REPOST: The Library Book

I love libraries. They are, quite literally, the places on earth I feel most comfortable. Reading is a solitary experience, but the communal nature of library reading infuses it with a sense of...family, in a way. We belong to physical families as a result of genetic similarity, library familiality is a result of like-mindedness.

My favorite thing, which is what has happened with my current book, Readingsby Sven Birkerts, is finding the receipt of a previous patron stuck between the pages of the book. Indulging myself in Birkerts' musings about reading and time and the human condition has opened a doorway to a place I barely remember but for which my longing has never died. That pure...simple place where exists the exquisite and innocent joy wrought by everything related to reading.

Books...the way they smell, the weight of a volume in hand, the texture of the page...are approached with the pitcher's intent ritual treading of the mound, with the sommelier's expert palate. Reading...that moment when when letters and punctuation vanish from the page and the mind leaves this world and enters another...is a meditation, a cleansing of thought and an unfettering of spirit. It's a way of taking a vacation from one's self. To view the world through new eyes, to experience our hearts desires expressed in words we cannot find ourselves; "we read to know we are not alone", as someone said.

So a year ago, this guy in Napa checked Birkerts' book out of the library. Readings, which is basically a book about books and the way in which they can help us make sense of our swiftly tilting, sharply spinning world; or if not make sense, at least give us a vocabulary with which to express our confusion. I love Birkerts' clear, spare, unsentimentalized sentiment, he expresses his thoughts in a way that gives me plenty of room for my own and I find the experience of reading Readings rather like enjoying a sherbet after dinner; a delightful preparation for the dessert of deep thought.

I wonder what Napa Guy thought? Does he feel as I do about Birkerts's writing? Does he find it difficult, as I do and Birkerts does, to reconcile our present with our recent past and near future? Does he relish the gifts of libraries and of books as much as I?

Of My Favorite Quotes From My Favorite Movies -- The One That Got Away

My favorite novel of all time is Jane Eyre. And I'd love to love, really for my favorite movie of all time to be based on my favorite novel of all time. Every version of Jane Eyre (save one) I've ever seen transforms Jane from an independent, slightly temperamental woman of strong character into an insipid Cinderella. It makes me nuts. 

The intermal monoloque with which she answer's Rochester when he asks: 

Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?

has yet to appear in any film adaptation. Which is a shame. Apart from being beautifully written it reveals the depth and breadth of the heroine's...well, all the stuff I wrote above. I'm hard pressed to imagine an actor who wouldn't love to get her teeth into it. As it couldn't be added to this week's Thursday Thirteen; it is here shared in this special post.

I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad--as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth--so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane--quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.

Cover His Face,...He Died Young

When I got the news, I would have given anything for it not to be true. Day and night, for many weeks this poem ran through my head.

~Jason, my baby brother.

1975-2004

ELAINE

OH, come again to Astolat!
  I will not ask you to be kind.
And you may go when you will go,
  And I will stay behind.

I will not say how dear you are,
  Or ask you if you hold me dear,
Or trouble you with things for you
  The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot,
  So very still the lake shall be,
You could not guess--though you should guess--
  What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden-walk,
  The garden-seat so very wide,
You needs must think--if you should think--
  The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away,
  I'd watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
  And smile,--if you should smile. 

--Second April, by Edna St Vincent Millay

The Age Of Innocence; and why I love it's ending ~spoiler alert~

"And [I] walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme/ A ghost in marble of a girl you knew." Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thirty years after looking down into his wife's triumphant, frightened eyes; thirty years after the news of her pregnancy broke and bound up his heart, the widowed Newland Archer sits on a Parisian bench, below the window of the woman he'd loved and lost.

Will he go up to her? Will they find a way to be together after so long a separation? I don't think so. Madame Olenska had become a part of the private world to which he retreated. The world of beauty and letters and transcendent love. She belonged to the inner life which sustained him through a long marriage to a woman who could not hope to be his true mate; through the mundane trivialities of daily family life and New York society.

