With each passing year comes a certain degree of increased life experience and maturity—we all gradually become a little less impressionable, a little more jaded. I think that, in many ways, the same can be said for the reading experience. When read by a grade school or high school student, the influence that a novel’s themes or imagery can have are understandably deeper and farther-reaching than when absorbed by an older, more well-read adult. Unfortunate? Maybe. I can remember a few certain novels that I first read years ago that, upon rereading, felt somewhat less emotionally impactful than I remember.
Despite this, what I felt always remained, thankfully, was the same sense of enchantment that certain stories evoked, regardless of age. Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet, Katherine Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia, and yes, even the Harry Potter books still manage to provide for me the same thrill that they did years ago. And this article from the Wall Street Journal poses the same concept from a slightly different viewpoint.
Do you agree/disagree? Are there certain books from your youth that still manage to draw you in and give you the same sense of admiration that they did as a child?
Found this reading list in The Guardian today from an author for whom I have deeply mixed feelings—yep, it’s the Woodman, doing a typically odd bit of press in advance of his new movie.
Back in middle and high school, I absolutely loved Woody Allen. Sleeper and Bananas were two of the funniest movies I’d ever seen, plus Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (a little confusing to a sixth grader, but no less fun). Yet nothing cracked me up as much as his short story collection Side Effects—one of the few books I literally read to pieces. The opening story “Remembering Needleman” probably influenced my high school creative writing more than any other work—which didn’t always fly so well, especially in a certain 19th century lit class…
And then, the Soon Yi news broke. Man, wasn’t that a huge deal? I remember being pretty creeped out by the news, not least because growing up in Manhattan I had friends who went to school with some of Mia’s kids. And yet, when I got an invite to see Woody play the clarinet soon after, did I turn it down? Nope, sat at a table right near the front—even waited afterward to see him get into his car.
Time and apparent fidelity to Soon Yi have certainly helped Woody’s rep, but they haven’t exactly exonerated him. And it’s pretty depressing to see two of his book picks are Catcher in the Rye (misunderstood outsider) and a bio of Elia Kazan (persecuted auteur), as if he still sees himself as a victim. Still, I have a huge soft spot for some of his later movies like Everyone Says I Love You and Match Point. And when his most recent story collection Mere Anarchy came out, I faithfully got my copy.
So I’m still pretty torn about Woody. What do you think? Am I cutting the man too much slack? Or is this a question of drawing a line between the author and his work? Do you make similar distinctions for other controversial authors?
April is national poetry month, and since the folks who sponsor it make it ridiculously easy to read more poetry, I’ve signed up for their poem-a-day e-mail. I will also participate in the Poem in Your Pocket Day on April 14th (just prior to Tax Return in the Mail day) in which people are encouraged to carry their favorite poem with them.
I’m still deciding what mine will be. Mathew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” holds a special place in my heart, but I’ve also always been partial to Dylan Thomas’ gorgeous “Fern Hill.” Sadly, with the exception of those poems placed before me in the New Yorker or Harper’s, I’m embarrassed to admit that I rarely read poetry, at least of the grown-up variety. My preschooler loves Shel Silverstein, Dr. Seuss, A.A. Milne, and Lewis Caroll, the sillier and more tongue twist-y the poem, the better. It’s clear that rhyming, meter, assonance, consonance and sheer pleasure in wordplay in general come pretty naturally to kids. But at some point or another, even for the very bookish, the habit of poetry seems to fall by the wayside. Despite being surrounded by literary types, I know few people who read poetry for pleasure, fewer still who read contemporary poets, and fewer still who actually buy books of poetry. It’s no secret that the novel has eclipsed the poem as a literary form, and I have my own theories about why this is, but why do you suppose poetry has suffered such loss of “market share?” I’d also be pleased if you’d share the name (or a link to) your favorite poem.
