End of the Reading Rainbow

I wanted to post this poem yesterday, but the Stevenson poem seemed more appropriate for that entry.  While we're still on the subject of reading (we are until I say we're not), I'm going to include it.  I always find joy in stories about the lengths people will go to to learn to read.

Learning to Read

-Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Very soon the Yankee teachers
Came down and set up school;
But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,—
It was agin' their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide
Book learning from our eyes;
Knowledge didn't agree with slavery—
'Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal
A little from the book,
And put the words together,
And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell,
Who took pot-liquor fat
And greased the pages of his book,
And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen
The leaves up on his head,
He'd have thought them greasy papers,
But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turner's Ben,
Who heard the children spell,
And picked the words right up by heart,
And learned to read 'em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending
The Yankee teachers down;
And they stood right up and helped us,
Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And, I longed to read my Bible,
For precious words it said;
But when I begun to learn it,
Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying,
Oh! Chloe, you're too late;
But as I was rising sixty,
I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses,
And straight to work I went,
And never stopped till I could read
The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin—
A place to call my own—
And I felt as independent
As the queen upon her throne.

If Black Books and Inkheart had a baby, it would be this post.

Sometimes when my mind wanders I like to imagine that I run a little used and antique bookstore somewhere around Stratford-upon-Avon.  Hardly anyone would come in to buy things, and the sun would stream through the high windows.  I would sit there reading all day, only to glance up once or twice at the dust settling in the beams.

It occurs to me that many of the best gifts I have ever been given have been books.  For Christmas this year, my family all drew names and then made a pact to only give one homemade gift to that person.  It turned out to be a really special Christmas.  I unwrapped a cookbook created by my mother.  It was hardback like a real book, with a photo of her kitchen on the cover and a picture of us together on the back.  She took some pictures and used others that I had taken and posted online and then typed up some of her best recipes.  It is one of my favorite things ever.

The Christmas before that, my best friend gave me the most unexpected and exciting book I could have ever imagined.  It's A Child's Garden of Verses written by Robert Louis Stevenson, and there's a sticker inside the cover with a 1929 calendar on it.  It's got that musty smell that the farthest reaches of the library stacks have, and sometimes I feel like Mary Katherine Gallagher sitting there and smelling the pages like a fool.

Runners-up in the best books I have been given category are Are You Being Served?: The Inside Story of Britain's Funniest--And Public Television's Favorite--Comedy Series, Catch-22 (loaned to me by a friend and then later given to me by my dad), and The Making of Pride and Prejudice (the BBC version because I am a die-hard nerd).

Here is a poem included in that collection of Stevenson verses.  Do you ever wish you could just live in the pages of a book?

The Land of Storybooks

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.

Yes, but what does it mean?

I am reading a book by Neil Gaiman called American Gods. It's a novel that deals with mythology and its place in America now that we are a society so immersed in technology and information. I'm enjoying the read so far, not least because it has confirmed two truths for me.

One, and I'm quoting Gaiman here, is that there is a phenomenon where "you only ever catch one episode of [TV] shows you don't watch, over and over, years apart." I had always suspected this was some kind of cosmic joke I was imagining, but now that he's writing about it, I realize that at least one other person has experienced this happening to him.  For me it's an episode of Wings where two of the characters get married. Although it's been a while since I've come across a network playing Wings reruns, chances are if I did it would be that episode.

Two, that you can go your whole life never knowing something or someone existed, but as soon as you learn about it, it becomes immediately ubiquitous. For example, I had never heard of Louise Brooks until a week ago. She had always existed, but I was never aware of her. Now, as soon as I read her name in this American Gods book, she's all over the place.  Is it just that I'm more aware of her name being mentioned?  Possibly.  But it's pretty strange that a friend of mine brought her up in conversation, randomly, at this particular time.  On the other hand, my friend was saying that her face is up on a mural on the outside wall of a school in Los Angeles that I've probably driven by at some point.  But while watching TCM the other night, Robert Osborne referred to Louise Brooks in connection to another film that was airing.  So yes, you could probably come up with a solid argument against it, but I'm convinced that this is a real thing.