Approaching her home, he realized that the desperate, clutching, painful process of turning the dream of his beloved into the reality of relationship; would invade and lay waste to his private landscape. And for what? In his memory's halls she reigns supreme, his lovely girl in marble. How can the real Madam Olenska, aged thirty years possibly measure up? And how can Newland at fifty, measure up to the ardent lover of twenty? He is wiser, richer, yes. But also coarser, more plebeian and more frightened.

It is not only the memory of Ellen, the girl, he preserves by staying put on the bench beneath her window; but that of Newland, the boy. He preserves the illusion of the man he could have been, if only.

'Shall I be prisoner 'til my pulses stop'

So I've been reading a lot of Millay lately. There is a book of sonnets which tell the  story of a love affair, tragic from the start. It's called Fatal Interview. The way this woman could string together a thought is extraordinary. Here's something from #18:  "Shall I be prisoner 'til my pulses stop", or from #20: 'let your mind,/ Wearied with thinking, doze upon the thought."

Ordinary sentiment, ordinary words; put together in a way which captures and exalts the emotion. "Til my pulses stop"; easily understood. Some form of the meaning is common, cliche even. 'Be still my heart, 'racing pulses', hearts that 'skip a beat'; these and more are all part of our cardiovascular vernacular. But to put the words together in that way, so close to what is familiar, but not. It gives the phrasing a startling freshness which is met with immediate recognition.

Millay was an artistic genius an intellectual romantic; with emphasis on 'artist' and 'romantic. She never tried to impress with tricked out words. She communicated in plain language on topics of love, death nature artistic integrity.  And with such beauty and ingenuity. Amazing. There's no one like her. Let your mind wearied with thinking doze upon that thought.

If Still Your Orchards Bear by Edna St Vincent Millay

There are things to be said of this poem...

If Still Your Orchards Bear

Brother, that breathe the August air

Ten thousand years from now,

And smell¿if still your orchards bear

Tart apples on the bough¿

The early windfall under the tree,

And see the red fruit shine,

I cannot think your thoughts will be

Much different from mine.

Should at that moment the full moon

Step forth upon the hill,

And memories hard to bear at noon,

By moonlight harder still,

Form in the shadow of the trees, ¿

Things that you could not spare

And live, or so you thought, yet these

All gone, and you still there,

A man no longer what he was,

Nor yet the thing he'd planned,

The chilly apple from the grass

Warmed by your living hand¿

I think you will have need of tears;

I think they will not flow;

Supposing in ten thousand years

Men ache, as they do now.

Thursday Thirteen: Thirteen Things I Would Never Leave Behind

Thirteen Things I Would Never Leave Behind. In no particular order. Oh, and books will probably be heavily represented. 1. A 1935 edition of Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand 2. The story of my life.  An old boss and dear friend gave me a journal from Rag and Bone Bindery just before  I left them to make my first trip to Europe. They're quite lovely, handmade, acid-free paper and bound in natural materials like cork and silk.  2. A paperback copy of Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte. There's an interesting reference in it about the dangers of thoughtless people (as in, 'she's not cruel, merely thoughtless') and it's quite a nice read. But it's special to me because I picked it up at a bookstore in Venice. The first book I'd seen that was writen in English for many weeks. 3.  My ring, which for the moment is lost. Ever have one of those items you feel some deep connection to; that no matter how many times or how far away you misplace it, it always comes back to you? I bought this silver ring from a sales rep of the now defunct Mineralore. It's silver with a gold starburst and a blue tourmaline set in the center. It was the first piece of real jewelry I ever bought. 4. My love bag. I've kept every congratulatory or loving letter or card ever sent me.  And sometimes, when times get ruff, I find comfort in reading them to remember I am loved. 5.  My notebooks. They contain my ideas and some of the best writing I've ever done.  6. My laptop. It contains my ideas and some of the best writing I've ever done. 7. A passel of silk handkerchiefs. I love them and yes I have actually used them to blow my nose. There is no graceful way of blowing the schnoz, and I'm not a cute crier; a fluttery hanky adds a dash of drama. But mostly they're used to clean my glasses. 8. My cashmere sweater. I read somewhere that every woman should have at least one cashmere sweater and I couldn't agree more. Mine came dirt cheap from Ebay but it's so pretty and soft. It's a reminder of and hope for prettier and softer times.   9. An antique art deco tea set from Czechoslovakia. This was also an Ebay find. When it arrived there was actually a card which said whose anniversary it was for and the year 1935. A card which I have most foolishly lost. 10. This wonderful soft knit cardigan I call my Holland sweater. I bought it as (what I thought of at the time of purchase) an inadequate replacement for one stolen by an old roommate. But it's grown on me tree-mendously since then. 12. A paperback copy of Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. She is one of the most undersung poets of the 20th century and her work connects very deeply. This book has all of my notes and markings, including those written while reading Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay the intimate biography written by Nancy Milford. 13. Pinkerton the feline.  Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. (leave your link in comments, I¿ll add you here!)