It’s funny how, like with memories of things that actually happened, there are images derived from passages of books read that stick with us forever, despite their particular existence in individual minds alone. Reading Little Women for the first time as a girl, I was immediately drawn to Jo March—not because of her energy, independence, wit or general endearing qualities—though those later became ideals as well, but because of a single scene very early on in the story. There is an image of Jo carting a bag of apples up to a window seat in the attic (or at least somewhere high up in the March house) and spending hours reading and eating the fruit one after another. I remember thinking that this was perfection, that this was something that I would do and from that moment on, I allied myself with Jo in the story thinking that surely, we would be very good friends in real life. I love reading! I rarely go a day without devouring at least one apple! I didn’t have a window seat, but in lieu of it, on nice days, I used to climb up a particularly well-suited tree in our front yard and sit on a strong branch with my back against the trunk to read and watch people go by. Jo would do that too, right?
I have always carried this impression with me as the perfect day. With the kind of high spirits that are unique to spring, particularly those first days when it is warm in the morning as well as the rest of the day, the picture of Jo March reading and eating apples, curled up in a sunlit seat came to me today…and I’m pretty sure that I know how I’ll be spending my Saturday, now. While I still don’t have a window seat (mental note for future house), there’s a park and a farmer’s market for apples and plenty of books to make the afternoon worth it.
Are there any particularly lovely or strong literary memories—or characters—that come back to you every once in awhile? This weather does it for me, though I am sure there are other scenes and dialogues that will come to me just as clearly when something else triggers my memory in that right way.
Jane’s post earlier this week about how book covers come into existence, got me thinking. We know we’re not supposed to, but I know that I, at least, will almost always judge a book, and my willingness to read it, by its cover. Its cover, spine, type face, page layout, even its binding. The simpler, the better. I’m drawn to plain, unassuming books; preferably paperbacks with French flaps and those roughly cut, thick, and slightly uneven pages. That’s just me being really particular, though. If I had it my way, almost all covers would be extremely sparse, perhaps designed, but without actual pictures or photographs if these can be avoided. The words on the front don’t have to be a specific size or font, but the text inside does—preferably with serifs and not too spaced out. I sound picky, I know, but we’re talking ideals here! Book cover utopia!
Obviously, there are exceptions, and there are covers that feature people or animals or what have you, that I fall in love with, too (I’m thinking the applicable covers of Lolita, The Virgin Suicides and this series of Evelyn Waugh’s oeuvre, for example), so maybe it’s not that easy to classify. All I know is that when I’m drawn to a book initially, it’s on the spine or cover alone—aided in part by the title, I suppose—and I am always surprised when I find myself really enjoying a book whose cover I dislike and am more disappointed when a book with a great cover turns out to be less than satisfying.
In any case, the merit obviously lies in the writing itself, no matter the form in which it is presented, but I thought I’d indulge a little in the most famous literary taboo. What are your preferences? Are there any book covers that stand out in your mind as the pinnacle of perfection?
In light of what Jim wrote about trends this week, I started thinking back to my favorite books growing up, trying to pick apart any trends that might have existed or influenced my reading habits. What I came up with regarding the middle grade and YA books I was reading at the time was a strong lean towards historical fiction and time travel. Thinking about it, a vast majority of the stand-alone books I read between ages 10 and 15 were historical fiction. Series are a category all on their own, and I can tell you now that I’m pretty sure I devoured every single Babysitter’s Club and Sweet Valley book I could get my hands on.
The books I turned back to time and time again, however, were always, as I remember putting it, about “girls my age living during World War II.” I got pretty specific on that one. I don’t know if it was simply because historical fiction was what appealed to me naturally or whether there was a surplus of like books at the time. Did a trend shape the way I chose and enjoyed books as a child, or did I just have such a specific taste that I found a way to pick out the books I loved? I’m certain there weren’t too many vampires or zombies populating the YA shelves at the time, but would I have been drawn to a book like this if there was?
