I miss Anne George. During the early 1990's, when I was settling into life as an adult, Anne was one of the literary lights in Birmingham, Alabama. She was a local girl who taught for years and wrote poetry and short stories on the side. After retiring from education, her literary career swung into high gear and she made readers and booksellers happy until that day in 2001 when she died, most unexpectedly, during heart surgery. Her passing broke a lot of hearts, including my friend J.'s, who appreciated her as a friend as well as an author. Anne's poetry was good but what I miss most are her Southern Sisters mysteries. Anne turned Birmingham into the setting for her Southern cozies.
Cozies are that sub-set of mysteries that are uncomplicated fun. Any violence is usually off-stage, the detective is normally an amateur and there's a minimum of grit or grime. Jessica Fletcher is a good example of a cozy's detective, although the first must have been Miss Jane Marple. Normally, I like mayhem in my mysteries and angst running through all of the characters (hurray for Val McDermid!) but I love Anne George's Southern Sisters mysteries because she wrote about the world I live in. And she wrote about it well.
For example, let's take my favorite in the series, Murder Makes Waves. The central characters, Mary Alice and Patricia Anne, are known to the world as Sister and Mouse. (Six feet tall and 250 pounds means Mary Alice is a presence in any room. At five foot one and 105 lbs., Patricia Anne can get overlooked). These sisters are driving down to Destin with an adult daughter when they stop to see the sights along the way. Every place in that road trip exists, from the Peach Butt water tower of Chilton County and Priester's Pecans to the House of Turkey and the Hank Williams museum. Stopping at each of these does turn a four hour trip into eight, as Anne observes, but it's part of a trip to the coast. Not stopping would make a vacation feel incomplete.
Anne George wrote about the sweet foibles of life here, from the perennial battle to cover the Vulcan Statue's behind (he stands there on top of Red Mountain wearing nothing but an apron and mooning the city of Homewood) to our addictions to college football and barbeque. This is trivial compared to the rest of Birmingham's history but it's nice that someone noticed the small things, the fun and silly things that also add to our lives. Anne enriched as well as documented our world with her poetry and cozy mysteries. Birmingham owes her a debt of thanks.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Friday, December 5, 2014
The Soul-Tugging Need for the Prairies: O Pioneers!
Siblings always surprise you. When you are young, siblings are your competition for the limited resources known as Mom and Dad. They are part of the family woodwork and it's hard to see them outside of their family roles, at least while you're sharing a bathroom. I'm not sure when I first saw my sister as a grown individual but it probably started when she told me she loved Willa Cather's, O Pioneers! I noticed this because I had been avoiding Cather's work for years.
Cather is, of course, the novelist of the Great Plains and since we grew up in that area, I had avoided her just to be contrary. There are other prairie writers but Cather usually leads the pack with her stories about the European settlers that came to the Plains and remade their lives on that alien land. The feeling the settlers develop for this land is central in Cather's O Pioneers! and my sister acknowledged as much when she discussed it. "I read it," she said, "when I'm homesick." I decided to give the story a chance. Now it's a "read-every year" book for me.
On the simplest level, O Pioneers! is the story of Alexandra Bergson and her family. In the beginning, Alexandra's father has begun the work of a sod buster but he is not successful. The land is hard to cultivate, the weather is harsh and his own life is ending. A perceptive father, he instructs his sons to defer to Alexandra in business decisions because she has the shrewdest brain in the family and tells the children to work toward keeping the family together. Years later, the family thrives financially as the prairies change to tillable farmland but harsh words and innuendo force the siblings apart. Alexandra loses people she loves dearly before her future becomes clear.
The book also looks lovingly at the first wave of immigrants that broke ground on the Plains while it points out the pomposity of the next generation. There's poor Ivar who weaves wonderful hammocks and treat livestock as knowledgeably as any vet. Nevertheless, the younger adults threaten him with the insane asylum because he prefers to go barefoot. (His reasoning is a little odd on this subject but there's no harm in the man). Then there is old Mrs. Lee who has to sneak around her grown children if she wants to wash in a little tub or wear a nightcap to bed. She's a sweet soul with three teeth, a Swedish accent and happy attitude. While the younger adults worry about appearances and gossip, these two and Alexandra focus on enjoying life and being kind to others.
Of course the book has its love stories but the great beloved here is the land. There's the shaggy, untamed winter land that inspires feelings of freedom and loneliness. There's the tilled land of summer that gives itself in full measure to crops. The Earth is always there for Alexandra, through division and heartbreak, and it is her great comfort when someone dies. For others, the land is a source of wealth and power. For Alexandra, it's love and life itself. To her, the land is home.
A bit of that feeling comes to folks who grow up on the Plains and it doesn't goes away if you leave. My sister and I both live in states far away and we've both put down roots where we live. But I suspect some part of both of us is tied to the grass and endless sky and it waits for the day we come home. Like Cather, neither one of us still live on the prairie but the prairie lives on in us and O Pioneers is an express ticket back.
Cather is, of course, the novelist of the Great Plains and since we grew up in that area, I had avoided her just to be contrary. There are other prairie writers but Cather usually leads the pack with her stories about the European settlers that came to the Plains and remade their lives on that alien land. The feeling the settlers develop for this land is central in Cather's O Pioneers! and my sister acknowledged as much when she discussed it. "I read it," she said, "when I'm homesick." I decided to give the story a chance. Now it's a "read-every year" book for me.
On the simplest level, O Pioneers! is the story of Alexandra Bergson and her family. In the beginning, Alexandra's father has begun the work of a sod buster but he is not successful. The land is hard to cultivate, the weather is harsh and his own life is ending. A perceptive father, he instructs his sons to defer to Alexandra in business decisions because she has the shrewdest brain in the family and tells the children to work toward keeping the family together. Years later, the family thrives financially as the prairies change to tillable farmland but harsh words and innuendo force the siblings apart. Alexandra loses people she loves dearly before her future becomes clear.
