Gift from the Sea - Anne Morrow Lindbergh

"she read, or rather, reread.  Chasing up old friends in the pages of her favorite books to see how she or they had changed over the years, or to discover with a little shock of affection, the earlier self who at sixteen or thirty had first been touched by them."
                                                                          The Complete Stories  ~ David Malouf

There it was, in clear and exquisite language, the reasons I've been rereading a handful of "old friends".  The most recent, Anne Morrow Lindbergh's classic, Gift from the Sea.  I first read it in the 70's, when floundering in the aftermath of a painful divorce, I read every book I could get my hands on that might offer insight, respite from the confusion and self-doubts I struggled with.  It helped significantly then and I have revisited it every decade since  - "chasing up", checking in.

Gift is a collection of meditative essays, written while Lindbergh was taking a quiet, solitary retreat from her hectic life as mother of five, wife of aviator Charles Lindbergh, writer and aviator in her own right.  Using shells she collected from the beach as impetus for her reflections and as metaphors for the various stages of a woman's life, she created a slim volume that has touched and inspired generations of women.  That touched and inspired me yet again as I reread it this past week.

Has the book held up, changed?  Certainly, it is dated in some ways - originally published in l955, many of the challenges Lindbergh addresses are those of home bound women.  (In a postscript that she wrote in l975 and included in the 50th anniversary edition of the book, she gracefully and gratefully acknowledges the impact of the Women's Movement.)  However, while much of the context may be different, the issues she raised remain pertinent - the need for solitude (for men as well as women?!) in order to regain a sense of serenity and balance, the need to know oneself if we are ever to know another, the acceptance of the natural ebb and flow of life in general and relationship in particular, the value and impact of lessons learned from the simplicity of nature, the joy of creating.  And the writing itself holds up beautifully, as peaceful, tranquil and serene as the quiet beach that inspired her.

And have I changed?  Did I get a little shock of affection for the younger woman who first was touched by her musings?  Perhaps this is the greatest gift - to be able to look back and see that her words resonate more today than then.  That I am more comfortable in my own skin.  That I do take regular breaks of solitude.  That I am creating, able to say I am creative.  That for the most part, I am at peace with the ebb and flow of life.  That the young woman who first was touched by her musings was smart enough, has worked hard enough to more fully understand and appreciate the wisdom she imparted almost 60 years ago.

And smart enough to plan to read it again.



A New Find - Marco Vichi

I have stumbled on a new, delightful mystery series, another set in Italy.  Florence this time.  The early 60's.  The Inspector, 53 year old, Inspector Bordelli, a non-smoker wannabe who prefers the company of a petty thief, a former prostitute and other societal misfits.  Bordelli reminds me somewhat of the Sicilian Montalbano, direct, compassionate, accustomed to the harsh realities of life, yet still an optimist and a bit of a romantic.  Like other Italian mystery series, this is filled with references to food and attention to the atmosphere of the fascinating cities in which the mysteries unfold.

The first installment in the series, the one I finished in a day, Death in August, sets the stage for the rest of the series (four in translation at this time), the crime itself being of lesser importance than the creation of context.  There is a lot of information about Bordelli's background, which in itself makes this introduction a tad unique.  Information about his war experiences, his early introduction to sex, his family, his moral code.  And the minor cast characters are developed with enough detail to make them interesting and reasonable as folks a man like Bordelli would consider his friends.

I like characters like Bordelli, full of contradictions, using both reason and intuition to address the crime (and his personal life as well), flawed yet admirable, characters who reflect and in those reflections give me something to reflect upon, too.  Like Montalbano and Inspector Morse, Hercule Poirot and Adam Dagliesh.  I enjoy a mystery that depends more upon clues and old-fashioned persistence and teamwork than modern forensics for its solution.  A mystery more about the human element than blood and core, even with a touch of humor.  A mystery that teaches me something about history and/or other cultures. And I love Florence.  Will definitely continue with this series!

A footnote - the translation of this novel was done by Stephen Sartarelli, who also has translated Andrea Camilleri's Montalbano series.  So there is a decent section of notes to help with the Italian references as well as a natural rhythm that only a good translator can achieve.  Having recently read another translated novel without notes and with awkward phrasing and strange analogies, I more thoroughly appreciate Sartarelli's contribution and skills.

 

A Mystery Maven - Ruth Rendell

Someday I may understand why I suddenly go on a binge of murder mysteries - there may be none for months and then, a half dozen in a row.  This time, four Ruth Rendell novels in two weeks!