I’m sure this is something I’ll never work out and won’t change the facts that the books with the covers taped on dozens of times and the paged curled from too much turning will always make me smile when I remember them. The most beaten up of them all, I think, is The Switching Well by Peni R. Griffin. I don’t think I’ve ever found anyone else who’s read about Amber and Ada—one from 1999 and the other from 1899 who switch places—but I assure you, I could recite the plot in intricate detail to anyone who asked. There was a trilogy about a displaced set of siblings from England in WWII by Kit Pearson called The Guests of War and another about a time traveling Irish girl named Rosie by Ann Carroll that I read time and time again.
I own nearly every book in the American Girl series (or at least those written before 1997) and had read The Endless Steppe at least twice before we were required to in school. Is it that today’s children and teenagers don’t want to read about the past or is it that they aren’t given the opportunity or push to? Whatever the impetus, I’m interested in seeing what type of literature—farther than what the next big supernatural being to hit the shelves will be—floods the market next.
This week, I wanted to pass along this link from the Huffington Post which asked readers to submit novels they enjoy rereading. Personally, I think it’s great when I can pick up a book and read it cover to cover, enjoying each page along the way. It’s even more rewarding when I read a book that makes such an impact that I find myself interested in revisiting it, either soon after or even years later. I know, for some, rereading a book is just not in the cards—I’ve read it once, why do it again? I can understand that, but often I find that rereading a novel will introduce me to a new novel entirely: depending on how much time has passed, the themes and meanings might resonate with me differently, not to mention that many times I’ll find something in the second read that I had missed the first time around. Either way, I think the list given offers some excellent examples, with To Kill a Mockingbird and The Picture of Dorian Gray among my favorites. I think I’d also include A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but that’s just me.
Do you have certain books in particular that you find yourself rereading?
I feel like my blog posts have been coming at you straight from dullsville for the past few weeks, and I need to spice things up a bit! So: romance!
In honor of Valentine’s Day, the holiday invented by couples specifically to scorch the hearts of their single friends, I’ve decided to poll some fellow Dystel-ites on the most romantic books of all time.
Miriam picked Jane Eyre and The English Patient with a nod to Love in the Time of Cholera which should come as no surprise seeing as her most recent entry testified to her love of its first line: “It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” While everyone else in the office complained that they couldn’t think of romantic books, she continued with her suggestions: The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love; most of Turgenev; some Milan Kundera; A Tale of Two Cities.
Jane’s response was immediate and perfect: does romance get more epic that Gone with the Wind? I think not.
Lauren took a decidedly anti-romantic approach. While she does enjoy, say, the poetry of Keats, her favorite books tend to be bleaker and feature antiheroes and assholes. I pointed out that assholes need love too, and she settled on The Great Gatsby. Romantic AND bleak. It qualifies!
Everyone else scrambled for answers as though romance in books was a totally unfamiliar concept. But they came up with favorites eventually! John settled on Wuthering Heights. Michael got stuck coming up with a list of the most inappropriate choices of all time (Lolita, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Revolutionary Road, Flowers in the Attic!), but eventually refocused on actual romance and selected the much more appropriate Shopgirl. Stephanie chose A Walk to Remember, which I haven’t read, but I did see the Mandy Moore movie!
As for me, my choice doesn’t have a happy ending, but I still think it’s the most romantic book ever (and one of my all-time favorites). The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I mean, come on! SPOILER ALERT. Quasimodo loves Esmeralda so much that he clutches her dead body until HE DIES TOO! And the last line! “When they tried to detach the skeleton which he held in his embrace, he fell to dust.” I love that line like Quasi loved his gypsy girl.
What about all you folks? What do you think the most romantic novels of all time are?
Reading this article in the Guardian about the latest snide Martin Amis remark to disgust people, I was struck by a familiar sentiment: Oh, Martin, must you always make it so embarrassing to like you?
Apparently Amis declared that he would only write a children’s book if he had brain damage. Charming, truly charming. With one asinine comment, he managed to insult children’s book authors, the brain damaged, and, well, children.
