Well, things don't always turn out as expected or desired and we didn't have a real conversation about Gift From the Sea and Letters to a Young Poet. Even after Mahala's fine posting below, we just didn't get this chain letter type response completely off the ground, so thanks to Michelle and Angie for their thoughts, and if you feel compelled to add something as a comment or new post, carry on!
Tina:
Even though it’s been a long time since I finished the books, I loved the re-visit through MK’s post…especially the quotes and connection to life past and present. What a timely read considering the African adventure at hand. I wish I could revisit an old favorite, with my younger self’s marginalia attached, from my more mature perch. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything so inspirational or likely to have more than factual place markers noted in the margins, a very literal rather than personal/emotional approach to reading. Maybe I should find a book to annotate to reread when I’m 80? Why not start now?
I did mark the section on p.61 taking about God, “Why don’t you think of him as the one who is coming, who has been approaching from all eternity, the one who will someday arrive, the ultimate fruit of a tree whose leaves we are? …everything that happens is again and again a beginning, and couldn’t it be His beginning since, in itself, starting is always so beautiful?” For some reason, that gives me great comfort and hope. I’m muddled in my general beliefs, but here’s something I can ponder for a while, a beginning from which to move forward, a beautiful spot as Rilke says, encouragement for the journey.
Michelle:
A few complications converged to make my review challenging. The time between reading and reviewing, in conjunction with my short-term memory issues has been further complicated by the fact that both books are MIA...taking with them my notes. What struck me about "Letters to a Young Poet" was my desire to read the letters written by the young poet. While Rilke's insights and writing were interesting enough (although I found him to be a bit of a whiner), I wanted to know about the struggles and challenges the young poet was facing. He seemed to be at a crossroads in his life, and part of that I interpreted as his sexual identity. I wish the book was a conversation from both sides.
What surprised me most about "Gift from the Sea" was that it was written by "that" Lindbergh (I had no idea), and that her thoughts and views have stood the test of time. Reading this book 50+ years after it was written, I expected it to miss the mark somehow. But her thoughts on relationships and the challenges women face in this shifting landscape felt very relevant. I enjoyed this book and look forward to locating it and revisiting my notes.
Angie:
A few complications converged to make my review challenging as well. I lost/misplaced Michelle's Rilke book and I chose not to re-read "Gift from the Sea." I had received it as a present upon graduating college (20 years ago) and did not remember it fondly. In fact, I distinctly remember reading it and feeling this pressure to be insightful and peaceful and calm...when all I really felt at that time was an energy and determination to just "get going." I am just not going to be the woman who has long moments of self-contemplation. I am the woman who will shoot off at the mouth without thinking, might lose a friend's book, and who rushes out the door every day of the work week. BUT the thing I can be proud of (and thankful for) is that I know who I am. And I always have.
"...When one is a stranger to one's self then one is a estranged from others too. If one is out of touch with oneself, then one cannot touch others". Anne Morrow Lindbergh
I appreciate that Lindbergh touched on the struggles that women face in trying to do it all and that she recognized this 50 years ago before feminism hit its stride. The above quote from "Gift from the Sea" takes on new meaning now that I'm 42. It reminds me that the idea of "knowing oneself" must change with time and experiences. And that we must be kind to ourselves in order to truly know our own essence. I don't ever remember feeling quite like the young poet who corresponded with Rilke. (And like Michelle, I was much intrigued with his story than Rilke's responses). But I do know that those moments when I've felt overwhelmed and unprepared and full of questions happen more often when I deny my "authentic" self. When I try to be what I think I should be instead of just accepting the moment.
I came unraveled when Wes was at his worst with depression. I remember standing outside at my aunt's farm after spending a night having a full blown panic attack and feeling like I was spinning in the wind and strands of me were coming undone. I thought I had failed because I felt this...even though I couldn't define "this." I didn't even know I had had a "panic attack." I thought to feel sad and confused meant I couldn't handle it.
Such a learning experience life is. It doesn't always look peaceful and calm, does it? But to come through things with honesty and authenticity, to take in all that life has to offer and then to have the courage to share those experiences with others...that is the real gift.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Gift from the Sea and Letters to a Young Poet
by Anne Morrow Lindbergh and Ranier Maria Rilke, respectively
I’m about to leave home for nearly a year. It’s frightening and exciting; happy and sad. When I’m in significant turmoil (and by that I mean more turmoil than usual), I retrieve Gift from the Sea and Letters to a Young Poet from the shelves. They are books that calm my soul.
