My Year With Proust - Day 231

   "'You are intelligent enough, I dare say, not to imagine that it is inspired by "lack of connections," by fear of solitude and boredom.  I need not speak to you of your family, for I assume that a youth of your age belonging to the lower middle class' (he accentuated the phrase in a tone of self-satisfaction) 'must know the history of France.  It is the people of my world who read nothing and are as ignorant as lackeys.  In the old days the King's valets were recruited among the nobility; now the nobility are scarcely better than valets.  But young bourgeois like you do read, and you must certainly know Michelet's fine passage about my family: "I see them as being very great, these powerful Guermantes.  And what is the poor little King of France beside them, shut up in his palace in Paris?" as for what I am personally, that, Monsieur, is a subject which I do not much care to talk about . . .

   . . . M. De Charlus broke off to question me about Bloch, whom he had heard discussed, though without appearing to b e listening, in his aunt's dressing room.  And in that tone which he was so skillful at detaching from what he was saying that he seemed to be thinking of something else altogether, and to be speaking mechanically, simply out of politeness, he asked if my friend was young, good-looking and so forth.  Bloch, if he had heard him, would have been more puzzled even than with M. de Norpois, but for very different reasons, to know whether M. de Charlus was for or against Dreyfus.  'It is not a bad idea, if you wish to learn about life,' went on M. de Charlus, 'to have a few foreigners among your friends.' I replied that Bloch was French.  'Indeed,' said M. de Charlus, 'I took him to be a Jew.' His assertion of this incompatibility made me suppose that M. de Charlus was more anti-Dreyfusard than anyone I had met.  He protested, however, against the charge of treason levelled against Dreyfus.  But his protest took this form: 'I believe the newspapers say that Dreyfus has committed a crime against his country - so I understand; I pay no attention to the newspapers; I read them as I wash my hands, without considering it worth my while ti take an interest in what I am doing.  In any case, the crime is non-existent.  This compatriot of your friend would have committed a crime if he had betrayed Judaea, but what has he to do with France?' I pointed out that if there should be a war the Jews would be mobilised just as much as anyone else.  'Perhaps so, and I am not sure that it would not be an imprudence.  If we bring over Senegalese or Malagasies, I hardly suppose that their hears will be in the task of defending France, and that is only natural.  Your Dreyfus might rather be convicted of a breach of the laws of hospitality.  But enough of that.  Perhaps you could ask your friend to allow me to attend some great festival in the Temple, a circumcision, or some Hebrews chants.  He might perhaps hire a hall and give me some biblical entertainment, as the young ladies of Saint-Cyr performed scenes taken from the Psalms by Racine, to amuse Louis XIV.  You might perhaps arrange that, and even some comic exhibitions.  For instance a context between your friend and his father, in which he would smite him as David smote Goliath.  That would make quite an amusing farce.  He might even, while he was about it, give his hag (or, as my old nurse would say, his "haggart") of a mother a good thrashing.  That would be an excellent show, and would not be unpleasing to us, eh, my young friend, since we like exotic spectacles, and to thrash that non-European creatures would be giving a well-earned punishment to an old cow.'

   AS he poured out these terrible, almost insane words, M. de Charlus squeezed my arm until it hurt.  I reminded myself of all that his family had told me of his wonderful kindness to this old nurse, whose Molieresque vocabulary he had just recalled, and thought to myself that the connexions, hitherto, I felt, little studied, between goodness and wickedness in the same heart, various as they might be, would be an interesting subject for research.

   I warned him that in any case Mme Bloch no longer existed, while as for M. Bloch, I questioned to what extent he would enjoy a sport which might easily result in his being blinded. M. de Charlus seemed annoyed.  'That,' he said, 'is a woman who made a great mistake in dying.  As for blinding him, surely that Synagogue is blind, since it does not perceive the truth of the Gospel.  Besides, just think, at this moment when all those unhappy Jews are trembling before the stupid fury of the Christians, what an honour it would be for him to see a man like myself condescend to be amused by their sports.'"

Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, 296-299

Wow, where to begin with this passage?  As M. de Charlus and Proust leave the party the older aristocrat unleashes a torrent of anti-Semitic vitriol. Proust describes the words as "terrible, almost insane."  The passage does make the reader question the sanity of M. de Charlus.  However, are we actually being too generous to give M. de Charlus that "out"?  It's much like all the stories recently that have questioned Trump's sanity.  It's a lot easier to dismiss these racist words (both those of M. de Charlus and Donald Trump) as the ramblings of a mad man, and thus not representative of a corrupted societal core (as the Drive-By Truckers remind us, "there's a lot of bad wood underneath the veneer").  This is essentially the political equivalent of the "unhinged loner" that the NRA likes to promote as the cause of mass shootings, as compared to a broader societal malaise.  No matter what, in his section Proust reminds us once again, specifically, of the lurking presence of the Dreyfus affair, and, more generally, of the dark anti-Semitism that continued (and continues) to bedevil French society.  What is particularly telling is this exchange: "It is not a bad idea, if you wish to learn about life," went on M. de Charlus, "to have a few foreigners among your friends." I replied that Bloch was French.  "Indeed," said M. de Charlus, "I took him to be a Jew."  That perverse reading of the relationship between nationality and religious identity is pretty common in racist ideology, as you can see in Hitler's own words, and which is also appearing in the most extreme of Trump's followers today, sadly.

Madrid and Lisbon Trip

Recently, and happily, a few of my oldest friends passed through the state (more on that later), and as part of the getting caught up chatter we talked a lot about foreign travel and specifically about my trips overseas with students.  I never think of it in this way, but apparently many of my friends and colleagues view it as "my thing."  In the spring of 2015 my friend Cyndi Brandenburg and I took nine students to Jordan, and in the spring of 2016 my friend Steve Wehmeyer and I took nineteen students to Zanzibar.  Of course, if you follow this blog then you already know this - although you still need to explain why in the hell you follow this blog?  Have you no pride - or any social life? (But I digress)  What I haven't talked about so far are my future trips.  This coming fall my friends Kelly Thomas and Mike Kelly and I are taking twenty students to Spain and Portugal over Thanksgiving Break.  And then in the spring Cyndi Brandenburg (and maybe another faculty member) and I are taking a yet to be determined number of students (which impacts whether or not we decide to include another faculty member) to India and Sri Lanka.  So, I'm busily planning those trips, either putting the final touches on Spain/Portugal or bringing India/Sri Lanka into greater focus.  In addition I'm working up proposals for trips for the following year (we have crazy early deadline at Champlain).  Steve Wehmeyer and I (and maybe a third professor) are putting together a proposal for a pretty innovative trip that would link two classes together as part of a year-long interdisciplinary arc that would include a two week trip back to Zanzibar, with the travel in between the two courses over Christmas break.  And I've also begun discussions with Cyndi and our colleague Kristin Wolf for a spring 2018 trip to Namibia.  So, yeah, I guess this has become "my thing".  It's funny to think of it transpiring this way since I didn't even have a passport until I was forty-two.

I'm really excited about the upcoming trip to Madrid and Lisbon, and I'll have a lot more to say about them soon.  Now, I just need to find someplace to get a turkey dinner in Lisbon on Thanksgiving (I promised the students) . . .

My Year With Proust - Day 230

   "'You wished to speak to me, Monsieur?'

   "Ah, yes, as a matter of fact there were some things I wanted to say to you, but I'm not so sure now whether I shall.  As far as you are concerned, I am sure that they could be the starting-point for inestimable benefits.  But I can see also that they would bring into my existence, at an age when one begins to value tranquillity, a great deal of time-wasting, all sort of inconvenience.  I ask myself whether you are worth all the pains that I should have to take with you, and I have not the pleasure of knowing you well enough to be able to say.  I found you very unsatisfactory at Balbec, even when allowances are made for the stupidity inseparable from the image of the "bather" and the wearing of the objects called espadrilles.  Perhaps in any case you are not sufficiently desirous of what I could for for you to make it worthy my while, for I must repeat to you quite frankly, Monsieur, that for me it can mean' (he hammered out the words with great force) 'nothing but trouble.'

   I protested that, in that case, he must not dream of it.  This summary end to negotiations did not seem to be to his liking.

   'That sort of politeness means nothing,' he rebuked me coldly. 'There is nothing so agreeable as to put oneself out for a person who is worth one's while.  For the best of us, the study of the arts, a taste for old things, collections, gardens, are all mere ersatz, surrogates, alibis.  From the depths of our tub, like Diogenes, we cry out for a man.  We cultivate begonias, we trim yews, as a last resort, because yews and begonias submit to treatment. But we should prefer to give our time to a plant of human growth, if we were sure that he was worth the trouble.  That is the whole question.  You must know yourself a little.  Are you worth my trouble or not?'"

Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, pp. 294-295

I know this seems like a conversation that I habitually have with the junior faculty, but in this case it's the words of M. de Charlus who decides to walk home with Proust from the interminable party.  It is a bit confusing, but you can definitely tell the difference: I'm not normally much more dismissive of the junior faculty than M. de Gharlus was of young Proust.  Having said that, I usually find myself taking a mentoring role with the new hires, which I guess is the appropriate for someone of my years of experience.  It had never really occurred to me until I came back from my year in Abu Dhabi and my friend and colleague Chuck said that having me gone made for a tough year because there was no one to look after the new faculty.  His point was that while I devote a goodly amount of time to teasing them, I also spend a lot of time helping them with their courses and the political landmine of the college.  I thought it was a very nice thing to say, and one that made me reconsider my role on campus.  It probably helps explain my role in setting up the Core Talks and the George "Honey Boy" Evans Symposium.  Once they see past the normal play-acting of "That is so junior faculty" they figure out that I'm both a good resource and a key part of their support system.

And, of course, it's often most the same way with the students, although it naturally takes on a different form.  I'm much more likely to repeated Proust: "But I can see also that they would bring into my existence, at an age when one begins to value tranquillity, a great deal of time-wasting, all sorts of inconvenience."  Often students will ask if they can follow me on Twitter, to which I grudgingly agree (as if I could stop them, the little knuckleheads), and then they ask me if I would follow them.  That is really when I become M. de Charlus (not entirely, obviously, as we'll see) because I give them one month to say something interesting, and if they fail I dump them.

My Year With Proust - Day 229

"'At this moment,' Robert's friends would say to him, seeking to invalidate by their malicious words a disinterested action on Rachel's part, 'at this moment she will be in the promenade at the Folies-Bergere.  She's an enigma, that Rachel, a regular sphinx.' In any case, how many mercenary women, women who are kept by men, does one not see setting countless little limits to the generosity of their lovers out of a delicacy that flowers in the midst of that sordid existence!

   Robert was ignorant of almost all the infidelities of his mistress, and tormented himself over what were mere nothings compared with the real life of Rachel, a life which began every day only after he had left her.  He was ignorant of almost all these infidelities.  One could have told him of them without shaking his confidence in Rachel.  For it is a charming law of nature, which manifests itself in the heart of the most complex social organisms, that we live in perfect ignorance of those we love.  On the one hand the lover says to himself: 'She is an angel, she will never give herself to me, I may as well die - and yet she loves me; she loves me so much that perhaps . . . but no, it can never possibly happen.' And in the exaltation of his desire, in the anguish of his expectation, what jewels he flings at the feet of this woman, how he runs to borrow money to save her from financial worries!  meanwhile, on the other side of the glass screen, through which these conversations will no more carry than those which visitors exchange in front of an aquarium in a zoo, the public are saying: 'You don't know her?  You can count yourself lucky - she has robbed, in fact ruined, I don't know how many men.  She's a common swindler.  And crafty isn't the word!' And perhaps this last epithet is not absolutely wrong, for even the sceptical man who is not really in love with the woman but merely physically attracted says to his friends: 'No, no, my dear fellow, she's not at all a whore.  I don't say she hasn't had an adventure or two in her time, but she's not a woman one pays, she'd be a damned sight too expensive if she was.  With her it's fifty thousand francs or nothing.' The fact of the matter is that he himself has spent fifty thousand francs for the privilege of having her once, but she (finding a willing accomplice in the man himself) has managed to persuade him that he is one of those who have had her for nothing.  Thus, in society, the most blatant, the most notorious creature will never be known to a certain other person save wrapped in a delicious cocoon of natural sweetness.  There were in Paris two thoroughly decent men whom Saint-Loup no longer greeted when he saw them and to whom he could not refer without a tremor in his voice, calling them exploiters of women: this was because they had both been ruined by Rachel."

Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, pp. 291-292

"For it is a charming law of nature, which manifests itself in the heart of the most complex social organisms, that we live in perfect ignorance of those we love."

Proust continues to ruminate on Robert's fascination with Rachel, and in the larger sense on our fascination with all of our lovers.  How much time do we waste trying to figure out what our lovers are doing when we're not in our presence (which usually takes the form of driving down their street at odd times to discover what we claim to dread the most; which is probably the emotional equivalent of grinding your tongue into the space where you just had a tooth pulled).  This is probably some combination of insecurity and vanity and a solipsistic sense of the endless boundaries of our own self.  Now, the irony of this is that at the very same time we don't often recognize them as separate self-conscious beings.  It's not simply that we're fretting over the fact that they might be cheating on us - hell, they might actually be sitting on the couch wearing the t-shirt we accidentally left there while shopping for presents for us; rather, our greatest fear is that they might actually exist as a free-standing being.  I often tease my students by pointing out that the class is really only about me (well, OK, that part is true) and that they are actually just imaginary characters that I created to populate the classroom because it amused me.  This tends to work with first year students because they are easy to wind up.  However, at the beginning of any relationship we're really not that different, which is why we're so surprised to see that new lover out and about in town; our assumption is that they're sitting quietly and penitently on the other side of the door of their apartment, like one of those dogs from The Secret Life of Pets.  Now, having said all that, what we eventually figure out is that even when we're settled down with that person and they're sleeping in the same bed we still "live in perfect ignorance" of them, but that's another story.