The book also looks lovingly at the first wave of immigrants that broke ground on the Plains while it points out the pomposity of the next generation. There's poor Ivar who weaves wonderful hammocks and treat livestock as knowledgeably as any vet. Nevertheless, the younger adults threaten him with the insane asylum because he prefers to go barefoot. (His reasoning is a little odd on this subject but there's no harm in the man). Then there is old Mrs. Lee who has to sneak around her grown children if she wants to wash in a little tub or wear a nightcap to bed. She's a sweet soul with three teeth, a Swedish accent and happy attitude. While the younger adults worry about appearances and gossip, these two and Alexandra focus on enjoying life and being kind to others.
Of course the book has its love stories but the great beloved here is the land. There's the shaggy, untamed winter land that inspires feelings of freedom and loneliness. There's the tilled land of summer that gives itself in full measure to crops. The Earth is always there for Alexandra, through division and heartbreak, and it is her great comfort when someone dies. For others, the land is a source of wealth and power. For Alexandra, it's love and life itself. To her, the land is home.
A bit of that feeling comes to folks who grow up on the Plains and it doesn't goes away if you leave. My sister and I both live in states far away and we've both put down roots where we live. But I suspect some part of both of us is tied to the grass and endless sky and it waits for the day we come home. Like Cather, neither one of us still live on the prairie but the prairie lives on in us and O Pioneers is an express ticket back.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
An improbable work of genius: A Confederacy of Dunces
I thought I read a lot until I met J_, We were working in the same law firm and introduced to each other as great readers. But J__ leaves me in the dust. For example, when we first met and ran over lists of our favorite books she added, "And of course, I love A Confederacy of Dunces." That brought me up short. I hadn't even heard of A Confederacy of Dunces. If you haven't, get ready. This isn't one great story, it's two.
The story behind the story is incredible. This young guy, John Kennedy Toole, writes a comedy novel during the late 50's and early 60's while he's serving in the army. He comes home to his native New Orleans, starts teaching and finishes the draft of the book. He finishes the novel and ships it off to one of the best publishing houses at the time, and the editors indicate they are interested in publishing it. (This rarely happens to a first-time novelist). The book needed work, they said, but they're interested. So Toole goes back and revises. And revises. And revises. After almost a decade of rewrites and revision, the publisher turns the book down. All that work, for nothing.
Mr. Toole tried to keep going but his other work wasn't picked up and the rejection and symptoms of mental illness began to eat away at his life. He lost his confidence, fought with his folks and dropped out of his Ph.D. program. One January, he ran away from home. In March, he took his own life.
Mr. Toole's mom was one of those overwhelming, indomitable Southern Women. Armed with her son's comic manuscript and a will of galvanized steel, she made the lives of publishing executives hell during the 1970's, showing up in their offices and demanding they publish her dead baby's masterpiece. Eventually she ran into Walker Percy, (probably literally) that great southern writer, who was teaching at Loyola at the time. She coerced him into reading the pages. The college's press published the book, A Confederacy of Dunces, in 1980. It won the Pulitzer Prize in '81, (something unheard for a posthumous work) and has been studied, translated, loved, celebrated and adapted ever since. How about that for a back story?
Now for the book itself: ACOD has one of the most unlikely anti-heroes in American Literature, Ignatius J. Reilly. This 30-year old New Orleans native is a self-absorbed, lazy, fat, slob who plays the lute, pontificates about his bodily functions to anyone and hates everything about the modern world, especially the idea of supporting himself. He sponges off his mother and spends his days criticizing the world and telling his mama what to do. When somebody asks Ignatius what he does to help around the house, he has this to say:
I haven't mentioned half of the incidents in the book or the wonderful supporting characters (I love Myrna Minkoff, the beatnik activist who lives to be arrested and is the closest thing Ignatius has to a girlfriend) because I don't want to spoil it. But I will say the book is acknowledged as a masterpiece and one of the few works of literature that really captures New Orleans. I'm not surprised. The town seems to me to be a lot like our hero here: strange, eccentric, a bit fool-hardy, not of this world and despite all efforts, unbeatable. Ignatius and NOLA are made for each other.
So follow me and J__ and open the pages of A Confederacy of Dunces or take a walk in the City That Care Forgot . Pick up some wine-cakes from the bakery in D. H Holmes and remember to tie up your box with a lute string. But watch out for any Oliver Hardy lookalikes under the clock outside the store, especially if they stand beside a food cart. Those guys can turn your world upside down.
The story behind the story is incredible. This young guy, John Kennedy Toole, writes a comedy novel during the late 50's and early 60's while he's serving in the army. He comes home to his native New Orleans, starts teaching and finishes the draft of the book. He finishes the novel and ships it off to one of the best publishing houses at the time, and the editors indicate they are interested in publishing it. (This rarely happens to a first-time novelist). The book needed work, they said, but they're interested. So Toole goes back and revises. And revises. And revises. After almost a decade of rewrites and revision, the publisher turns the book down. All that work, for nothing.
Mr. Toole tried to keep going but his other work wasn't picked up and the rejection and symptoms of mental illness began to eat away at his life. He lost his confidence, fought with his folks and dropped out of his Ph.D. program. One January, he ran away from home. In March, he took his own life.
Mr. Toole's mom was one of those overwhelming, indomitable Southern Women. Armed with her son's comic manuscript and a will of galvanized steel, she made the lives of publishing executives hell during the 1970's, showing up in their offices and demanding they publish her dead baby's masterpiece. Eventually she ran into Walker Percy, (probably literally) that great southern writer, who was teaching at Loyola at the time. She coerced him into reading the pages. The college's press published the book, A Confederacy of Dunces, in 1980. It won the Pulitzer Prize in '81, (something unheard for a posthumous work) and has been studied, translated, loved, celebrated and adapted ever since. How about that for a back story?