Letters to a Young Poet was recommended reading on the topic of “being an artist” from a professor (interestingly enough, not my flute teacher) during my music school days. So, too , was The Inner Game of Tennis, a book that left my bookshelves years ago; perhaps I should think about replacing it now that I’ve picked up my flute again. For the moment, I’m thinking mostly about the body mechanics (breathing and air flow) of playing. I’ll likely not ever have to deal with the inner game of music performance again, so perhaps this whole digression is moot. But there you have it.
My copy of Letters is in surprisingly good condition for as many times as it’s been thumbed through and annotated. Between page 74 and 75 rests a four-leaf clover taped to a plain white index card; it’s been there for years. Just recently, my first husband mentioned my ability to find tiny things—like four-leaf clovers—as something he remembers about me with great fondness; that thought makes me inexplicably happy.
Here’s an underlined section from the good luck charm-marked page 74 that’s held special relevance for me this summer. I replace Rilke’s “doubt” with “addiction,” now, as I read this passage:
… all emotions are pure which gather you and lift you up; that emotion is impure which seizes only one side of you and so distorts you…your doubt may become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become critical. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perplexed, perhaps, or perhaps rebellious. But don’t give in, insist on arguments and act this way, watchful and consistent, every single time, and the day will arrive when from a destroyer it will become one of your best workers—perhaps the cleverest of all that are building at your life.
I hope, indeed, that is true.
As I prepare for this year of living away from home, I have plans to write, to read, to play my flute, to think, to heal ... and to and spend time with my life’s companion who has largely been away from home, himself, the past few months. Our time away will be an interesting paradox: hours of great togetherness and hours of great solitude. Perhaps that paradox is at the heart of my wanting to return to Letters and Gift this summer: really, how does one lead a life that is simultaneously creative, connected, and solitary?
Little wonder I find myself in turmoil, you say! And you might also have chuckled and wanted to draw my attention to the very first words of Gift from the Sea as you were reading the paragraph I just penned above since you know I will be on the beach at Lamu (with my sketch book, colored pencils, yarn, thin, blue Kenyan airmail stationery and several books lumped chaotically together in a carry-all beside me) when you, my friends The Biblioworms, next gather! Lindbergh wrote:
The beach is not a place to work, to read, to write, or think. I should have remembered that from other years. Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. One never learns. Hopefully, one carries down the faded straw bag, lumpy with books, clean paper, long over-due unanswered letters, freshly sharpened pencils, lists, and good intentions. The books remain unread, the pencils break their points, and the pads rest clean and unblemished as the cloudless sky.
I hadn’t really thought of it before, but there’s a little bit of a parallel, too, with my upcoming travels and something Rilke wrote (it’s scribbled on the back cover of my copy of Letters), in another of his works. I think it was On Love and Other Difficulties:
Ah! but verses amount to so little when one writes them young. One ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness a whole life long, and a long life, if possible, and then, quite at the end, one might be able to write ten lines that were good. For verses are not, as people imagine, simply feelings (one has those easily enough) – they are experiences. For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, must feel how the birds fly and see the gesture by which the little flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings one had long seen in coming …
So I will hope that my life experiences to this point—the calm and the tumultuous; the wise and the not-so-wise; the caring and the selfish—when added to the ones I will have in the coming months, might lead to one sentence, one musical phrase, one scribbled thought on the margin of a page—one thing—that is truly good. In Letters, Rilke reminds us:
… that something is difficult must be a reason more for us to do it. (I should mention that my copy has an arrow pointing to that line, and, next to the arrow, in handwriting that is undeniably my own, the scribbled word “maybe.”) To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other is but preparation … and so loving, for a long while ahead and far into life, is—solitude intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves.
So perhaps I should look at the next few months as an amazing amalgam of the underlinings, scribbles, and yearnings that I’ve written in the pages of my favorite books over the years.
Written as a classified ad, all that marginalia might read something like:
Introverted aspiring artist (with lots of good ideas but notoriously lacking in follow-through) seeks the companionship of an adventurous, accomplished (and notoriously shy) distinguished professor-type for solitary time spent (paradoxically) together on safari watching elephants in Samburu; on Lamu, walking quietly along miles of sandy beaches; and, of course, standing on the shores of Lake Turkana, where we will have just been swimming with the crocodiles. Must love listening to repetitive flute practice and playing competitive Scrabble. Must also be a consummate writer and storyteller (in English) with working knowledge of Swahili. In addition, must also be observant enough when listening to a draft of this little essay to wonder: “How can your pencil points be broken if your paper is unblemished?”