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It¿s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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Tags: thursday thirteen, books, meme, stories

What I'm Reading Now

So I just finished this book called A Way Through The Wood. It's by a guy named Nigel Balchin about . . .Gosh, that's a tough one. I want to say it's about the unraveling of a marriage, but there's a lot more to it than that. It's about conscience and the manner in which we are human. It's beautiful, complicated and a page-turner.

It was recently made into a film starring Tom Wilkinson, Emily Watson and Rupert Everett (if you read the book, you'll know that no one but Everett could play the character of Bule)called Seperate Lies. I haven't seen the movie and probably won't. The book has left me plenty satisfied. It might be difficult to find, but I definitely recommend making the effort.

Technorati Tags: books, literature, emily watson, nigel balchin, rupert everett, tom wilkinson

The Curse Is Upon Me...

. . .yet again. I truly believe that some people are water-dwellers and others are not. In tonight's whimsical state of mind, I feel salt-water in my veins,crying out for the sea.  Edna St. Vincent Millay proves that I'm not alone in this feeling. But how does it happen? Why do some feel an affinity for the ocean that stays with them all their lives? Who knows how it really happens. Is it about growing up near water?  I didn't really grow up near water. I've spent most of my life living on the very outskirts of the Bay Area.
Perhaps the craving for salt air is the result of an earlier imprint. Birth? I was born in the Phillipines, an entire nation of islands. DNA? Perhaps the memory of being lulled by the rock of a boat or by crashing waves is genetic. My grandmother's were Island people from as far back as we know. Deeper? The Irish and Scots blood flowing like a current from both sides of the family tree? Were our other ancestors from a coastal or island region of Africa?

Who know's? It's all mystery. And one day I'll solve it. Until then, it's enough not to be alone in the feeling. Edna has her finger on my pulse tonight:

Exiled

SEARCHING my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness	5
Of the strong wind and shattered spray,
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.
Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,	10
Rooted in sand and dragging driftwood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet pea.
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath big buildings,	15
Stricken with noise, confused with light.
If I could hear the green piles groaning.
Under the windy, wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs;	20
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls;
Feel once again the shanty straining	25
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,
I should be happy!¿that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine.	30
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again.
I should be happy, that am happy.
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water;	35
I have a need of water near.   Ainslee¿s Magazine

Technorati Tags: edna st vincent millay, poetry, exiled, water, ocean, beach

The Ol' One-Two. Or a little something I like to call; 'Thirty in Thirty'. Or why Wil Wheaton is ruining my life

So I'm a fan of Wil Wheaton's blog. It was required reading for a loooong time. Then I lost track for a while, went through a time of no computer and then he went through a period of no blog, ships passing in the night. Anyway, I started reading again yesterday. My timing could not have been worse.  Sadly, for me I can never resist a challenge whether it's a book meme or a challenge to do thirty posts in thirty days. Suffice it to say, right now I hate everybody.  Hah! Didja miss me? Ready? Well, here we go.

