Groff’s skill is indisputable. Everything from the plotting to the individual sentences is masterful. I’m just not sure what this all added up to or, more importantly, why I should care. I’d put it in the category of a Donna Tartt novel. It’s a story about white people I don’t recognize travelling in worlds I just don’t understand or concern myself with. I am not sure what I meant to walk away with. I’m glad the ending was only a modified version of what was intended. Maybe it’s too much for me to expect that fiction always carry some weight, but those are the stories I like, the ones that I remember. This one was built on wisps. If not for Groff’s dexterity, I imagine I’d forget it all within weeks. As it is, I will remember moments, but certainly cannot recommend the whole of it.
Fantasia for the Man in Blue (Blount)
I enjoyed the music of this one. I often paused to re-read parts of poems, whole poems even. I caught glimpses of observation and insight as in “Proscenium,” and “Late Show at the Americana,” but mostly this one went past me. Try one –
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/155097/fantasia-for-the-man-in-blue
Monkey Beach (Robinson)
There’s much that is familiar in this coming-of-age take -the rogue-ish and lovable Uncle, the teen drama at home and school. Then there’s the very much unfamiliar Haisla culture. There are passages of prose that flow like the water that runs through this story and there are short elliptical passages that discuss the literal workings of the human heart. If you like your stories to move in a straight line, this isn’t at all for you, but if you’re willing to wander with Robinson, you will be richly rewarded. There are a few writing decisions that I wondered about – key plot points that lived more in allusion than exposition, but I think I understood Robinson’s use of perspective here. Would this have been a different read if I knew more about the Haisla culture? Sure. But I learned a great deal about it and was willing to let the rest reside in ambiguity.
Education for Extinction: American Indians and the Boarding School Experience, 1875-1928 (Adams)
This is everything, and I mean everything, you’d ever want to know about this disgraceful period in American history. And despite the presence of the word ‘extinction’ in the title, I’ve already demonstrated more of a tone in this review than Adams does in 300+ pages. He does let a few telling adjectives slip in every now and then, but most often seems to be determined to be as neutral and thorough as possible. His use of primary sources is excellent and really serves to make this a fairly readable account.
CITY of coughing and dead radiators (Espada)
When I first encountered Espada’s work, his reputation had preceded him. So I read very select poems by someone who was introduced to me as a legend, and I admired them. I wonder what would have happened if he’d come to my attention without such fanfare.
I thought reading a book from his, rather than taking a greatest hits approach, would end up with me seeing his work differently. I certainly admire the specifics (no ideas but in things) and the advocacy of his poems, and he definitely has a unique voice. But if this collection contains any of his greatest hits, I couldn’t pick them out. I liked some, like “Coackroaches of Liberation,” but I didn’t underline much in terms of language, and I don’t think I could draw anything from here to teach.
Cultivating Genius: An Equity Framework for Culturally and Historically Responsive Literacy (Muhammad)
Believe the hype. This is a great and necessary book. This was an invigorating look at a framework that should be used to review and revitalize curriculum. Muhammad has 4-layered way (identity, skills, intellect, criticality) for educators to evaluate the curriculum they use. She has both questions and examples to consider. I found myself pausing frequently to check the work I do and the work I am planning to do against her rubric. Her reasoning is cogent and her argument is clear. I loved the historical background on 19th century Black Literary Societies and hope she writes about them more in the future. I also appreciate the way she spreads the responsibility for literacy among all of the disciplines. If you are a teacher, a Principal or someone responsible for preparing teachers, I strongly urge you to read this book.
Eve’s Hollywood (Babitz)
Maybe this book was a big deal when it came out in the early 70’s, but it comes across as tired now. Cynicism about Hollywood is a cliche, and this glib and well-written autobiographical novel is no exception. Eve wants to be outside of it all, but is stuck in a “prison of [her] own device.” There’s gossip and name-dropping galore, and the structure is fragmented and choppy in a way that is meant to mirror her existence. It reminds me of Didion’s Play It As It Lays, though Babitz swears she doesn’t read Didion.
Maybe the New York Review of Books has rediscovered a period classic here, but I’d say it’s only for those interested in that time (early 70’s) and that place (Hollywood).
American Gods (Gaiman)
Have you seen those adds for Master Class? Well, I went for it, and I’ve enjoyed the writing classes (David Mamet, Margaret Atwood, Joyce Carol Oates, Steve Martin, Amy Tan, etc.). There was one lingering at the edge of my awareness hosted by Neil Gaiman, but I kept putting it off because I don’t really care for the fantasy genre. But I finally started it and found I really liked his presentations. So, I thought the time was right for me to pull this novel off of my shelf. A student raved about it many years ago, so I’d bought it, but, as noted above, I was apprehensive because of the genre.