I'm close to finishing American Gods, so I'll let you know if anything else is illuminated.  I just hope it's not another In the Woods-ian epic disappointment at the end.  You'll be getting a full rant from me on that one one of these days. 

French Movie

-David Lehman

I was in a French movie
and had only nine hours to live
and I knew it
not because I planned to take my life
or swallowed a lethal but slow-working
potion meant for a juror
in a mob-related murder trial,
nor did I expect to be assassinated
like a chemical engineer mistaken
for someone important in Milan
or a Jew journalist kidnapped in Pakistan;
no, none of that; no grounds for
suspicion, no murderous plots
centering on me with cryptic phone
messages and clues like a scarf or
lipstick left in the front seat of a car;
and yet I knew I would die
by the end of that day
and I knew it with a dreadful certainty,
and when I walked in the street
and looked in the eyes of the woman
walking toward me I knew that
she knew it, too,
and though I had never seen her before,
I knew she would spend the rest of that day
with me, those nine hours walking,
searching, going into a bookstore in Rome,
smoking a Gitane, and walking,
walking in London, taking the train
to Oxford from Paddington or Cambridge
from Liverpool Street and walking
along the river and across the bridges,
walking, talking, until my nine hours
were up and the black-and-white movie
ended with the single word FIN
in big white letters on a bare black screen.

Loaded for Bhaer

I was watching the 1949 version of Little Women this weekend, and I suddenly realized that every adaptation of the book- nay, even the very book itself- infuriates me.  The problem is Jo.  She's a great character whom a lot of girls look up to: a headstrong, outspoken writer who struggles against society's expectations of her to get married and stay home and knit.  Clearly she is a representation of the author, Louisa May Alcott.

In case you are unfamiliar with the plot, Jo is best friends with "Laurie" Lawrence.  His character is developed as charming, handsome, fun, and basically the peas to Jo's carrots.  Laurie loves Jo, and Alcott seems to be setting them up as the perfect match through most of the book.  But in the second half, it becomes more and more clear that Jo does not feel the same about Laurie, until she finally rejects his marriage proposal and breaks his heart.  She goes off to New York, hoping that it will give him time to get over her, and it's there that she meets the wretched Professor Bhaer.

Guess what.  She ends up marrying old Bhaer.  Oh, Louisa.  We don't care about the Professor!  He's middle-aged and always poorly cast in movies.  He and Jo have a teacher-student relationship, and it's incredibly boring.  She's fascinated by his thoughts on philosophy.  She ends up darning his socks.  In the movie, she sews a button on his coat for him.  What happened to the unconventional young woman who rejected traditional domestic roles?  Alcott herself ended up never marrying.  Why not the same for her heroine who was so adamant in her rejection of Laurie that she probably would never marry?

Look, even if she had to marry old Square Bhaer, could we at least have gotten a more interesting, better developed sense of character?  In a book that is 47 chapters long, Bhaersy only enters in number 34.  Compare that to Laurie, who appears from chapter three onward, and you've got a lot to compensate for.

A Complaint

There is a change—and I am poor;

Your love hath been, nor long ago,

A fountain at my fond heart's door,

Whose only business was to flow;

And flow it did; not taking heed

Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!

Blest was I then all bliss above!

Now, for that consecrated fount

Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,

What have I? shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love—it may be deep—

I trust it is,—and never dry:

What matter? if the waters sleep

In silence and obscurity.

—Such change, and at the very door

Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

-William Wordsworth

Wait, the same guy who wrote James Bond wrote Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?

So today I was reading an article about the life of Ian Fleming, who wrote the Bond books.  I never knew this, but the books are loosely based on his real life as a spy for British Naval Intelligence during WWII.  One of their plans to foil the Nazis was to dress as German soldiers and pretend to be injured so that they could kill their rescuers.  Pretty badass.  But word daggers?  Badasser: 

The Brute drew himself up to his full height and yet, both he and they knew he was really no threat. Until he shouted out words that just popped in his head. The words sounded strange and filled the children with dread.

“I AM BIG. I AM TALL. I WILL SQUASH YOU LIKE ANTS.”