My Year With Proust - Day 228

   "Robert swept me back to his mother.

   'Good-bye,' he said to her.  'I've got to got now.  I don't know when I shall get leave again.  Probably not for a month.  I shall write to you as soon as I know.'

   Certainly Robert was not in the least the sort of son who, when he goes out with his mother, feels that an attitude of exasperation towards her ought to counterbalance the smiles and greetings which he bestows on strangers.  Nothing is more prevalent than this odious form of vengeance on the part of those who appear to believe that rudeness to one's own family is the natural complement to ceremonial behaviour.  Whatever the wretched mother may say, her son, as though he had been brought along against his will and wishes to make her pay dearly for his presence, immediately refutes the timidly ventured assertion with a sarcastic, precise, cruel contradiction; the mother at once conforms, though without thereby disarming him, to the opinion of this superior being whose delightful nature she will continue to vaunt to all and sundry in his absence, but who, for all that spares her none of his most wounding remarks.  Saint-Loup was not at all like this; but the anguish which Rachel's absence provoked in him caused him for different reasons to be no less harsh with his mother than those other sons are with theirs.  And as she listened to him I saw the same throb, like the beating of a wing, which Mme de Marsantes had been unable to repress when her son first entered the room, convulse her whole body once again; but this time it was an anxious face and woe-begone eyes that she fastened on him.

   'What, Robert, you're going off?  Seriously?  My little son - the one day I had a chance to see something of you!' . . .

   . . . I was fully aware that my company could not afford any pleasure to Mme de Marsantes, but I was glad not to give her the impression by leaving with Robert that I was involved in these pleasures which deprived her of him.  I should have liked to find some excuse for her son's conduct, less from affection for him than from pity for her.  But it was she who spoke first.

   'Poor boy,' she began, 'I'm sure I must have hurt him dreadfully.  You see, Monsieur, mothers are such selfish creatures.  After all, he hasn't many pleasures, he comes so seldom to Paris.  Oh, dear, if he hadn't gone already I should have liked to stop him, not to keep him of course, but just to tell him that I'm not vexed with him, that I think he was quite right.  Will you excuse me if I go and look over the staircase?'

   I accompanied her there.

   'Robert! Robert!' she called.  'No, he's gone.  It's too late.'

   At that moment I would as gladly have undertaken a mission to make Robert break with his mistress as, a few hours earlier, to make him go and live with her altogether. In the one case Saint-Loup would have regarded me as a false friend, in the other his family would have called me his evil genius.  Yet I was the same man at an interval of a few hours."

Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, pp. 289-291

Proust witnesses an exchange between his friend Robert and his mother.  In most ways Robert appears to be a decent son, at least he's not one who goes out of his way to make his mother miserable.  Maybe, as with most of us, his main crime is forgetfulness.  I remember reading Nasr's brilliant The Heart of Islam and him making the point that for most Muslims the greatest conceivable crime was forgetfulness.  He meant that in a more devoutly religious society it was inconceivable that you would willingly divorce yourself from God, so the most logical answer was simply that you forgot your tie to God.  When I read that passage I thought that while it certainly made sense in regard to the divine (no matter how you perceive it) but also to our parents.  Unless they were brutal people who abused us, we all owe a tremendous debt to our parents; we just sometimes forget.  We drift.  I'm remarkably guilty of that.  Robert's mother's response ("I'm sure I must have hurt him dreadfully.  You see, Monsieur, mothers are such selfish creatures.") was a classic good mother thing to say.  I remember visiting Dave Kelley mom, who I referred to as the sainted Mrs. Kelley, once and, with Dave out of earshot, she said, "You know, I think he's perfect."  I could not, and cannot, disagree.  And it occurred to me then that this was one of the reasons why Dave turned out to be such a fine man.  That said, I will take ownership of all of my extraordinary shortcomings.

On my trip back to Indiana I took the opportunity to visit my people, which led to trips to cemeteries in Rising Sun and Moores Hill.  I found my mom's grave, which didn't have a tombstone, at least not yet (although she didn't seem particularly interested in one).  I'm assuming one of my siblings left this marker made from twigs, which I found metaphorically pitch perfect and emotionally crippling.