Baroness Rendell is my second favorite English mystery author, second only to her good friend, P. D. James.  Like James, Rendell is a prolific writer of psychological thrillers, whose characters are etched in shades of gray and whose plots are clever and engrossing. Articulate, without being affected; murder, without mayhem, undue violence or gratuitous sex; an easy, but not simple, read.

Now in her 80's, she is still writing, with a new novel to be published this year.  With over 20 novels that feature the popular Chief Inspector Reginald Wexford and an interesting cast of family and colleagues, and over 20 stand alone mysteries, plus a series written under her alternate ego, Barbara Vine, I doubt I will ever exhaust the supply of her writing...thankfully.

Although I typically prefer to read a series in chronological order, I have not done so with Rendell's, jumping across decades and mixing the Wexford novels with a few stand alones; I can truthfully say I've never been disappointed.  The four this binge have been Simisola (1995), The Veiled One (1988), Best Man to Die (1969) and Guilty Thing Surprised (1970). My favorite - Simisola.

 

"Sweet Tooth" by Ian McEwan

Having enjoyed Amsterdam and rarely being disappointed by anything written by an author who has won the Booker Award, I ordered Sweet Tooth, without consulting any reviews, or anyone who had read it.  I wish I had.  This spy novel, McEwan's most recent, was a letdown from the first page through as much of the book as I was willing to pursue.  I deleted it from my Kindle, unfinished, and that, in itself, is a critique. 

Normally, I don't need to like a character to find it engaging. Think Olive Kitteridge, a less than charming character, but in the long run, at least interesting, with some redeeming qualities.  In fact, I've often been surprised when someone has told me he/she disliked a book because he/she didn't like the main character.  And then I encountered MI5 agent, Serena Frome (rhymes with Plume).  Vacuous, insipid, self-centered, opportunistic - a bore.  I couldn't imagine spending several hours with her.  Add the fact that the outcome of this tale is told in the very first paragraph, and I'm surprised I lasted as long as I did.

Now, having said this, my brother, an avid reader and a McEwan fan, did finish Sweet Tooth.  His assessment - enjoyable, though not as good as previous novels.  So, if you decide to give the novel a shot, I'd be interested in whether you enjoyed it?



A Room of One's Own

I have room of my own, a wonderful room.  Though small in square footage, it has 14 ft. ceilings and a bay of windows that look out to distant foothills that turn copper at the break of dawn.  There is a wall of book cases, home to the books that have helped shape my opinions and world view and many I have yet to read. Curios and collections gathered over decades could tell a tale or two.  On the walls, artwork that reflects my aesthetic tastes and the most recent addition, my own graphite drawing, the first which I am satisfied (no, proud) enough to display.  Tucked away in niches, whimsical creatures - gnomes and angels, fanciful women, and a balancing toy Santa who makes me smile so easily that he has earned a dedicated year-round home.

Scattered about are bowls of pens and colored pencils, baskets filled with notebooks, journals and magazines.  Candles and candy jars, pillows and afghans.  And being the holidays, rope lights, a tiny flocked tree, a bouquet of ornaments.  In short, this is a room where I come to contemplate, create, and celebrate.

In one corner is my favorite chair, teal leather with an ottoman, where, nestled among pillows, an afghan across my lap, I retired this afternoon to nurse a bruised and inflamed knee, and for some inexplicable reason to reread A Room of One's Own, the book that initiated the creation of my own space some 30 years ago.

Virginia Woolf died the year I was born, she was only 59 years old. This little gem of only 118 pages, now a classic in many Women's Studies programs and lit courses, was first published in l929.  The essay is based on lectures she gave at Cambridge on the subject of women and fiction, expanded for this book.

Not only can I not explain why I picked it up this afternoon, I can't recall why I originally bought it.  I suspect the title aroused my curiosity.  I certainly did not aspire to becoming a writer.  I do recall being taken with her eloquent style, the beautiful descriptions, the clarity of her logic, the persuasiveness of her arguments.  Setting out to consider why there were so few female authors of prose or poetry, faced with conflicting historical reasons (many asserting women lacked the character, imagination or ability), Woolf came to the conclusion that to create, particularly to write enduring literature, one must have a fixed income and a "room of one's own" - both historically the principal privilege of men.

