2025 Readings 106

 I've talked about the wealth of books that I culled from the Northshire Bookstore's New York Review of Books (NYRB) corner. Last night I finished another of them: Sigizmund Krzhizhanosvky's Autobiography of a Corpse, a collection of short stories. Like the vast majority of the NYRB books that I purchased, I really liked, bordered on loved, Autobiography of a Corpse. True to the mission of the NYRB collection, Krzhizhanosvky is an author I'd never heard of (another gaping hole in my witless Hoosier education). All the stories are clever, although not so clever that you find yourself thinking, "OK, now you're just trying to be clever." The stories are clever, but there's also an edge, and I would argue an odd humanity to them. Take for example this little portion from the short story "Seams":

Indeed, the only way I can write is bit by bit, in a break - along a seam. My thinking, too, feels short of breath: inhale - exhale, exhale - inhale. It's hard to finish a thought. Take today. I sat down on my usual bench on my usual boulevard and looked about. People were walking by - mincingly and swaggeringly, from right to left, from left to right, in ones and two, and in groups. First I thought: Who are they to me and who am I to them? Then I just stared. One they went, mincingly and swaggeringly, from left to right, from right to left. Again I thought: Man is to man a wolf. No, that's not true, that's sentimental, lighthearted. No, man is to man a ghost. Only. That's more exact. To sink one's teeth into another man's throat is at least to believe - and that's what counts - in another man's blood. But there's the rub: Man cased to believe in man long ago, even before he began doubting God. We fear another man's existence the way we fear apparitions, and only very rarely, when people glimpse each other in the gloaming, do we say of them: They're in love. No wonder lovers seek out a nighttime hour, the better to envision each other, an hour when ghosts are abroad.

I also enjoyed the story "In the Pupil," where a group of souls who had looked into the same woman's eye and said the same thing to her while she said the same things to you (that is, the usual lies that you tell each other), are trapped in a room that is clearly her eye with the pupil as a ceiling, condemned to hear her hear and say that same things to later men - and "Yellow Coal," based on a scientist inventing a new way to harvest an abundant energy source, human spite.

Highly recommended.

And So It Begins

 Here's yet another picture of Bliss Pond, which has been featured in too many posts lately. It's one my latest longcut to the cabin. In this case, sadly, it's representative of the arrival of winter. UTKR

I think it's the beached canoe, sitting lonely and neglected, that makes the picture. I will not miss the winter when we're in Sicily.

2025 Readings 105

    I know who I was, I can tell you who I may have been, but I am, now, only in this line of words I write. I'm not sure of the nature of my existence, and wonder to find myself writing. I speak Latin, of course, but did I ever learn to write it? That seems unlikely. No doubt someone with my name, Lavinia, did exist, but she may have been so different from my own idea of myself, or my poet's idea of me, that it only confuses me to think about her. As far as I know, it was my poet who gave me any reality at all. Before he wrote, I was the mistiest of figures, scarcely more than a name in a genealogy. It was he who brought me to life, to myself, and so made me able to remember my life and myself, which I do, vividly, with all kinds of emotions, emotions I feel strongly as I write, perhaps because the events I remember only come to exist as I write them, or as he wrote them.

    But he did not write them. He slighted my life, in his poem. He scanted me, because he only came to know who I was when he was dying. He's not to blame. It was too late for him to make amends, rethink, complete the half lines, perfect the poem he thought imperfect. He grieved for that, I  know; he grieved for me. Perhaps where he is now, down there across the dark rivers, somebody will tell him that Lavinia grieves for him.

Ursula Le Guin, Lavinia

This morning I finished Ursula Le Guin's novel Lavinia. Oddly, that's the third Le Guin novel I've read this year, odd because I had never read any of her work before. The first two were products of the demands of the Unofficial Book Club that continues to trundle on against all logic. Lavinia, however, was a byproduct of the Epics book. The character Lavinia plays an important, although limited and silent role in Virgil's Aeneid. She is destined to be Aeneas's second (or third, depending how you count Dido - I would be gracious and recognize Dido's belief that they were actually married) wife, and the mother of the Roman people. In the Aeneid she doesn't say a word, and she is most known for her hair catching on fire during a ceremony (which has tremendous prophetic implications) and her famous blush. I used her blush as a focal point in a chapter to talk about the fact we always want the female characters in the epics to say more, and that many modern readers have chosen these female characters and gave them that voice. It made me wonder if anyone had actually done that with Lavinia, and was surprised that Le Guin (I guess that's more pleasantly surprised that shocked). I don't know if I loved the book, but I liked it quite a bit, and it made me want to finish my own book even more. I always warn my students that when they choose a topic that they really love for a paper (for instance, instead of writing their paper on a section of Crime and Punishment for my Nature of Evil class they instead pick a video game or anime or film) one of the dangers is that they love it so much that they end up retelling way too much of the story. How could they not? If you asked me a question about Bleak House or The Chess Garden or The Book of Disquiet or Remembrance of Things Past I would waste way too much time gushing about the story. I would argue that Le Guin falls into that trip in Lavinia. She is trying to give Lavinia a voice, but too much of that voice was consumed with retelling the story of the Aeneid through Lavinia's eyes. Eventually, after the events of the Aeneid play themselves out, Le Guin can begin to tell the story of Aeneas's last three years, and Lavinia's sorrow know that he only has that short amount of time left, and the time after his death. The best part is that three year stretch of time before Aeneas's passing. It's clear that Le Guin loves the Aeneid, and that's one of the things that inspired her to take on the challenge of giving Lavinia her voice. And, if anyone know the temptation to convince folks to revisit these classic works it's me.