How Many Books Have You Read? Book Mem

I was minding my own business innocently reading Sophisticated Writer's blog when I stumbled on this little landmine. And a very seductive and irresistible landmine it is too. If you have a blog leave me a comment with the link and I'll come over to commiserate on being captured by yet another almighty meme...and ridicule your reading choices, of course.

How Many Have You Read?

*Look at the list of books below.
*Bold the ones you've read.
*Italicize the ones you want to read.
*leave same the ones that you ardent interested in.
*If you are reading this, tag you're reading it.

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher¿s Stone (Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte (Only my favorite book of (practically) all time. I actually blogged about it once.)
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien)
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker¿s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte) (A book I found intensely irritating. Could Catherin have been more of a twit?)
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie(Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella) (Sophi is not in love with this series, I didn't even know there was one, but I did enjoy it for what it was; Brit Chick Lit, which is for some reason cooler than its American cousin)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. Bible
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy) (my favorite novel ever!)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela¿s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She¿s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens)
53. Ender¿s Game (Orson Scott Card)(Loved this book, loved this series, love OSC)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid¿s Tale (Margaret Atwood)(Grrrr...Margaret Atwood. She's like a bad ex-boyfriend I find her novels enormously frustrating, and yet I can't stop reading and each time I read one I swear its the last.)
60. The Time Traveller¿s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
71. Bridget Jones¿ Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte¿s Web (E.B. White)
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck)
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
84. Wizard¿s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)(I tried, what can I say? But I do think Archer is the master of the short story.)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

NOT in this chamber only at my birth --
When the long hours of that mysterious night
Were over, and the morning was in sight --
I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth
I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;
And never shall one room contain me quite
Who in so many rooms first saw the light,
Child of all mothers, native of the earth.

So is no warmth for me at any fire
To-day, when the world's fire has burned so low;
I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,
At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,
And straighten back in weariness, and long
To gather up my little gods and go.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay




Tags: poetry, edna st vincent millay, sonnets

The Sky Is Falling? Part 2 of Why Firing People For Quoting The West Wing Is Bad For . . . Everyone

But I do know this. As there is very little new under the sun, nothing, in fact. Writers are inspired by the ideas, words and rhythms of those who came before us. T. S. Eliot said that good writers borrow, great writers steal. This I believe.When you are sensitive to language, when you have read and read well, great words and ideas and rhythms become a part of you, inform your pattern of thought. You feel able not only to to express, but to shape language. Sitting at your little computer at a little desk; sitting with your yellow legal pad and ballpoint pen under a big tree, you are the master of words, of language, you see words move before your mind and know that . . .here, this one is wanted to evoke pain, that one, for beauty. Whether a sentence should flow like water or fall as spare and barren as a dried twig from a dying tree. Writing well, is a glorious experience, and is also a public service. As I said earlier and as King Solomon said far earlier than I, 'there is nothing new under the sun' what great writers do, whether quoting or inspired by other writers, is keep alive what is the best of us in our language and ideas and give them new significance and relevance for our lives today.

And we need great writers right now. In the U.S. at least the English language expression of ideas is devolving into sad, stupid thing. It's embarrassing. The lyrics of rap, which is (at least in it's mass marketed form) crude, unintelligent, and usually unintelligible has entered into the vernacular with all of its idiocy and none of the its eloquence. Now more than ever we need good, brave English teachers who make sure that our kids can use the language properly if the wish. But more and more teachers are too timid, placing too much emphasis on 'relating' to students rather than teaching them, too undereducated themselves to instruct young adults in using the language with confidence. And at home. Ha! Parents have all but abdicated responsibility for giving their kids the tools they need. And silly me, I'm craving eloquence? I'll settle for being able to understand them when having to face them over this counter or that desk out in the world.

Actually, no. I'm lying. I'll settle for eloquence.