At that first reading, I had the fixed income, but not a room of my own, not a dedicated space for reflection and creative pursuits, had never had one, never considered it, even during the years when I was single.  Obviously, reading it again in this room has been a personal affirmation, a celebration. But it has also been affirming on a deeper level.  For even as I read, I could look up and see several books on my shelves with the names of female authors.  I could recall hours of pleasure and inspiration this past year thanks to Julia Cameron, P. D. James, Candace Millard, Marilyn Robinson, Donna Leon and Annie Dillard, to name a few. Couldn't help but wonder what Woolf would make of Hilary Mantel winning England's prestigious Book Award for 2012, the first person to win the award twice.

But lest this all makes A Room of One's Own seem irrelevant, one only has to take note that many women still do not have adequate fixed incomes, let alone rooms of their own.  That a young girl could be brutally attacked for simply wanting to be educated.  That there are those, even in this country, who would reverse the progress that women have made.

A Room of Own's One remains relevant, inspiring, and beautifully written.

The Jewels of Paradise

I've been a Donna Leon fan for years, more than fond of Commassario Guido Brunetti, hero of her Venetian mystery series, frequently recommending her - and him - to friends and family.  Such a fan that I pre-ordered her new novel, The Jewels of Paradise, as soon as Amazon let it be known that it would appear this fall.  Eager to meet her new heroine, Caterina Pelligrini, Baroque opera scholar.

So when it finally arrived on my Kindle, I curled up on the sofa, a steaming cup of coffee at hand, afghan over my lap, intent on spending the morning wandering among Venetian canals and palazzos, becoming acquainted with a new character than I hoped would become an old friend.

And was sadly disappointed.  In an attempt to create a stand alone novel, perhaps in a new voice or style, Leon appears to have thrown out the proverbial baby with the bathwater.  Gone are the charming characters, the insightful social commentary, the allusions to delectable food, even the magical lure of Venice.

In their place, two-dimensional, bland characters who failed to arouse my interest or concern, a complex and convoluted rendering of a piece of Baroque musical history, peppered with Italian and Venetian dialect.  I finished it driven only by the hope that I had jumped to conclusions about the book too soon. I didn't change my mind.  I'm afraid Dottoressa Pellegrini is destined to be a passing acquaintance.

For Your Consideration

Having been on vacation in NY - 11 hours each way to get there - and then recovering from the ordeals of travel, I've caught up on some reading these past few weeks.  It's been a curious assortment of books, if I do say so.  But illustrative of my eclectic reading tastes.  Hopefully, something will catch your fancy.  For your consideration:

A Taste of Murder by P.D. James.  With all the unread books I have on my shelves and on my Kindle, it could be argued that I shouldn't spend time rereading a novel.  But I'm glad I decided, on a whim, to revisit this 1986 gem of a mystery by a master of the genre.  James is well-respected for her elegant, intricate plots written as only the best British mystery writers seem capable of, but this go-round I became enthralled as well with her descriptions of place and character.  One of those rare novels I almost hated to finish.  

Walking in This World by Julia Cameron.  This second book in Cameron's "course of discovering and recovering the creative self" has taken me three months to complete, committed as I've been to working with her weekly assignments.  Having read The Artist's Way and The Sound of Paper, I found some of this book to be redundant and might have been tempted to abandon the book were it not for her ability to crystallize something I've been mulling over in a lucid, creative sentence or paragraph...."for most of us, the idea that we can listen to ourselves, trust ourselves, and value ourselves is a radical leap of faith."  Because she continues to make me think, and inspires me to explore creative expression, I plan to continue with The Right to Write.
And I did find many of the assignments, (she calls them tasks), to be interesting and informative.

The History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters by Julian Barnes.  I'm an unabashed Barnes fan.  Loved The Sense of an Ending and Flaubert's Parrot.  I read this book with members of one of the two book clubs I belong to.  It received mixed reviews, as it is denser and somewhat uneven.  I admit it isn't one of my favorite works of his either.  Would not recommend it until/unless you've read other work of his first.

The Work of Wolves by Kent Meyers.  This past month's choice of book club #2.  Perhaps because it's  western-based fiction, I couldn't get into this novel and did stop after about a third of it.  Then, again, haven't read Lonesome Dove or Plainsong, the novels to which this has been favorably compared.  If you have, and enjoyed them, this might be a worthy choice.

I hesitate to end this way, but....I am always open for other suggestions.  Who knows, I may already own them, as yet unread.