There was a stunned silence.  Brute continued his chant.

“I AM BIG.” Was he bigger?

“I AM TALL.” It was true!

His growth spurts were quick. Ten feet taller he grew. He grabbed the word daggers in one meaty fist. He chucked them at trees. Not a single one missed. They stuck to the trunks. They skinned leaves off of twigs. They turned into graffiti, cruel and glaringly big.

The Brute smirked at the kids, though they could barely see. He lifted one foot up the size of a tree. His classmates ran screaming. Their screams clawed at the air.

“Come back and make fun of me now!” he dared.

The Brute stomped the ground. Like an earthquake it shook. He plodded around. He scoured each nook. But the children were quick. They knew how to hide. The Brute paused and let their whispers act as his guide.

The whispers were vapors as fragile as ghosts. They curled into crook’d fingers that beckoned him close. Closer and closer The Brute followed them out.

He deserted the school for a dark, wooded route. The whispered words emitted a faint, glowing light. They made monstrous shadows that played tricks on Brute’s sight. They flashed different images based on what was said. Then the words stopped and pointed. Into a cave they led.

The Brute stomped his way in. There was an intake of breath.

“I know you’re in here,” he snarled. “Or did I scare you to death?”

There was a shuffle, a scurry, a silencing shush. Every sound echoed, bounding off walls with a push. Finally one brave soul piped up loudly and spoke:

“Go away! You’re a freak!”

And with that, chaos broke.

The Brute lunged at the words, but they clamped on his nose. “Freak” balled up and blinked red with a clownish-type glow.

“Now you’ll be sorry,” The Brute howled with rage.

“You sound like a sick cow!” a familiar voice waged.

It was a harsh blow. It nearly knocked him out. He shook his head, disbelieving. He gaped like a trout. The words bounced off the walls. They zoomed and they flew. The Brute filled up with venom.

He spat out, “I hate you!”

A huge echo swung forward, pounding him to a pulp. Then “hate” rose up and gaped, swallowing Brute in one gulp.

The Brute

Last year for Christmas I was flat broke and couldn't even begin to imagine how to afford presents for everyone.  I racked my brain and finally decided that since I had been working on a children's story, it might be fun to turn it into a book.  I asked a friend of mine to do the illustrations so that I could put it together and give it as a gift to my family.

The story is about a pint-sized bully who watches the mean words he says come to life and physically hurt people.  When I wrote it, it first came out as a poem.  Later I restructured it into more of a manuscript format, but I kept the rhyme.  I think it makes it less scary for little kids.

Sometimes it's good to change things up a bit, so this week in honor of the holiday season I decided to post an excerpt of The Brute here each day.  Illustrations by the fabulous Angela Springer.

The Brute

The Brute was a bully who stood up to his name. He stood only three feet but there was something untamed in the way that he spoke and how he made people feel. He chewed them up, spit them out, everyone was a meal.

He tormented his classmates with bellows and booms. He snuck up behind them, crouching in rooms. And the boys and girls trembled for they knew what came next. Each word The Brute spoke took the shape of a hex.

Susan ran crying when he said her thighs thundered. He called Walter four-eyes and laughed at his blunders.

Poor Josie’s arm hairs were thick like a sweater. The Brute even told Evan that Clare liked Jake better. The Brute had no friends so the words lifted his spirits. The meaner he was the less he had to hear it from anyone who had the gumption to tease or turn up their noses or tickle his knees. So he went alone to recess each day, scanning the yard for the weak and the strays.

Now one afternoon played out a fine scene. The Brute’s lunch had settled. He was full of baked beans. The sun was half-hidden, clouds lined up for miles. A chill thinned the air, his lips curled to a smile.

“Play time,” called The Brute. “Who wants to play?”

But nobody answered. They all ran away, except for one girl who sat alone on a swing. She had headphones on. She had started to sing. In no time at all The Brute closed on his prey. He crept up behind her. Too late she yelped, “Hey!”

He took her music. She took it right back. They squared off with each other. He prepared his attack:

“You sound like a sick cow. You’re hurting my ears.”