Spying

 This cabin really is one extended cat playground, and on one level it pains me to think of taking Mollie and Cici away from it. However, in the end, they'll be happy wherever we are - or at least wherever our laps are (and we'd be miserable without them). I'm always amazed when someone asks, "When you move overseas are you taking the cats?" It would be better to ask if they're taking us.

Here's a picture of Master Spy Mollie, keeping me company in my loft office while keeping an eye on Janet at the same time.

2025 Readings 104

 Last night I finished reading James Cain's Mildred Pierce, which I picked up at the Montpelier Library for $3 as I was returning books one day. For such a big film noir fan, I haven't read as much roman noir as you might imagine. Overall I liked the story quite a bit, although I struggled at the beginning because I think I was trapped inside the narrative confines of the 1945 Joan Crawford original. The actual novel contains the same characters but a very different central narrative plot point. Essentially, I kept waiting for the murder and the backstory, which never happened. I believe the Kate Winslet remake is much closer to the novel. Once I freed myself from that expected story arc I enjoyed it quite a bit, and the ending is definitely better than the movie. Recommended.

CFL Playoff Excellence

 Somehow, in the couple dozen CFL games I've dragged people to, I'd never actually attended a playoff game. It's not as if I hadn't suggested it, but the timing was never right - and with my impending and fast-approaching deadline of leaving the country the emotional weight that I could bring to bear was too much for my friends to ignore. With that in mind, Cyndi, Kevin, Craig and I attended the East Division Semi-Finals, which was a Crossover game (another reason why the CFL is better than the NFL) with the Winnipeg Blue Bombers heading east for the game. It played out like it always does: I rashly buy tickets, and then begin the process of leaning on my friends.

It may look like the cover of a Beatles album, but it's the crew scurrying back from the Kouign Amann Bakery with treats.

Stopping at the Fromagerie Fritz Kaiser (the cheeseshop hidden in a cornfield right across the border), while providing us with some wonderful cheese, also made us arrive a little later at Schwartz's Deli. The wait was worth it.

Noted CFL and smoked meat fans, Cyndi and Kevin.

I always somehow forget that Schwartz's is located in the Little Portugal neighborhood in Montreal.

So what you want about attending an Alouettes game (they have the worst food in the CFL and pretty lame corporate tailgating) the place is always packed and it was rocking for the playoff game.

Despite Kevin's feigned grumpiness, an excellent time was had by all.

Craig had not attended a CFL game with me for over a decade, so he definitely enjoyed the day (and proved himself heroic by topping off the air in the tires of our car).

The halftime highlight was the local band, whose name I sadly did not catch, featured a pink haired leader singer belting out some AC/DC songs. There seems to be more classic rock played at CFL games than NFL games, but that's another dissertation topic.

A big win for the Alouettes, in a game that wasn't really this close. The Blue Bombers string of appearing in five straight Grey Cups was snapped (too bad, because the game was in Winnipeg this year).

And, of course, the trip ended with a stop at Tim Hortons on the way home.

The only two failures were 1) somehow not taking pictures of our stop at the Fromagerie Fitz Kaiser (the first stop of the day, where we picked up some amazing cheese), and 2) being unable to convince the crew to head to Hamilton the following weekend for the East Division Finals, where the favored Tiger-Cats lost a heartbreaking game to the Alouettes (although we did gather at Kevin's to watch the game).

2025 Readings 103

 I talked recently about pre-purchasing a Craig Johnson Longmire novel, First Frost, and then forgetting about it so long that not only was it published, but another one came out as well. Return to Sender. Last night I finished the latter. I liked it, although it seems that he's lost touch with his main characters a bit. When discussing First Frost, I suggested that when he sets the story someplace other than Wyoming the beautiful balance and authenticity of the stories seems to fall apart. On the one hand Return to Sender is closer to home, but it still felt like he was struggling to bring everything together. I'm happy I read it, and I'll purchase and read whatever he puts out, but he seems to be struggling to both find new things to say while still remaining true to his characters. Return to Sender starts out pretty true to his earlier stories, but then jumps the shark pretty dramatically, and the last third felt like he was padding out to reach an acceptable page limit. Beloved characters such as Vic or Henry disappeared altogether in this one. Maybe next year I'll cycle back and reread them from the beginning. If you are a Longmire fan, obviously, you need to read Return to Sender, if you're new to the series definitely don't start here, because you probably won't read another one (which would be a pity).