorgeous. But there were moments I simply wanted to know what was happening. The historical context is there, imprinted in our minds. But still, I wanted the personal details. I looked for direct mentions of the war, of which there are very few, and clung to them like a buoy. I wanted to know how Andi who clearly had a Jewish father avoided being picked up by the Gestapo. I had trouble distinguishing between his father’s emotional absences and his physical ones.

If you are a more careful reader than I am, one who absorbs information over time, Kiš will knock your socks off with Garden, Ashes. I have a feeling the book is rife with metaphors I’ll never uncover. But even with all the context I have on the Holocaust, I needed this book not to tiptoe as much around the topic. I needed to not wonder whether Eduard Scham had survived or not.

I think Kiš really wanted to create a new kind of narrative about the Holocaust, one that was about life and not death. I admire that. I really do. But some things are too big. We do not have to allow ourselves to be crushed by them, but we do have to look at them head on.

If you want to see how to write around traumatic events, pick up a copy of Garden, Ashes from Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Blowing Apart Language in Joie de Vivre by Lisa Jarnot

July 28, 2013 by Isla McKetta, MFA 1 Comment

What I wanted to do this evening is hide out in my basement and continue to ignore my writing. I had a really wonderful burst of creativity in Port Townsend two weeks ago, but it’s easier to keep that notebook closed than to actually look at the poems this evening (writers, this is not how you finish a project). Anyway, I made myself flip through the stack of book I’m planning to review and in it I found Joie de Vivre: Selected Poems 1992-2012 by Lisa Jarnot, and I’m so glad I did. From the very first page her poems shocked me and engaged me and made me want to read on. Now I know why I keep finding this book on the floor of my office–the fates have been throwing it at me for weeks, but I wasn’t ready to catch it. Here’s how this book shook me right out of my funk.

Step One: Read a Book Aloud

“I am ebbing in and out, I am dreaming dreams I hardly know and have tattoos, I am dreaming dreams outside of dreams and fish tanks and the spanishest of music.” – Lisa Jarnot, from “Sea Lyrics”

Reading a book aloud is a luxury. It’s slower and can be taxing on the vocal cords. It also requires solitude (or patience from your housemates). But reading aloud, especially a certain kind of poetry, is worth the effort. I found myself slipping into a southern drawl as I pronounced each of Jarnot’s words. I learned things about the way her poems worked when I spoke more or different words than are on the page. While I wouldn’t recommend reading War and Peace aloud anytime soon, reading a really good poem (or book of poetry) is a great way to (re)awaken your love of language.

Step Two: Throw Your Sentences in a Blender

“Blood in my eyes followed by truck in motel. either severely or proper. followed by police activity. followed by truck in. followed by followed by. followed by truck in motel. at the library. at the truck in motel. at the of.” – Lisa Jarnot, from “blood in my eyes”

This is not the right book for a lot of people, but the poems in this book, especially the selections from Some Other Kind of Mission accosted me with language. And I was grateful. They are filled with jarring compositions and staccato, unfinished sentences that leave room for me to leak into their interstices and complete the stories. I felt challenged by these poems and I wanted to hate them for their rawness and simplicity, but I kept falling in love with the richness of their repetition and the way the sentences evolved. They rocked my world and made me consider each word and each phrase and each mark of punctuation in a way that will help me write and edit both more carefully and more creatively in the future.

The repetition isn’t always as artful, and “molecules, selling crawfish” went too far toward the comical for me.

“Molecules, selling crawfish. selling selling crawfish. selling crawfish selling. wrecked in crawfish selling highway.” – Lisa Jarnot, from “molecules, selling crawfish”

But when the repetition works (which is more often than not) the anaphora and epistrophe and straight up repetition is pure magic. And in poems like “Greyhound Ode” the whimsy works better for me.

Step Three: Leave Your Work Open for Interpretation

Something else I loved about this book was the way the selected poems, again, especially those from Some Other Kind of Mission, bled into one another. There were no titles on the pages of that section and Jarnot uses unusual words like “meticules” and “tern” and “firs” over and over so that the poems can be read as one continuous narrative. But they are also individually constructed and each can stand on its own. I loved how that engaged me as a reader and I could feel myself making choices about how I wanted to read the book.

I didn’t love the poems later in the book as much as I loved the early ones, but I can see how Jarnot has been evolving over the years and playing with new ideas and forms. I appreciate a writer’s willingness to change and grow even while maintaining a few signatures. For Jarnot I’d say those signatures are that gorgeously evolving repetition of phrase and her ability to create images like “upon the moon in silver deep.”

What writers shake you out of your writing funk or challenge you to rethink everything? I’m going to build a list for nights like these.