I’m about to leave home for nearly a year. It’s frightening and exciting; happy and sad. When I’m in significant turmoil (and by that I mean more turmoil than usual), I retrieve Gift from the Sea and Letters to a Young Poet from the shelves. They are books that calm my soul.
Letters to a Young Poet was recommended reading on the topic of “being an artist” from a professor (interestingly enough, not my flute teacher) during my music school days. So, too , was The Inner Game of Tennis, a book that left my bookshelves years ago; perhaps I should think about replacing it now that I’ve picked up my flute again. For the moment, I’m thinking mostly about the body mechanics (breathing and air flow) of playing. I’ll likely not ever have to deal with the inner game of music performance again, so perhaps this whole digression is moot. But there you have it.
My copy of Letters is in surprisingly good condition for as many times as it’s been thumbed through and annotated. Between page 74 and 75 rests a four-leaf clover taped to a plain white index card; it’s been there for years. Just recently, my first husband mentioned my ability to find tiny things—like four-leaf clovers—as something he remembers about me with great fondness; that thought makes me inexplicably happy.
Here’s an underlined section from the good luck charm-marked page 74 that’s held special relevance for me this summer. I replace Rilke’s “doubt” with “addiction,” now, as I read this passage:
… all emotions are pure which gather you and lift you up; that emotion is impure which seizes only one side of you and so distorts you…your doubt may become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become critical. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perplexed, perhaps, or perhaps rebellious. But don’t give in, insist on arguments and act this way, watchful and consistent, every single time, and the day will arrive when from a destroyer it will become one of your best workers—perhaps the cleverest of all that are building at your life.
I hope, indeed, that is true.
As I prepare for this year of living away from home, I have plans to write, to read, to play my flute, to think, to heal ... and to and spend time with my life’s companion who has largely been away from home, himself, the past few months. Our time away will be an interesting paradox: hours of great togetherness and hours of great solitude. Perhaps that paradox is at the heart of my wanting to return to Letters and Gift this summer: really, how does one lead a life that is simultaneously creative, connected, and solitary?
Little wonder I find myself in turmoil, you say! And you might also have chuckled and wanted to draw my attention to the very first words of Gift from the Sea as you were reading the paragraph I just penned above since you know I will be on the beach at Lamu (with my sketch book, colored pencils, yarn, thin, blue Kenyan airmail stationery and several books lumped chaotically together in a carry-all beside me) when you, my friends The Biblioworms, next gather! Lindbergh wrote:
The beach is not a place to work, to read, to write, or think. I should have remembered that from other years. Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. One never learns. Hopefully, one carries down the faded straw bag, lumpy with books, clean paper, long over-due unanswered letters, freshly sharpened pencils, lists, and good intentions. The books remain unread, the pencils break their points, and the pads rest clean and unblemished as the cloudless sky.
I hadn’t really thought of it before, but there’s a little bit of a parallel, too, with my upcoming travels and something Rilke wrote (it’s scribbled on the back cover of my copy of Letters), in another of his works. I think it was On Love and Other Difficulties:
Ah! but verses amount to so little when one writes them young. One ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness a whole life long, and a long life, if possible, and then, quite at the end, one might be able to write ten lines that were good. For verses are not, as people imagine, simply feelings (one has those easily enough) – they are experiences. For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, must feel how the birds fly and see the gesture by which the little flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings one had long seen in coming …
So I will hope that my life experiences to this point—the calm and the tumultuous; the wise and the not-so-wise; the caring and the selfish—when added to the ones I will have in the coming months, might lead to one sentence, one musical phrase, one scribbled thought on the margin of a page—one thing—that is truly good. In Letters, Rilke reminds us:
… that something is difficult must be a reason more for us to do it. (I should mention that my copy has an arrow pointing to that line, and, next to the arrow, in handwriting that is undeniably my own, the scribbled word “maybe.”) To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other is but preparation … and so loving, for a long while ahead and far into life, is—solitude intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves.
So perhaps I should look at the next few months as an amazing amalgam of the underlinings, scribbles, and yearnings that I’ve written in the pages of my favorite books over the years.