Now for the book itself: ACOD has one of the most unlikely anti-heroes in American Literature, Ignatius J. Reilly. This 30-year old New Orleans native is a self-absorbed, lazy, fat, slob who plays the lute, pontificates about his bodily functions to anyone and hates everything about the modern world, especially the idea of supporting himself. He sponges off his mother and spends his days criticizing the world and telling his mama what to do. When somebody asks Ignatius what he does to help around the house, he has this to say:
"I dust a bit...in addition, I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip."To him, this is sufficient. To the rest of the world, it is not. Eventually his mother develops enough of a backbone to insist her college-educated son get a job, any job, to help out with the family finances and Ignatius manages first to get a clerical position in a pants factory (how someone can cause that much trouble while avoiding even the semblance of work is amazing) and afterwards, the chance to sell hot dogs from a push cart in the French Quarter. Pity the owner of the pushcart. Ignatius returns the cart at the end of the day, sans hot dogs and sans profits but with some new aromas around his person. Can you guess what happened to the hotdogs?
I haven't mentioned half of the incidents in the book or the wonderful supporting characters (I love Myrna Minkoff, the beatnik activist who lives to be arrested and is the closest thing Ignatius has to a girlfriend) because I don't want to spoil it. But I will say the book is acknowledged as a masterpiece and one of the few works of literature that really captures New Orleans. I'm not surprised. The town seems to me to be a lot like our hero here: strange, eccentric, a bit fool-hardy, not of this world and despite all efforts, unbeatable. Ignatius and NOLA are made for each other.
So follow me and J__ and open the pages of A Confederacy of Dunces or take a walk in the City That Care Forgot . Pick up some wine-cakes from the bakery in D. H Holmes and remember to tie up your box with a lute string. But watch out for any Oliver Hardy lookalikes under the clock outside the store, especially if they stand beside a food cart. Those guys can turn your world upside down.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
When Forgiveness is Not enough: Anne Tyler's Saint Maybe
I love the work of Anne Tyler. Her prose is open, direct, kind and she writes about the people I know. Her characters are the Americans I grew up around, people from the working and upper-middle class who lives are usually defined by geographical boundaries and aspirations. These are not the folks who dream of learning a second language, becoming famous or climbing Everest. These are the middle-class, middle-income, middle everything Americans. (God love us, we can be so boring at times.) Anne sees our faults and our fears and still loves us (especially those from her native Baltimore) but her novels tend to disarrange our neat little worlds. Underneath her open sentences are some serious ideas and I like the way she displays them. Most readers know her more famous books, Breathing Lessons and The Accidental Tourist but my favorite has, I think, the quintessential Anne Tyler title: Saint Maybe.
Set in the early 1960's, the Bedloes are convinced they are the prototype of a American family. They are an established family in a well-settled neighborhood and their youngest son, Ian, seems the most well-sorted of all. His looks, brains and sports ability are all better than average, though not extraordinary. His girlfriend and his college match as well. Nothing about Ian or life should change. Except they both do.
Death comes to the Bedloe family and Ian is sure he's the cause. Despairing from the guilt he carries, Ian finds The Church of the Second Chance and discovers the idea that forgiveness is possible only with atonement and an effort to repair the damage. Ian's choices and what happens after that rewrites this family's story more than the losses they sustain.
The novel's twin themes are choices and grace and how we deal with unexpected results. In the end, we make choices that alter our futures and how we deal with the results gauges the joy in our lives. Do we sigh or regret? Do we run? Do we make lemonade? Or, like Miniver Cheevy, do we pretend and keep on drinking? Most of us, I think, accept our outcomes and eventually see the burdens we resented become the structure in our lives. And so we live, we ordinary people, graced with choices, results and cares. Do those cares make us saints once we carry them well? Perhaps in the world of Saint Maybe.
Set in the early 1960's, the Bedloes are convinced they are the prototype of a American family. They are an established family in a well-settled neighborhood and their youngest son, Ian, seems the most well-sorted of all. His looks, brains and sports ability are all better than average, though not extraordinary. His girlfriend and his college match as well. Nothing about Ian or life should change. Except they both do.
Death comes to the Bedloe family and Ian is sure he's the cause. Despairing from the guilt he carries, Ian finds The Church of the Second Chance and discovers the idea that forgiveness is possible only with atonement and an effort to repair the damage. Ian's choices and what happens after that rewrites this family's story more than the losses they sustain.
The novel's twin themes are choices and grace and how we deal with unexpected results. In the end, we make choices that alter our futures and how we deal with the results gauges the joy in our lives. Do we sigh or regret? Do we run? Do we make lemonade? Or, like Miniver Cheevy, do we pretend and keep on drinking? Most of us, I think, accept our outcomes and eventually see the burdens we resented become the structure in our lives. And so we live, we ordinary people, graced with choices, results and cares. Do those cares make us saints once we carry them well? Perhaps in the world of Saint Maybe.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
What a difference 12 Steps can Make: The Shining and Doctor Sleep
I came late to the Stephen King party. His books first hit the national consciousness when I was a teenager and at the time, I decided they were bad. Not because of the subject matter; I've been terrifying myself with stories since I first picked up a book. No those early stories were poorly written, in my opinion, fiction man-handled onto a page by someone without subtly or regard for language. Except for the film adaptations, I ignored the man's output until 1999 (which is a separate tale in itself) when I found the author everyone else had been yakking about for decades. I am sure some of Mr. King's writing skill improved through sheer practice and I hope he's had help from the best editors in the business but I'd guess the single greatest factor that improved the man's work is his sobriety. His later books have a focus that was missing in his earlier work.. Nothing shows the change more than comparing the two stories of Danny Torrence: The Shining and Doctor Sleep.
The Shining is, of course, the account of the Torrence family's tragic adventures in the Overlook Hotel. Jack Torrence tries to turn his life around by abstaining from liquor while he takes care of the closed hotel and writes a new work. Danny is the precious child who can "see" the malevolent spirits that inhabit the Overlook. Unfortunately, Jack's sobriety and anger are contained solely by his internal resolve and those disintegrate under the pressure of the hotel's supernatural forces. Jack's death is the last merciful gift he can give to his son.