If you need to shake up the way you see language, pick up a copy of Joie de Vivre from Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

A Tightrope of Tension in Life of Pi by Yann Martel

July 21, 2013 by Isla McKetta, MFA 2 Comments

I’m pretty sure I’m the last person on the planet to read Life of Pi by Yann Martel, but if I’m wrong and you haven’t yet read it, skip this review until you have. It will be full of spoilers and I hate to ruin good books. What impressed me most about this book was Martel’s ability to maintain tension in a novel that is literally lost at sea.

Introduction

I stayed away from this book for a long time because I like to read books on my own terms without any hype or intervention. And when people would tell me, “It’s this amazing book about a boy on a lifeboat with a tiger, but it’s really about God,” I thought it sounded weird but kept the name for future reference. When the Ang Lee film came out, I could see that it was going to be beautiful and knew I had to see it on the big screen (which meant being subject to Hollywood’s schedule). The movie was stunning and I’m not sorry I saw it, but I also think seeing it before reading the book robbed me of some of the book’s brilliance. I picked up the book this week because I wanted a story, something I could rely on.

Let’s talk about that paragraph I just wrote. It’s long, ambling. It covers a lot of time but doesn’t really have a center. The ideas are there, but it’s not tight and it could definitely be edited down. I bet you even skimmed part of it. I would have. In contrast, Martel’s intro to Life of Pi is tight. The first 50 pages of the book cover all the backstory of an Indian family with a zoo who is moving the zoo animals and themselves to the Western Hemisphere. It covers the story of a boy’s life and his experience as a religious omnivore. It even has an essay on the relationship between animals and humans. But it’s not messy, it’s enthralling.

So how does Martel do it? How does he keep the reader’s interest as he lays all this groundwork. I think it’s precisely the messiness that is so fascinating. But he does have an organizing principle–he uses the author’s introduction to frame for us that this is a story that will make us believe in God (a pretty encompassing idea anyway) and then he lets Pi Patel speak. And it’s no accident that the authorial interjections are more frequent at the beginning, he’s still framing the story for us and interpreting what these divergent threads might someday form, but once we’re hooked, he lets us hear directly from Pi.

Promising a Happy Ending

Would you read a book about a boy who has lost his entire family adrift on the ocean and in mortal danger every minute of every day? I wouldn’t. And I love depressing books. Page after page you’d have no idea if he’s going to get saved or not and eventually your hope would wear thin. You might abandon it before the boy gets saved or eaten.

So why do we read and love this book? Why do we recommend it to friends? Martel very smartly controlled the emotional stakes of the story. We know from the beginning that Pi survives. We don’t know how and we’re still curious as hell about this tiger thing, but we are free to hope. The most ingenious part of this emotional buoying for me was how just before we actually see Pi get lost at sea, Martel describes his family today, and then he writes, “This story has a happy ending.” Wow.

Would I suggest you do this with any other book? Absolutely not. But in a story where despair could be truly overwhelming, it was a genius move.

Keeping the Tension at Sea

Pi is adrift for a very long time. That’s another tricky proposition for a writer. How on earth do you keep readers engaged in what must be the most mind-numbing of days? Here Martel divides up the experience into little sections and each is tightly wound around one idea. There is the quest to get fish and observations of birds. He includes descriptions of distilling and collecting water and other essential knowledge for survival at sea. Oh, and there’s the tiger, Richard Parker.

Richard Parker is essential to maintaining tension out at sea, but even that could get dull for a reader over time. What was interesting for me was how Martel shifted the relationship between Pi and the animals. We get to experience with him the initial uncertainty, the pervasive fear, and the eventual reigning and caretaking. But even when Richard Parker is “tamed,” he’s still a wild animal capable of anything, and Martel doesn’t let us forget that either. All it takes is one swipe of that large claw to refocus our innate survival instincts.

But it’s About God?

What I did lose on the ocean in the book that I did not lose in the movie was the sense of God. At the end I do prefer the allegory to the events retold with human players. But I missed the direct connection with religions that Pi had been experiencing early in the book. And maybe the point is that God is everything and we can’t filter God through a religion. Maybe I need to think about it some more.

I’ve heard told that you know you are done editing a book when you run through one draft and add in commas and on the next draft you’re taking them back out. Life of Pi is that tightly edited and I loved that about it. In some ways the organization of a book that can have exactly 100, naturally segmented chapters with nothing missing and nothing superfluous makes me believe in perfection, order, and destiny. And maybe that’s the part of God I’m looking for right now.

If you still haven’t read Life of Pi, pick up a copy from Bookshop.org. Then read it when you are ready for it. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.