The fact is that we used to read much more as a culture. We learned poetry and plays. Great writers like, Shakespeare and Whitman, Cummings and Hellman informed the American --

Truth to tell, I'm not sure whether any of this matters. Is it the education system? Is it the fact that we don't read enough? I'm not sure. I think that great writers make for great language. They hear or see something in words most others don't. They put it into a book, play or (Thanks to NBC and CBS in the cases of Aaron Sorkin and David Mamet) television show. Many people or a few, read or watch the finished product, another writer uses a version of some line in their work. A few become enamored of the book or play or TV show (ever heard of a 'Wing' Nut? As in 'The West Wing'?) And the language from that work or in it's style begins to pepper their language. What happens? They're throwing out brilliant sounding language, at the office or while standing in line for a movie. Someone hears or overhears, chuckles to themselves and thinks, 'Very clever, that's exactly what I mean to say. Hmm . . . I'm gonna use that. How did he say it again? He said . . .' and an eloquent line enters into our daily language.

Hmmm . . . well . . . So I guess we'll be fine. We'll probably be okay. The sky is not actually falling, good language isn't dead, maybe just hibernating a bit. And so long as there are still good writers out there writing and a few siren intoxicated sailors to become wrapped up in words and infect others with their beauty, the English language may not devolve completely.

So we'll be fine. So long as publishing companies, television networks and the like don't start trying to sue people for using it. You think I'm being paranoid? Possibly.
Tags: language, english, education, writing, david mamet, aaron sorkin, the west wing, eloquence

So I've Been Reading This Book . . .

So I just finished this book called A Way Through The Wood. It's by a guy named Nigel Balchin about . . .Gosh, that's a tough one. I want to say it's about the unraveling of a marriage, but there's a lot more to it than that. It's about conscience and the manner in which we are human. It's beautiful, complicated and a page-turner.
It was recently made into a film starring Tom Wilkinson, Emily Watson and Rupert Everett (if you read the book, you'll know that no one but Everett could play the character of Bule)called Seperate Lies. I haven't seen the movie and probably won't. The book has left me plenty satisfied. It might be difficult to find, but I definitely recommend making the effort.

Other faves include:


Classically Speaking
Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Persuasion by Jane Austen
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell

Shiensh FicshunEnder's Game by Orson Scott Card
Star Wars (Thrawn Trilogy) by Timothy Zahn

Literar-ilySnow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson
A Way Through the Wood by Nigel Balchin
Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
Fatal Interview by Edna St. Vincent Millay (Best. Sonnets. Ever!)

Genre-ally
Ngaio Marsh's Alleyn Mysteries
Agatha Christie's Miss Marple
Stone Angel by Carol O'Connell
Anything Martha Grimes
Flowers From the Storm by Laura Kinsale

Why Firing People For Quoting The West Wing Is Bad For . . . Everyone!

There are those who are completely insensible to the lure of an abstract painting or a finely crafted line. There are those who hear such expressions like siren songs, like ringing in their veins; who crave artistic communion as their daily bread. Yet it is of little moment whether a person is art lover or art indifferent. The creativity of the few and the passionate regard for creativity of a few more, benefit us all; siren-intoxicated sailor and sober ship's captain alike. And that is why, the notion of NBC firing a writer for using words penned by Aaron Sorkin for an episode of the West Wing is such complete and utter crap.

There are two issues. The first is (though of course, Sorkin rarely notifies me of his thinking on such issues), I have difficulty imagining that the punitive hoopla has over this situation is about anything more than corporate claim-staking. And that it has nothing to do with Sorkin or his feelings on the matter. Corporations think in terms of ownership, rights and exclusive property. Artists think in terms of communication, contribution, freedom and expression.The second, is that firing people for speaking the words of great writers is bad for everyone, which I'll get into next time we meet (or the time after).