Bull’s-eye for The Brute. The words brought her to tears. But the girl was not finished. She knew what to do.

“Miss Wilson!” she cried, and between each boo hoo she told the teacher The Brute’s terrible words.

“That’s it!” said Miss Wilson. “I can’t believe what I’ve heard. You won’t have any friends if you keep up this way,”

The teacher warned The Brute, “You’ll regret this one day.”

Instead The Brute sneered and made public a vow:  “I’d rather be alone. I don’t care anyhow.”

She marched The Brute to a bench. On the sidelines he sat. He curled his hands into fists. On the bench he lay flat. He glared up at the sky and swore things dark as night until it suddenly seemed someone turned out the light.

And the book addiction begat the shopping habit which begat the intervention

I have a serious book problem.  Here I am packing, transferring all my junk from one residence to the next, hustling things on Craigslist, celebrating like it's New Year's Eve when the Department of Sanitation agrees to pick up my old box spring mattress, and then what happens?  I pause for a minute and suddenly panic that I won't have anything to read on the plane to DC next week.  I won't have any books because I packed them all!  Horror of horrors, this will not do.  I remember that I have a $20 gift card to Barnes & Noble.  Packing break! 

I know exactly what I want.  In the store, I make my way up to the third floor-- fiction/literature.  The escalators are kind of weird in this one: when you step off on one level you're supposed to turn and walk behind you to the escalator that continues up to the next level.  I always forget and walk across to the other side of the floor to the escalator going back downstairs.  On my way, I pass the music section.  Then I am hit with a sudden, intense desire to own Keith Richard's memoir.  There they are, dozens of them stacked up, 30% off.  An employee hands me a copy.  Hardcover.  Huge.  Not intended for travel, but I'm determined to read it. 

Now to continue on my original mission to find the third book in the Stieg Larsson triology:  The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.  A few weeks ago I had finished the second book, and it kind of left me hanging.  I finally locate it and am dismayed to find that it, too, is only in hard cover.  Yeesh.  These are going to be taking up all the space in my carry-on luggage.  The good news?  It's also 30% off.

So, let's recap.  I-- a person who is trying to get rid of stuff-- now own two new hard back books and have nowhere to put them, not even in my luggage, and certainly not in my home as I have pretty much exhausted all the space on my bookcases both in my room and the living room. . . trip to Ikea, anyone? 

Branch Library

-Edward Hirsch

I wish I could find that skinny, long-beaked boy

who perched in the branches of the old branch library.

He spent the Sabbath flying between the wobbly stacks

and the flimsy wooden tables on the second floor,   

pecking at nuts, nesting in broken spines, scratching

notes under his own corner patch of sky.

I'd give anything to find that birdy boy again

bursting out into the dusky blue afternoon

with his satchel of scrawls and scribbles,

radiating heat, singing with joy.

Page-turner

Various people kept telling me to read a trilogy of books called The Hunger Games.  They were supposedly about a post-apocalyptic world in which the Capitol of 12 districts demands a tribute of two children from each one to do battle to the death in a public arena.  I was dubious- maybe it's because it's so taboo to show the murder of a child on TV, but their battling to the death seemed really unrealistic.  Now I am obsessed.  The books are so well-written, so fast-paced, I stayed up through the night to read the second one. 

Now I am on the third and final book, and I was thinking about how the author, Suzanne Collins, must have come up with this idea.  I don't think it is giving anything away to say that it almost seems to be modeled on the story in Casablanca- the love triangle, the oppressive occupation of the districts, the rebellious spirit of the people.  The Capitol Peacekeepers have all the qualities of Nazis to me, so maybe that's why a story that sounds so fantastical in a two-sentence description actually reads quite realistically.  Whatever it is, I highly suggest that you pick up a copy.

LXX
(from The Book of Questions)

What forced labor
does Hitler do in hell?

Does he paint walls or cadavers?
Does he sniff the fumes of the dead?

Do they feed him the ashes
of so many burnt children?

Or, since his death, have they given him
blood to drink from a funnel?

Or do they hammer into his mouth
the pulled gold teeth?

-Pablo Neruda