Written as a classified ad, all that marginalia might read something like:
Introverted aspiring artist (with lots of good ideas but notoriously lacking in follow-through) seeks the companionship of an adventurous, accomplished (and notoriously shy) distinguished professor-type for solitary time spent (paradoxically) together on safari watching elephants in Samburu; on Lamu, walking quietly along miles of sandy beaches; and, of course, standing on the shores of Lake Turkana, where we will have just been swimming with the crocodiles. Must love listening to repetitive flute practice and playing competitive Scrabble. Must also be a consummate writer and storyteller (in English) with working knowledge of Swahili. In addition, must also be observant enough when listening to a draft of this little essay to wonder: “How can your pencil points be broken if your paper is unblemished?”
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Homer and Langley by E.L. Doctorow
The Tale of Homer and Langley Collyer's lives as told by E.L Doctorow exists where truth and fiction collide in a collosal collection of clutter, detritis, and "treasures" gathered over a lifetime of making their way in the world.
Brothers caught up in the events of 20th century New York, the Collyers are managing as best they can in a world that is passing them by. The material collected by Langley is originally a manageable assortment of newspapers, interesting items, and novelties. As time passes, the enormous piles of stuff consume their lives until they pass away under mountains of junk.
Assisted and befriended by a southern cook and her grandson, the Hoshiyamas, and assorted hippies, the brothers continue to observe life and carry on with a model T in the dining room and plans for an all-purpose, universal newspaper that Langley will create from all the newspapers stacking up around the house.
This blend of fact and fiction is an interesting historical view and was generally appreciated by our group as a light summer read and a cautionary tale by those of us with basements and closets to clean out before we are really in too deep.
Brothers caught up in the events of 20th century New York, the Collyers are managing as best they can in a world that is passing them by. The material collected by Langley is originally a manageable assortment of newspapers, interesting items, and novelties. As time passes, the enormous piles of stuff consume their lives until they pass away under mountains of junk.
Assisted and befriended by a southern cook and her grandson, the Hoshiyamas, and assorted hippies, the brothers continue to observe life and carry on with a model T in the dining room and plans for an all-purpose, universal newspaper that Langley will create from all the newspapers stacking up around the house.
This blend of fact and fiction is an interesting historical view and was generally appreciated by our group as a light summer read and a cautionary tale by those of us with basements and closets to clean out before we are really in too deep.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
This true story of Henrietta Lacks and her family is wrapped in a well written and captivating novel that begs the reader to find out more about this historic woman. Henrietta died of an aggressive form of cervical cancer in 1951 that produced the most prolific cell culture line in the world. Her cells are known as HeLa cells, named using the first two initials of her first and last names. HeLa cells were historic for being the first cells to stay alive in culture, replicate at a very rapid pace and be available by mail order for researchers throughout the world. They have been used more than any other cell culture line to perform research such as the development of the polio vaccine, cancer treatment drugs and knowledge about HIV Rebecca Skloot took ten years to research and write this book. The book includes a Cast of Characters, a Timeline, an extensive Index and detailed notes to document the research that provides the foundation for the story. Rebecca built the story around the facts while always keeping the people as the focus. Readers who have little knowledge of biology or research methods will still easily follow the story and the medical implication of HeLa cells.
The book takes the reader forward and backward in time to build anticipation of what happens to Henrietta and her family. Rebecca became a trusted associate and friend of Henrietta's family, particularly her youngest daughter, Deborah. She balanced her deep interest in learning all she could about Henrietta and her family while maintaining respect for all of them and the medical establishments involved. She was very careful to bring only positive attention to them and to assist them in learning more about their mother. Each medical establishment employee and every family member is developed gradually throughout the book. There is a focus on each of Henrietta’s children that represents the relationship they had to Henrietta, with much of the book telling Deborah’s story.
This book blends science, history and ethics while telling an incredible true story about one woman whose death and subsequent cell growth has had a monumental impact on medical research that has saved countless lives. Henrietta’s contribution to science could only be fully realized by her family because of Rebecca Skloot’s creative efforts to research and write this book.
This true story of Henrietta Lacks and her family is wrapped in a well written and captivating novel that begs the reader to find out more about this historic woman. Henrietta died of an aggressive form of cervical cancer in 1951 that produced the most prolific cell culture line in the world. Her cells are known as HeLa cells, named using the first two initials of her first and last names. HeLa cells were historic for being the first cells to stay alive in culture, replicate at a very rapid pace and be available by mail order for researchers throughout the world. They have been used more than any other cell culture line to perform research such as the development of the polio vaccine, cancer treatment drugs and knowledge about HIV Rebecca Skloot took ten years to research and write this book. The book includes a Cast of Characters, a Timeline, an extensive Index and detailed notes to document the research that provides the foundation for the story. Rebecca built the story around the facts while always keeping the people as the focus. Readers who have little knowledge of biology or research methods will still easily follow the story and the medical implication of HeLa cells.