Here's an excerpt of the story reported by the New York Times a few months ago:

NBC Admits Plagiarism in Feature Before Derby
NY Times ^ | May 11, 2006 | RICHARD SANDOMIR

A freelance writer will no longer receive assignments from NBC Universal Sports after copying two passages from a 2002 episode of "The West Wing" in his script for a feature that preceded the Kentucky Derby on Saturday.
Ken Schanzer, the president of NBC Universal Sports, confirmed that the plagiarism had occurred. He would not identify the writer but said, "He won't work here anymore."
The short feature, which was preceded by a commercial for the final two episodes of "The West Wing," looked at the difficulties faced by Barbaro's trainer, Michael Matz, who survived a plane crash in Sioux City, Iowa, then led three children to safety; Alex Solis, who broke his back in a track spill two years ago but rode Brother Derek on Saturday; and Brother Derek's trainer, Dan Hendricks, who was paralyzed in a motocross accident.
In the script, read by NBC's Tom Hammond, Matz was extolled because he "ran into the fire to save the lives of three children." Hammond paused dramatically and added, "Ran into the fire."
The two-hour opening episode of the fourth season of "The West Wing" included a plot line in which two pipe bombs exploded and killed 44 people in the swim team's facility at the fictitious Kennison State University in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
Martin Sheen, who plays President Josiah Bartlet, delivered a speech praising the rescuers who "ran into the fire to help get people out." He paused and added dramatically, "Ran into the fire."

The Derby script summed up the changed lives of Matz, Solis and Hendricks by saying that the "funny thing about life is that every time we think we've measured our capacity to meet its challenges, we're reminded that that capacity may well be limitless."

(Excerpt) Read more at nytimes.com

Please note, that the firing of this writer was precipitated not by a complaint from Sorkin, but an email from a West Wing fan who recognized the quote. What is ironic, is that just a few minutes after the Bartlet gave the speech now the cause of so much misery, the character of the speech writer Sam Seaborn in response to being complimented on it paraphrased T.S. Eliot, saying, "Good writers borrow, great writers steal out right" Aptly spoken, as Sorkin is not the originator, but the adaptor of many words in the hotly-contested Bartlet quote.

As a writer, here's what I know. There is no greater compliment than to find your words taking life in the language of others. No I don't mean plagiarism. I'm talking about language, the spoken word, the vernacular. People today say, 'Here's looking at you', 'I'll be your Huckleberry', 'Go to the mattresses', Good fences make good neighbors', 'The road not taken', or 'Once more into the breach'. What we forget to remember is that someone, at sometime, wrote those words. All of them.

Many times when we quote Shakespeare or Mario Puzo, or Robert Frost, we are merely speaking words spoken by others which sound well to us. Long after the cultural memory of a phrase's origin is lost, a well-made line will live on, carrying the life of its author along with it. Writers tend to lead a somewhat isolated existence chained to a desk in front of a blank computer screen or white piece of paper. We rarely realize the impact of our expressions on our audience. When a writer's words take life in the language of the guy four booths down in the diner, or the girl at the check out counter, this is no small thing. And the notion that in language words you have written may outlive you, or that you have given new life to some arcane expression found in an obscure novel, that is a glimpse into immortality of the sort which gives us permission to think in terms of big words; words like legacy and posterity.

So I can imagine Sorkin, who did a great thing in a small way, who put a beautifully worded and moving speech into the mouth of a fictional president to lament a fictional tragedy, must gain some satisfaction to see those words ennobled and given true significance when put into the mouth of a news anchor in aid of expressing the exaltation of Michael Matz, who risked his own life to save three children one day in Sioux City, Iowa. And perhaps a thought touched his mind? Perhaps, ten, twenty a hundred years from now, he could hear people saying "the streets are too full of angels" to speak of those who die heroically and had his own glimpse of immortality.
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Tags: aaron sorkin, plagiarism, writing, writers, the west wing, west wing, nbc Tags: language

Only until this cigarette is ended . . . by Edna St Vincent Millay

ONLY until this cigarette is ended
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu, -- farewell! -- the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The colour and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Fiction: No Closer Than This

She must have loved him all of her life, she thought, it was a sure truth, as sure as wind as sure as the breath in her lungs. They sat, the two of them, at a table by the window in the cafe that looked out on Clement street. The lowering sky was gray streaked with colored lights as unseen, the sun set over San Francisco. She had seen it all before; this street, this sky, from this seat. She had even sat with him a few times like this. Always like this. Her eyes on the street, knowing his eyes were on her.