Doctor Sleep is more about the problems of sobriety: how do you grab it and how do you keep it. By the time Dan (formerly Danny) Torrence reaches the age his father was when they saw the Overlook, Dan is sleeping under a bridge. The compulsion to drink is part of what drives Dan but another part is self-medication: booze puts a damper on the visions he still gets from "the shining". Caught between the misery he's made of his life with the bottle and the horrible visions that still come visiting, Danny takes the chance his father never really grabbed on to. Dan finds a sponsor and a support group and starts the long grind of learning how to exist without booze.
Dan has a long road to travel both with his sobriety and with his visions but it's shorter on drama than The Shining. Getting sober is a choice made moment to moment for millions of moments at a time but a lot of those moments are quiet. There's not a lot of ongoing drama. Oh, King has a reasonable horror plot to keep the reader interested and it has ties into Danny's sobriety but it doesn't have the inexorable draw of the Overlook. The "Big Bad" is not as central to the story.
Judged side by side, The Shining is the stronger story. There's enough in the novel (forget the Kubrick movie) to make you like the Torrence family and hope that they survive. Jack's wife, Wendy, isn't a complete nebbish and Jack's anger, in the end, is not his own. This decent little family, already stressed by disease, has no chance against the monolithic hotel. What they achieve is against great odds and that makes a compelling story.
Still, I reread Doctor Sleep more than The Shining because it's a pleasure to read. I'm not counting cliches on the pages or waiting for the plot to coalesce. Danny's journey may have less drama than his father's but Dan is easier to understand and relate to, shining powers not withstanding. At the end of the famous novel, I pitied Jack Torrence; I trust his grown son, Dan.
Part of this is due to skills Mr. King has polished in the thirty-six years between these books but most of it must be from his own sobriety. With a less linear story, King manages to build a compelling tale in Doctor Sleep and keep a balanced narrative that lets the reader follow multiple plots until the point they converge. That takes a bit of doing. The author that loves pop references and slang is still here but the vernacular doesn't overwhelm the prose. And the writer's insights are clearer in Doctor Sleep. In execution, the sequel is better.
In the end, it doesn't matter which the reader prefers, the early book or the later one. But it matters when any human being was able to face a life-threatening compulsion and step away from it, one day at a time now for decades. As the old saying goes, "where there's life, there's hope." And where's hope, there's creation. Enough creation and eventually you may find art.
The Shining is, of course, the account of the Torrence family's tragic adventures in the Overlook Hotel. Jack Torrence tries to turn his life around by abstaining from liquor while he takes care of the closed hotel and writes a new work. Danny is the precious child who can "see" the malevolent spirits that inhabit the Overlook. Unfortunately, Jack's sobriety and anger are contained solely by his internal resolve and those disintegrate under the pressure of the hotel's supernatural forces. Jack's death is the last merciful gift he can give to his son.
Doctor Sleep is more about the problems of sobriety: how do you grab it and how do you keep it. By the time Dan (formerly Danny) Torrence reaches the age his father was when they saw the Overlook, Dan is sleeping under a bridge. The compulsion to drink is part of what drives Dan but another part is self-medication: booze puts a damper on the visions he still gets from "the shining". Caught between the misery he's made of his life with the bottle and the horrible visions that still come visiting, Danny takes the chance his father never really grabbed on to. Dan finds a sponsor and a support group and starts the long grind of learning how to exist without booze.
Dan has a long road to travel both with his sobriety and with his visions but it's shorter on drama than The Shining. Getting sober is a choice made moment to moment for millions of moments at a time but a lot of those moments are quiet. There's not a lot of ongoing drama. Oh, King has a reasonable horror plot to keep the reader interested and it has ties into Danny's sobriety but it doesn't have the inexorable draw of the Overlook. The "Big Bad" is not as central to the story.
Judged side by side, The Shining is the stronger story. There's enough in the novel (forget the Kubrick movie) to make you like the Torrence family and hope that they survive. Jack's wife, Wendy, isn't a complete nebbish and Jack's anger, in the end, is not his own. This decent little family, already stressed by disease, has no chance against the monolithic hotel. What they achieve is against great odds and that makes a compelling story.
Still, I reread Doctor Sleep more than The Shining because it's a pleasure to read. I'm not counting cliches on the pages or waiting for the plot to coalesce. Danny's journey may have less drama than his father's but Dan is easier to understand and relate to, shining powers not withstanding. At the end of the famous novel, I pitied Jack Torrence; I trust his grown son, Dan.
Part of this is due to skills Mr. King has polished in the thirty-six years between these books but most of it must be from his own sobriety. With a less linear story, King manages to build a compelling tale in Doctor Sleep and keep a balanced narrative that lets the reader follow multiple plots until the point they converge. That takes a bit of doing. The author that loves pop references and slang is still here but the vernacular doesn't overwhelm the prose. And the writer's insights are clearer in Doctor Sleep. In execution, the sequel is better.
In the end, it doesn't matter which the reader prefers, the early book or the later one. But it matters when any human being was able to face a life-threatening compulsion and step away from it, one day at a time now for decades. As the old saying goes, "where there's life, there's hope." And where's hope, there's creation. Enough creation and eventually you may find art.
Monday, December 1, 2014
The Necessity of Redemption: A Moon for the Misbegotten
I nearly forgot I said this is a place to discuss, books, plays and short stories. As long as I'm finally getting around to plays, I'd like to start out with a favorite: A Moon for the Misbegotten.
Every person has life-changing experiences. Some of these are obvious turning points like marriage or the death of a parent, some are not. One of mine was a play I saw at age fifteen, a modern drama. At fifteen, I couldn't say why I identified with the characters or why it moved me so (other than it was a great performance) but the work and the author got under my skin for the rest of my adolescence. It is still a singular piece though now I understand it a bit more. It was written by Eugene O'Neill and it's called "A Moon for the Misbegotten."