Now surely, this attitude problem is much of what Amis is all about and at least part of the reason anyone bothers to talk about him. (For the record, the other part is that he’s genuinely talented. Whatever he may be as a man, I truly love London Fields.) This isn’t the first time he’s said something seemingly exclusively to annoy others. The protagonist of Money is one of the more repulsive characters in contemporary fiction, and Amis named him John Self. (Points for self awareness, perhaps?) And a great many writers of wonderful, wonderful things were also terrible, terrible people. If we ruled out the artistic products of people who are not also lovely people we don’t object to, it’s terrifying to think what cultural gems we’d lose. The list of drunks who were nasty to their wives alone would deprive us of much of the canon.
I could list examples, but I’d be here all day. Instead, enjoy this clip of Jill Sobule singing “Heroes,” her song on this very subject.
Giving that a listen, there are far worse things one could be than a jackass, I suppose. I think my issue with Amis is less his attitude, which I’d potentially find amusing and endearing if he ever seemed insightful or funny or clever when putting someone down for no reason. It’s not like I want him to be nice. It just all seems to come from such a defensive, sad, ain’t never gonna win the Booker sort of place. Witness his public kerfuffle* over everyone’s favorite British non-celebrity, Katie “Jordan” Price—when an acclaimed literary novelist comes off as jealous of a girl who is famous for wearing little clothing, being so tacky that tacky people look on in horror, and trying to date herself into greater stardom, I find it hard to get upset about his misogyny. What he was saying was sort of beside the point—the aggravating thing is that he felt the need to say it at all. It’s not easy to see this as a brave man speaking truth to power and damn the consequences. Instead, he just seems petulant and insecure, and really, I just want him to be more. If he’s going to take people down for sport, is it too much to ask that he do it with style and a little more effort to hide his wounded ego?
Looking at your own favorite books, are any of them written by people who are sort of hard to champion?
*With the standard caveat that Wikipedia is perhaps not the most accurate source of information. Suffice it to say that I’m assuming no one’s sabotaging the integrity of this particular piece of information. It’s not like it’s a subject where accuracy is of vital importance, like Justin Bieber.
According to the Guardian, publisher Black Ocean is giving a lifetime subscription to the books they publish to anyone who gets a tattoo inspired by one of them. I’m too straitlaced for tattoos in general, but the idea at least of literary tattoos pleases me. Unlike, say, a tattoo of a cartoon character (why do people do that?) or the name of a person you love (and better hope you love forever, because not everyone’s going to be able to pull off a “wino forever” tattoo). By the time you’re of likely tattooing age, you’ve probably got some serious literary passions. And it’s a testament to the permanence of certain literary enthusiasms in our lives that this Christmas saw three members of my family exchanging the latest in a series they’d all started reading back in the 70s (The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant).
I know that at least some DGLM clients have inspired tattooing among their fans (Jacqueline Carey and Richelle Mead in particular spring to mind), and it’s something that I can get behind, even if I can’t imagine getting one myself. But I still like to think about what literary tattoo I might get, if I woke up one day the sort of person who’d want a tattoo. The problem is most of my favorites don’t lend themselves well to such things. Looking back at my “great books” list from August 2009, not one of them seems to lend itself to tattooing—Mrs Dalloway’s flowers? The light from Gatsby? A 1984 tattoo probably actually makes sense, but I think that might send a more complicated message than “Wasn’t George Orwell great?” If I look back to childhood for something that’s of lasting significance (so I’d know I wouldn’t hate it in a week), I’m just not sure a Laura Ingalls Wilder bonnet is something I’m going to ask someone to ink onto my flesh and something Dr. Seuss is probably just going to look like a bad idea I had while drunk. So maybe it’s for the best that I’m not the tattoo type.
What about you? Do any of you have literary tattoos? If you could get any literary reference tattoo, what would it be?
June 21, 2011 
Stephanie 