For the first 2/3 of the book, I found it to be an entertaining read, though I didn’t really believe it. I didn’t have as much trouble with the fantasy elements as I expected (though don’t quiz me on the Gods here), but my main objection was to the passivity of the main character, Shadow (subtle name that). His life is altered pretty rapidly at the beginning and after that, he just nods along with whatever comes his way. One character finally wonders about his easy acceptance of his new place in the world and Shadow gives a brief answer, and it was all very unsatisfactory.
The last 1/3 of the book (from the scene at the tree to the end, for those who’ve read it) really tested me. The book just lost any sense of coherence for me. Even in an invented world, there have to be rules the readers (and, for that matter, the characters) can follow. There’s some speechifying, and when even I can anticipate one of the bad guys, you know you haven’t been very subtle.
Vivid and memorable, but mostly kind of a flabby mess.
Aflame (McDowell)
The poem “Aflame” is clearly the star of this collection. Told in 17 parts, it explores the essence of fire – what it means to be aflame – from many angles, many of them sensual. But McDowell does not neglect the destructive nature of fire. After all, it wants to breathe more than you do. And there must be a reckoning with this force when it comes to coming together. The number may change, but the question remains, [a]nd we end our story like it began: Who are we alone?
The poems that surround “Aflame” also explore how to live in such a state. In “Desire and Keep Quiet,” McDowell writes:
for a long time I used to love
the word steeple. For a long time I sought to join any church
that had one but soon realized the summit of any steeple
is lonely and I need fewer and fewer rituals.
It may be more accurate to say he’s more aware of the kinds of rituals he needs. He seeks the holiness of routine, of waking early to unclearn love and learn it – and each other – again.
McDowell’s collection seem to be a story of him becoming more aware, of becoming more human. Be kind, he writes in “Binary Code,” but also be habitual, be the blown kisses you pretend to catch barehanded. . . Be exhausted. There is no other way to live, especially since Of course, there is no key, not even a map. The aim is consciousness, awareness, for [i]t takes a long time to become a human being. This balancing act is McDowell’s dilemma as a poet. In “Follow Me, Dear,” he describes it as [a] storyteller’s dilemma: There was once. There is no more. There must be again. Past, present, future. We must manage them all at once. In “History Repeats Itself, as Seen from My Hotel Room Window,” he writes that [w]ithout present, past, and future, there’s no consciousness – we must hold them simultaneously. It’s a delicate balancing act. We have to remember that [w]hen we listen, we hear one chord at a time – it is truly our sense of past and future that makes it a song, whether that song is one’s own domestic life or Montgomery, Selma, Baton Rouge.
All is not a song in “Suburbia”:
We balance, make parades, hold hands,
say we’ll change.
The problem is that we don’t know
what to do with ourselves.
When it comes to the black bodies of black men, we are not managing that delicate balance. We don’t know what to do with the future. Are we endlessly moving toward the future, McDowell asks in “They All Chatter Mouthful,” or is the future coming toward us? [T]he future is always longer than the past, McDowell says in “Winter in Nashville,” even though the present can end at any time and [t]he only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.
We’ve created time in order to make sense of the world, but it often manages to elude us. Still, the alternative, a kind of time-lessness, would be unbearable.
There are plenty of poems to cherish here, such as “First Image of the Moon” and “The Itch.” I think they are ones best read out loud to one’s partner.
By Age Sixty, We Lose 200,000 Things” is a highlight as well.
So buy if for the title poem. It’s okay with me if you skip right to it. In fact, read it in the bookstore. I bet you decide to buy the book before you’re even finished.
Near to the Wild Heart (Lispector)
23. It’s hard to believe she was only 23 when she wrote this introspective, stream-of-consciousness coming of age story. Every sentence is a treasure, and together they add up to a voice that demands your attention. You’ll want to read many of those sentences, indeed, much of his novel, twice. Lispector’s nuanced insights are as sophisticated as her sentences. You will want to read more. I want to read more. I’ve ordered her short story collection.
Fair warning. This book is not heavy on plot. It’s more of a meditation. A few things happen, but the real reward comes from the richness of Lispector’s poetic scruitiny of herself (apparently, she claimed the character Joana) and the people and world around her.
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