Few people outside of the theatrical world understand the impact of O'Neill but, to put it simply, he made American Drama human. Theatrical plays written in this country before O'Neill were either broad comedies or melodramas. I'm sure they were lots of fun to watch, containing virtuous heroes and dastardly villains but there was nothing an audience member could recognize as their own feeling or experience. It was all Grand Gesture; no humanity. Eugene O'Neill changed all that by writing about people, their successes and failures, their generosity, anger and flaws. And he wrote about his family, usually in code because his father was well-known and because they all had secrets. Secrets he needed to tell.
These days, the O'Neills would be described as a dysfunctional family because the males had a thirst for booze and the mother was hooked on morphine. Back and forth the four of them went for years in a tango of substance abuse. From functional use, to collapse, through withdrawal, white-knuckle abstinence, fights, slips and relapses the four of them went, trying, crying, fighting and lashing out at each other when they weren't hanging onto hope and affection. Of the four O'Neills, the playwright and his mother eventually found a measure of sobriety (Years before the creation of the 12-step programs, O'Neill's mother got well by treating her addiction was part of a crisis of faith. It was an amazing insight.) and the father's drinking mostly impaired his personal life. Eugene's elder brother Jamie, on the other hand, never really grew up or gained independence, never really found sobriety and died in an insane asylum, of cirrhosis and the DTs at age 45. Eugene grieved for all of his family and wrote most directly of their lives in "A Long Day's Journey into Night." But even that great play could not release him from thoughts of Jaime.
Eugene loved his brother's charisma and kindness as much as he hated what his brother became whenever Jamie picked up the bottle and he hated Jaimie's death. So, in his last produced play, O'Neill re-wrote Jamie's ending. He couldn't save his brother from alcoholism or an early death (he wasn't writing fantasy) but instead of a strait jacket and blindness, Eugene gave his brother a wistful romance with a woman who understood the damage of demons and granted Jamie the love and peace he needed as well as the grace of redemption.
Redemption. It's a big concept, central to Christianity and creative writers and Eugene O'Neill was both (well, he was a failed Catholic). Redemption is what so many of us need, to feel forgiven and loved despite our past errors and sins. It's a new lease on life and a pardon we don't deserve. Redemption and peace is what O'Neill grants his brother in that play and it moved me although I knew none of the back story at the time. Now that I understand it more, the technical achievement moves me still. These days, someone like the playwright O'Neill would have a plethora of information and support available if he needed help resolving the confusing conflicts he had about family. These days there would be rehabs and half-way houses and kind people discussing detachment and enabling. Without any help, Eugene O'Neill synthesized his experience and pain and created a solution that not only gave him some peace for a lost brother; he made that brother immortal.
My family did not match the haunted O'Neills, although we had our ups and downs, as James Goldman wrote in "A Lion in Winter". But Eugene O'Neill's plays spoke to me when I had trouble understanding my folks and wished for a life with less drama. And that is ultimately what modern creative work is supposed to do. It creates a vision of the human experience and through viewing, gives the audience a greater understanding of self. And if that redeems us or helps us to act a little better in the future, so much the better. That's Modern Drama, courtesy of Eugene O'Neill.
Every person has life-changing experiences. Some of these are obvious turning points like marriage or the death of a parent, some are not. One of mine was a play I saw at age fifteen, a modern drama. At fifteen, I couldn't say why I identified with the characters or why it moved me so (other than it was a great performance) but the work and the author got under my skin for the rest of my adolescence. It is still a singular piece though now I understand it a bit more. It was written by Eugene O'Neill and it's called "A Moon for the Misbegotten."
Few people outside of the theatrical world understand the impact of O'Neill but, to put it simply, he made American Drama human. Theatrical plays written in this country before O'Neill were either broad comedies or melodramas. I'm sure they were lots of fun to watch, containing virtuous heroes and dastardly villains but there was nothing an audience member could recognize as their own feeling or experience. It was all Grand Gesture; no humanity. Eugene O'Neill changed all that by writing about people, their successes and failures, their generosity, anger and flaws. And he wrote about his family, usually in code because his father was well-known and because they all had secrets. Secrets he needed to tell.
These days, the O'Neills would be described as a dysfunctional family because the males had a thirst for booze and the mother was hooked on morphine. Back and forth the four of them went for years in a tango of substance abuse. From functional use, to collapse, through withdrawal, white-knuckle abstinence, fights, slips and relapses the four of them went, trying, crying, fighting and lashing out at each other when they weren't hanging onto hope and affection. Of the four O'Neills, the playwright and his mother eventually found a measure of sobriety (Years before the creation of the 12-step programs, O'Neill's mother got well by treating her addiction was part of a crisis of faith. It was an amazing insight.) and the father's drinking mostly impaired his personal life. Eugene's elder brother Jamie, on the other hand, never really grew up or gained independence, never really found sobriety and died in an insane asylum, of cirrhosis and the DTs at age 45. Eugene grieved for all of his family and wrote most directly of their lives in "A Long Day's Journey into Night." But even that great play could not release him from thoughts of Jaime.
Eugene loved his brother's charisma and kindness as much as he hated what his brother became whenever Jamie picked up the bottle and he hated Jaimie's death. So, in his last produced play, O'Neill re-wrote Jamie's ending. He couldn't save his brother from alcoholism or an early death (he wasn't writing fantasy) but instead of a strait jacket and blindness, Eugene gave his brother a wistful romance with a woman who understood the damage of demons and granted Jamie the love and peace he needed as well as the grace of redemption.
Redemption. It's a big concept, central to Christianity and creative writers and Eugene O'Neill was both (well, he was a failed Catholic). Redemption is what so many of us need, to feel forgiven and loved despite our past errors and sins. It's a new lease on life and a pardon we don't deserve. Redemption and peace is what O'Neill grants his brother in that play and it moved me although I knew none of the back story at the time. Now that I understand it more, the technical achievement moves me still. These days, someone like the playwright O'Neill would have a plethora of information and support available if he needed help resolving the confusing conflicts he had about family. These days there would be rehabs and half-way houses and kind people discussing detachment and enabling. Without any help, Eugene O'Neill synthesized his experience and pain and created a solution that not only gave him some peace for a lost brother; he made that brother immortal.