Just like this. Today would be the last time. They were close. The tables in these places are always so small. She had to angle her knees to keep them from brushing his, draw her hands close to keep their fingers from touching on the table. But still they were close, even settled back in her chair she could still feel the heat of his body, leaning toward her. Very close. But a million wintry miles apart, separated as if a sheet of thick cold glass formed the barrier between them and not the ice in her own heart.

A month ago, she had been warmed by his regard, charmed by his school boy smile and gentle manner. He was everything he should be; exactly right. And she was more than prepared to love him until the end of her days. Or so she'd thought. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to be with her and this was good, right? So why could she not move beyond this? This . . . sitting in this chair, overlooking this street, watching the sky? At first meeting, he'd found it interesting, stimulating, that she wouldn't give him her address, or phone number. That she refused to `date? him, challenged him, brought all of his masculine mating instincts online and she could see he was prepared to enjoy wooing her. During that first meeting, she'd even thought she was prepared to enjoy his wooing.


That was when she'd still had hope. By their third meeting, she began preparing herself to end it. As afternoon faded into evening they talked for hours, as coffee drinks and scones gave way to the dubious pleasures of pear ale and a shared dinner of pizza with artichokes. It was lovely, but she could see the occasional flashes of uncertainty that grew in frequency as their time together drew to a close. He felt her withdrawal from him and anger made his movements jerky as he waved off her money and paid their tab. She saw his confusion and frustration when he realized she would allow him to come no closer, gently refusing him a `date?, her address, her phone number. She saw the pain he tried to hide. And that somehow he still believed her reticence would fade or could be overcome. She knew differently.

And now the future she had always feared stared at her in her ephemeral reflection on the window. As much as she loved him. And she did -- love him. As certainly as she'd kept him secretly in her heart all her life; she knew that she could not bear to let him love her. The idea of being so, close of his needing so much of her felt like suffocation, like death. She could not bear the claustrophobia of the two of them, together forever, building a life. Would there be any room for her, herself as she was now in this new life of theirs? Would that essence which made her herself be eroded over the years or would she abandon it willingly right from the start? She feared intimacy with someone so wholly apart from herself, feared his unknown, alien agendas, reactions and needs. And though she could feel her love for him as relentlessly as an oncoming tide, she was much too cold, her heart too frozen to be loved . . . and to love in return. She would be alone, loving him for the rest of her life. A whisper of pain in her heart, she allowed her fingers to brush his; no closer than this.

Travel -- By Edna St Vincent Millay

THE railroad track is miles away,

And the day is loud with voices speaking,

Yet there isn't a train goes by all day

But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,

Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,

But I see its cinders red on the sky,

And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,

And better friends I'll not be knowing;

Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,

No matter where it's going.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

"How Naked, How Without a Wall" by Edna St Vincent Millay

I'm not really sure what Millay meant by this poem, but it has alway made me think of artists.

Excerpted from How Naked, How Without a Wall:

The man who ventures forth alone
When other men are snug within,
Walks on his marrow, not his bone,
And lacks his outer skin.

The draughty caverns of his breath
Grow visible, heart shines through:
Surely a thin which only death
Can have a right to do.

--by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Wine From These Grapes

VI -- Bluebeard by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay's sonnets are perfect. One of my favorites begins "I will put Chaos into fourteen lines/ And keep him there; and let him thence escape/ If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape"

She was past master of sonnetry. Discovering that which is great and petty in the human heart...the chaos of the human condition and defining it--confining it to fourteen lines, beautifully spare, weighted with meaning, infused with passion. Perfection. Bluebeard is Millay's take on the old legend and also describes my mood tonight.

VI -- Bluebeard

THIS door you might not open, and you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed. . . . Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see. . . . Look yet again --
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours. I seek another place.