The book takes the reader forward and backward in time to build anticipation of what happens to Henrietta and her family. Rebecca became a trusted associate and friend of Henrietta's family, particularly her youngest daughter, Deborah. She balanced her deep interest in learning all she could about Henrietta and her family while maintaining respect for all of them and the medical establishments involved. She was very careful to bring only positive attention to them and to assist them in learning more about their mother. Each medical establishment employee and every family member is developed gradually throughout the book. There is a focus on each of Henrietta’s children that represents the relationship they had to Henrietta, with much of the book telling Deborah’s story.
This book blends science, history and ethics while telling an incredible true story about one woman whose death and subsequent cell growth has had a monumental impact on medical research that has saved countless lives. Henrietta’s contribution to science could only be fully realized by her family because of Rebecca Skloot’s creative efforts to research and write this book.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Imperfectionists
I have to start by saying it's always a relief when the book I choose turns out to be a good one. And this first book by Tom Rachman was amazing! We all loved it, which can sometimes mean that the discussion isn't as lively. But for those brave enough to venture out in the blizzard, we had a great evening talking about it.
The novel, which is really written more like short stories, is set at an English-language newspaper based in Rome. Each wittily titled chapter stands on its own, but the characters appear throughout. Interspersed throughout the book are brief sections telling the history of the paper, and tying the whole story together.
Michelle had the brilliant idea to bring along a reader's guide, so that we could talk about each chapter one-by-one. Rachman wrote with such feeling, and we all had very emotional responses to this book - both to the characters and their situations. Some of the more memorable:
Arthur Gopal: the obituary writer and devoted father to Pickle. Heartbreaking!
Ruby Zaga: the angry copy editor dealing with office insecurity and loneliness.
Winston Cheung: youth and inexperience trying to compete for a Cairo stringer job with an insensitive, fast-talking correspondent. Infuriating!
Abbey Pinnola (accounts payable): the paper's CFO who ends up sitting on a plane next to someone she's just had fired. Shocking - never saw this twist coming!
And my favorite, the paper's most loyal reader Ornella de Monterecchi: reading each edition from cover to cover and consequently living a decade behind. She finally shares a secret that allows her to move forward with her life.
At times, Rachman makes you want to cheer for these people. Other times you want to punch them, cry with them, shake some sense into them, or celebrate with them. He beautifully illustrates that people have many sides, most of which we don't get a chance to see when they are at work.
Loved this book! I don't know what our rating scale is, but I'd give it full marks!
The novel, which is really written more like short stories, is set at an English-language newspaper based in Rome. Each wittily titled chapter stands on its own, but the characters appear throughout. Interspersed throughout the book are brief sections telling the history of the paper, and tying the whole story together.
Michelle had the brilliant idea to bring along a reader's guide, so that we could talk about each chapter one-by-one. Rachman wrote with such feeling, and we all had very emotional responses to this book - both to the characters and their situations. Some of the more memorable:
Arthur Gopal: the obituary writer and devoted father to Pickle. Heartbreaking!
Ruby Zaga: the angry copy editor dealing with office insecurity and loneliness.
Winston Cheung: youth and inexperience trying to compete for a Cairo stringer job with an insensitive, fast-talking correspondent. Infuriating!
Abbey Pinnola (accounts payable): the paper's CFO who ends up sitting on a plane next to someone she's just had fired. Shocking - never saw this twist coming!
And my favorite, the paper's most loyal reader Ornella de Monterecchi: reading each edition from cover to cover and consequently living a decade behind. She finally shares a secret that allows her to move forward with her life.
At times, Rachman makes you want to cheer for these people. Other times you want to punch them, cry with them, shake some sense into them, or celebrate with them. He beautifully illustrates that people have many sides, most of which we don't get a chance to see when they are at work.
Loved this book! I don't know what our rating scale is, but I'd give it full marks!
Friday, January 7, 2011
I was reading an article about another doctor/surgeon/writer, Atul Gawande, and he said the following: "...by putting your writing out to an audience, even a small one, you connect yourself to something larger than yourself...An audience is a community. The published word is a declaration of membership in that community, and also of concern to contribute something meaningful to it." That's how I feel about this blog. I am not a writer, I have no comfort in writing. Same with drawing, but that's not going to keep me from experimenting this year with both. Maybe not to "publish" anything here or there, but a chance to explore thoughts in words and images and to see what comes of it. Happy New Year to all!
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