My family did not match the haunted O'Neills, although we had our ups and downs, as James Goldman wrote in "A Lion in Winter". But Eugene O'Neill's plays spoke to me when I had trouble understanding my folks and wished for a life with less drama. And that is ultimately what modern creative work is supposed to do. It creates a vision of the human experience and through viewing, gives the audience a greater understanding of self. And if that redeems us or helps us to act a little better in the future, so much the better. That's Modern Drama, courtesy of Eugene O'Neill.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Thanks that are long overdue
Kids take a lot of things for granted. It's part of being a kid, to accept the world and its people as part of how life should be. That's a terrible thing for kids who live with pain or deprivation but for a lot of us that meant a childhood where we took bicycles, birthday parties, vacations and our family's love and devotion as part of our just due. We rarely said thank you. For example, I never thanked my folks for showing me why some stories are classics. Still, I haven't forgotten our time with Treasure Island.
I don't know if Treasure Island is still one of the required books of childhood. There are so many other stories now and Disney has such an imprimatur on the pirate world these days that Robert Louis Stevenson's classic may get lost in the shuffle. My folks had both grown up with the tale and I suspect they were a bit excited about sharing "their" story with me when I turned ten. Perhaps I was a bit young, but I already had my nose in a book all the time so why not give me one they loved? None of us expected I couldn't get "into" it.
But I couldn't, not past Section I, as I told my mom three months later when she caught me re-reading The Borrowers. Mom didn't fuss at me (as I feared) or remind me that I shouldn't ignore an expensive present. She walked away and the next evening told me that she and Dad had a new project: they would read Treasure Island out loud over the next several nights, one chapter per parent per evening. All I had to do was sit and listen.
How well I remember those evenings, Dad lying on the couch and mom in a chair while I perched in the rocker, listening. Dad read with enthusiasm, enjoying the author's writing style but my Mom touched greatness as a reader. She had all the talent of an actress and a gift for mimicry so I recognized each character by their voice tone and accent whenever she read. Squire Trelawney's remarks had the drawl of aristocracy and Dr. Livesey used the Estuary English accent of an educated but self-made man. The pirates, of course, all used cockney or West Country accents and Jim's voice had the higher tone of a boy. It was a wonderful performance.
My parents read every night, sailing through the dry area narrative where I'd stopped and into the sea-voyage, my excitement growing with each reading. I asked mom to return the book to me so I could "read ahead" but my wise mother said no and hid the volume, knowing the wait would increase my desire for the story. I took to wearing my winter boots for each reading, because they were the closest things in my closet to pirate garb and begged for extra chapters when we stopped at a cliff-hanger. I hated it when the book ended.
I think we all enjoyed that wonderful experiment although we never repeated it. My interest in reading rarely flagged after that and, though readers, my folks seldom liked the same books. But when a loved one says some classic tale isn't keeping their interest, I'll volunteer to read it aloud. My parents are gone now and it's the only way I can thank them for those evenings of pirates and treasure.
And now my month of steady blogging is done. Have you liked it? What books did I miss that you like, which brought back memories for you, which books followed you home? Having a blog is rather like throwing bottled messages into the sea and I'm curious to know where (or if) my letters wash ashore. For everyone who has fished out a bottle by reading this blog, thank you. I appreciate your trips to the beach.
I don't know if Treasure Island is still one of the required books of childhood. There are so many other stories now and Disney has such an imprimatur on the pirate world these days that Robert Louis Stevenson's classic may get lost in the shuffle. My folks had both grown up with the tale and I suspect they were a bit excited about sharing "their" story with me when I turned ten. Perhaps I was a bit young, but I already had my nose in a book all the time so why not give me one they loved? None of us expected I couldn't get "into" it.
But I couldn't, not past Section I, as I told my mom three months later when she caught me re-reading The Borrowers. Mom didn't fuss at me (as I feared) or remind me that I shouldn't ignore an expensive present. She walked away and the next evening told me that she and Dad had a new project: they would read Treasure Island out loud over the next several nights, one chapter per parent per evening. All I had to do was sit and listen.
How well I remember those evenings, Dad lying on the couch and mom in a chair while I perched in the rocker, listening. Dad read with enthusiasm, enjoying the author's writing style but my Mom touched greatness as a reader. She had all the talent of an actress and a gift for mimicry so I recognized each character by their voice tone and accent whenever she read. Squire Trelawney's remarks had the drawl of aristocracy and Dr. Livesey used the Estuary English accent of an educated but self-made man. The pirates, of course, all used cockney or West Country accents and Jim's voice had the higher tone of a boy. It was a wonderful performance.
My parents read every night, sailing through the dry area narrative where I'd stopped and into the sea-voyage, my excitement growing with each reading. I asked mom to return the book to me so I could "read ahead" but my wise mother said no and hid the volume, knowing the wait would increase my desire for the story. I took to wearing my winter boots for each reading, because they were the closest things in my closet to pirate garb and begged for extra chapters when we stopped at a cliff-hanger. I hated it when the book ended.
I think we all enjoyed that wonderful experiment although we never repeated it. My interest in reading rarely flagged after that and, though readers, my folks seldom liked the same books. But when a loved one says some classic tale isn't keeping their interest, I'll volunteer to read it aloud. My parents are gone now and it's the only way I can thank them for those evenings of pirates and treasure.
And now my month of steady blogging is done. Have you liked it? What books did I miss that you like, which brought back memories for you, which books followed you home? Having a blog is rather like throwing bottled messages into the sea and I'm curious to know where (or if) my letters wash ashore. For everyone who has fished out a bottle by reading this blog, thank you. I appreciate your trips to the beach.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
If you don't know Cannery Row, you don't know Steinbeck.
"Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream."So says John Steinbeck, the twentieth century novelist teachers forced you to read high school and professors mocked in college. Steinbeck who preaches in The Grapes of Wrath and makes you weep in Of Mice and Men, did you know he could be funny? That man, so serious and biblical in East of Eden (except for the scenes with the car), also knew how to relax. You wouldn't guess it but Steinbeck was a versatile writer who loved life. Of all things, Steinbeck cared about people and that shows up in Cannery Row.
Cannery Row was and is a waterfront street in the town of Monterey and for a while was the hangout of Steinbeck. Then, it was a rundown place full of abandoned buildings and homeless people who sheltered there. Other impoverished people such as artists, prostitutes and rejects from society lived on the row but, most remarkably, Steinbeck's best friend, a self-taught naturalist named Ed Ricketts lived and worked there finding sea animals for university labs and zoos. All of these people made it into the novel Cannery Row.
In the novel, Ed Ricketts becomes Doc, the owner and operator of Pacific Biologicals, a marine lab and one of the few profitable businesses in Cannery Row. The other primary businesses are Lee Chong's Heavenly Flower Grocery (where any marketable item can usually be found because Lee Chong does not give up on merchandise just because it isn't selling) and the Bear Flag Restaurant, a brothel whose madam funds or performs most of the civic projects in the area. Wandering in between these establishments are a group of fellows known collectively as "Mack and the boys". These are men who Steinbeck says have "in common no families, no money, and no ambitions beyond food, drink, and contentment." This group of well-intentioned hobos get the idea they would like to thank Doc for all of his kindness by throwing a party for him. A surprise party. The ensuing adventure surprises a farmer, Lee Chong, Doc, everyone on the Row, the police and more than a thousand frogs. One of the funniest sections of this very funny book concerns the acquisition of those frogs and since I don't have the rights to republish this and I don't want to get sued for copyright infringement, I'll add a link here to someone who has published the prose (A Frog's tale) If that page doesn't make you smile, forget it.
But I can't forget it, anymore than I can forget Lee Chong, Doc's beer milk-shake or the woman who wants to hang curtains inside a boiler. It's a sweet place, Cannery Row, and I expect to find it one day in some place far away from ambition and close to the sea. If you find it first, call me and get a six-pack of beer from Lee Chong's. It will be time to kick back and breathe..
Friday, November 28, 2014
A Pattern for Learning: Johnny Tremain
Every kid who is lucky gets one or two teachers in their childhood who seem to understand them, teachers they respond to. All of my grade-school teachers were nice people and a few actually seems to care about me but my sixth grade teacher gave me the extra guidance I needed at that uncertain age. She had an intuitive understanding of all the "outsider" kids in her room and found activities that made us valued members of the class. During discussions, she treated us like we were reasonable adults and we responded in kind. And she brought a great book into our lives, reading it aloud after lunch. I will always be grateful for her introduction to Johnny Tremain.
Johnny is the story of a developing nation but more than that, it's the story of a developing man, Jonathan Lyte Tremain. In the beginning, Johnny is an apprentice in pre-revolutionary Boston, Massachusetts, a silversmith in training and one of those talented people you want to slap. Yes, he is gifted and smart, probably the mainstay of his employer's business but he's also sarcastic, arrogant and an intellectual bully. Some of this behavior comes from an over-inflated ego but part of it is a coverup for this isolation he feels as an orphan who has never made friends easily. Two things cause Johnny to revise his character: first, a life-altering injury ruins his career and sense of identity; he's cast away from the community that once valued his abilities. Then, he finds that teacher we all need; the mentor who, by example, teaches us to value character more than talent and the worth of others as well as well one's self. This teacher gives Johnny the opportunity to overcome his injury and a front-row seat to history: the first blows of the American Revolution.
Johnny Tremain's author, Esther Forbes, was a historian who researched the lives of American colonists and she included real people as supporting characters in this book. Well known figures such as Paul Revere, Sam Adams and John Hancock. and lesser known ones like Joseph Warren and James Otis walk across the pages as well as the fictional characters and the patriots bring Johnny into the Revolutionary War. Johnny's struggle to develop his new life and identity parallels Boston's and the colonies' fight to reinvent themselves as parts of an independent country. Both Johnny and the community face hardship and sacrifice in the battle for self-determination and it's that battle that gives Johnny the purpose and community he's needs to continue, not as the star apprentice in a small shop but as an American in a group of fellow Americans. It's an incredibly powerful lesson.
Teachers give lessons and homework and tests to get ideas and information into their students until the students begin to teach themselves. A good teacher, like a good book, can take you into yourself but the best ones take you into the world. At the beginning of this holiday season, let me wish you a lifetime of great teachers and great books. Books like Johnny Tremain.
Johnny is the story of a developing nation but more than that, it's the story of a developing man, Jonathan Lyte Tremain. In the beginning, Johnny is an apprentice in pre-revolutionary Boston, Massachusetts, a silversmith in training and one of those talented people you want to slap. Yes, he is gifted and smart, probably the mainstay of his employer's business but he's also sarcastic, arrogant and an intellectual bully. Some of this behavior comes from an over-inflated ego but part of it is a coverup for this isolation he feels as an orphan who has never made friends easily. Two things cause Johnny to revise his character: first, a life-altering injury ruins his career and sense of identity; he's cast away from the community that once valued his abilities. Then, he finds that teacher we all need; the mentor who, by example, teaches us to value character more than talent and the worth of others as well as well one's self. This teacher gives Johnny the opportunity to overcome his injury and a front-row seat to history: the first blows of the American Revolution.
Johnny Tremain's author, Esther Forbes, was a historian who researched the lives of American colonists and she included real people as supporting characters in this book. Well known figures such as Paul Revere, Sam Adams and John Hancock. and lesser known ones like Joseph Warren and James Otis walk across the pages as well as the fictional characters and the patriots bring Johnny into the Revolutionary War. Johnny's struggle to develop his new life and identity parallels Boston's and the colonies' fight to reinvent themselves as parts of an independent country. Both Johnny and the community face hardship and sacrifice in the battle for self-determination and it's that battle that gives Johnny the purpose and community he's needs to continue, not as the star apprentice in a small shop but as an American in a group of fellow Americans. It's an incredibly powerful lesson.
Teachers give lessons and homework and tests to get ideas and information into their students until the students begin to teach themselves. A good teacher, like a good book, can take you into yourself but the best ones take you into the world. At the beginning of this holiday season, let me wish you a lifetime of great teachers and great books. Books like Johnny Tremain.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
When you can't pick a favorite: Dick Francis & Decider
I love the crime thrillers of the last century and one of my favorite authors in the genre was Dick Francis. The man lived an incredible life (RAF pilot, champion jockey, best-selling writer, just look at his Wikipedia bio!) and if his novels run to a formula, each mixed a new field of information into an abiding love for horses and a solid block of principles. I've read all of them at least once, I give most of them house room and I can't pick a favorite. So, I'll give the first shot to one of his later books, Decider
In Decider, Lee Morris salvages ruins. In today's vernacular, he's a flipper, one of those guys who buys distressed or damaged buildings and turns it into a marketable property. Lee's an architect and he specializes in reclaiming "listed buildings," those structures the British government protects from bulldozing and developers because they have historic or architectural interest. Lee's business is to turn these often dilapidated buildings into marketable residences without destroying the characteristics that make the structure "listed". Lee's learned how to work with a variety of people in order to do his job and right now he needs these skills to help a family that's not quite his. You see, Lee has inherited a few shares of a racecourse that's primarily owned by the Stratton family and the Strattons can't decide what to do with the property. As a matter of fact, a lot of the family members' energy (and some of the family weath) is devoted to infighting and or foiling the schemes of more outrageous relatives. Against his better judgment, Lee's pulled into the Stratton disputes and by the end, he has to expose the Stratton secrets to keep his own family safe.
While this looks like just another Dick Francis mystery with chase scenes and horses, it's a really a story about the stresses and structures that exist in both buildings and families. The hero watches the Stratton power struggles and compares the destructive members to his troupe of growing boys, trying to anticipate the stresses his sons will face and reinforcing their characters. Without saying so, the author draws a parallel between the damaged but salvageable buildings Lee rehabs for his livelihood and the damaged relationships he sees both in the Stratton family and his own. While some derelict places or relationships can be revived, Decider implies that salvage can be a dangerous game and restoration is achievable only to a degree. Some breaks are beyond repair.
There are some delightful architectural asides thrown in such as the argument to using peach canvas when you need a fabric shade. Light shines through the canvas onto the faces below and the peach tint is more complimentary than say, yellow. Peach makes old faces look younger and healthier and since the older customers are usually the ones with real money to spend, choose materials that make them feel happier. Another observation is that the smells in a pub are supremely important. You can buy a pub with a great location, wonderful parking and a great wait staff but if the place smells like ammonia cleaner, you've wasted your money. Get the smells right and your customers will come. Those observations are the kind of things that I love in a novel, the sense of getting insight from an expert. Dick Francis did this in almost every book, researching subjects so his tales gave the reader insight on some new profession or industry. They are fascinating as well as enjoyable.
Only you can say if you want to know more and whether you'll pick up this book. If you aren't sure, make your list of pros and cons but listen to your instincts and heed what appeals to your heart. Like Lee Morris, let that be your Decider.
In Decider, Lee Morris salvages ruins. In today's vernacular, he's a flipper, one of those guys who buys distressed or damaged buildings and turns it into a marketable property. Lee's an architect and he specializes in reclaiming "listed buildings," those structures the British government protects from bulldozing and developers because they have historic or architectural interest. Lee's business is to turn these often dilapidated buildings into marketable residences without destroying the characteristics that make the structure "listed". Lee's learned how to work with a variety of people in order to do his job and right now he needs these skills to help a family that's not quite his. You see, Lee has inherited a few shares of a racecourse that's primarily owned by the Stratton family and the Strattons can't decide what to do with the property. As a matter of fact, a lot of the family members' energy (and some of the family weath) is devoted to infighting and or foiling the schemes of more outrageous relatives. Against his better judgment, Lee's pulled into the Stratton disputes and by the end, he has to expose the Stratton secrets to keep his own family safe.
While this looks like just another Dick Francis mystery with chase scenes and horses, it's a really a story about the stresses and structures that exist in both buildings and families. The hero watches the Stratton power struggles and compares the destructive members to his troupe of growing boys, trying to anticipate the stresses his sons will face and reinforcing their characters. Without saying so, the author draws a parallel between the damaged but salvageable buildings Lee rehabs for his livelihood and the damaged relationships he sees both in the Stratton family and his own. While some derelict places or relationships can be revived, Decider implies that salvage can be a dangerous game and restoration is achievable only to a degree. Some breaks are beyond repair.
There are some delightful architectural asides thrown in such as the argument to using peach canvas when you need a fabric shade. Light shines through the canvas onto the faces below and the peach tint is more complimentary than say, yellow. Peach makes old faces look younger and healthier and since the older customers are usually the ones with real money to spend, choose materials that make them feel happier. Another observation is that the smells in a pub are supremely important. You can buy a pub with a great location, wonderful parking and a great wait staff but if the place smells like ammonia cleaner, you've wasted your money. Get the smells right and your customers will come. Those observations are the kind of things that I love in a novel, the sense of getting insight from an expert. Dick Francis did this in almost every book, researching subjects so his tales gave the reader insight on some new profession or industry. They are fascinating as well as enjoyable.
Only you can say if you want to know more and whether you'll pick up this book. If you aren't sure, make your list of pros and cons but listen to your instincts and heed what appeals to your heart. Like Lee Morris, let that be your Decider.
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