My Year With Proust - Day 227

"I spite of this we must bear in mind that the opinions which we hold of one another, our relations with friends and family, far from being static, save in appearance, are as eternally fluid as the sea itself.  When all the rumours of divorce between couples who have always seemed so perfectly united and will soon afterwards speak of one another with affection; all the terrible things said by one friend of another form whom we supposed him to  be inseparable and with whom we shall find him once more reconciled before we have had time to recovered from our surprise; all the reversals of alliances between nations after the briefest of spells."

   'I say, my uncle and Mme Swann are getting on all right!' remarked Saint-Loup. 'And look at mamma in the innocence of her heart going across to disturb them.  To the pure all things are pure!'"

Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, p. 278

And the endless cocktail party continues as people have come and gone, and somehow the world has survived the arrival of Mme Swann (who Saint-Loup avoided because, "She's an ex-whore.  Her husband's a Jew, and comes here to pose as a Nationalist.").  Nevertheless, I liked Saint-Loup's comment that, "To the pure all things are pure!"  Actually, it sounds exactly like the comment you'd expect from someone who would not want to meet someone because "She's an ex-whore" and "Her husband's a Jew."  The impure always have such disdain, which I think is actually based on fear, of the pure.  As Machiavelli reminds us, "A man who wishes to act entirely up to his professions of virtue soon meets with what destroys him among so much that is evil."  So, I would argue that the impure actually hate the pure because they fear them, partially because their purity makes them an easy mark and thus difficult to depend upon, but also because the pure possess something that the impure do not; just as the dim hate the intelligent or the boring hate the witty.

Quitters Coffee

On my recent trip to the Midwest, which I had not discussed on the blog because part of the trip focused on surprising my friend Andy (with the assistance of his excellent wife Heidi) in Ann Arbor, I had several cool mini-adventures.  As a quick aside, it occurred to me that during my life I've been fortunate enough to have seen and done a lot of cool things, and while some of it is just plain dumb luck, part of it also relates to putting myself in a position to see and do cool things.  I guess I'm a believer that life perpetually offers you a series of yes and no options, and that almost invariably the only appropriate answer is yes.

OK, after that dorm room poster level reflection, let me tell you about my trip to Quitters Coffee in Stittsville, a suburb of Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.  First off, I have to tell you that I'm a huge fan of the Canadian singer/songwriter Kathleen Edwards (and all of her albums are required purchases for all right-thinking individuals).  A couple years ago, for a number of personal and professional reasons, she decided to quit the music industry.  She told some friends that she was sick of recording and touring and that since she had been really happy as a barista she was going to quit and open a coffee shop.  Of course, her friends told her that she was not actually going to quit and open a coffee shop.  So, naturally, she quit and opened a coffee shop, Quitters Coffee in Stittsville.  I know this because I follow her on Twitter (@kittythefool - by the way, she is not on as much as she used to be, but she is wonderfully and inappropriately funny on Twitter) and also, eventually, I began to follow Quitters Coffee on Twitter (@QuittersCoffee).  Now, I don't think anyone really thinks she'll quit forever - she's just too good - so I think most folks thought (hoped) it was just a much needed break.

On my trip to the Midwest I surreptitiously made my way up to Michigan to surprise Andy (more on this later), and decided, logically, actually, to return to Vermont via Canada.  Before leaving on the trip I had told a couple of my friends that I might drive across Canada on the way back, and that if I did I'd stop in Ottawa to see Kathleen Edwards.  I think the most common response was "ass clown," but my friends also know that once I get something in my head it seldom goes away (it is seldom an Empty Threat [shameless Kathleen Edwards song reference]).  Anyway, I was heading east on the Trans-Canada Highway (which, by the way, you'd think the main route between Toronto and Ottawa would warrant more than a two lane road through blueberry bogs, but this is why we love Canada).  I knew that I could pick up the Canadian equivalent of an interstate at Ottawa and take it to Montreal.  As I approached Ottawa I'm looking for the appropriate road signs when the first Ottawa exit I come to is for Stittsville, and my immediate thought was "wait, I think Quitters Coffee is in Stittsville," so I spontaneously just took the exit.  It ended up dumping me into a series of strip malls and I remember thinking, "you know, idiot, you might have actually written down the address," although, to be fair, I didn't really think I would try and stop by. While I was sitting at a stoplight I looked up and saw a sign that said Main Street Stittsville, and I figured that a good coffee shop would probably be on Main Street so I randomly took a right.  And then I drove a couple miles and began to realize that maybe I would never actually find the coffee shop on Main Street because, well, maybe it wasn't on Main Street.  I'm sitting at another stop light thinking about abandoning this fool's venture and heading out of town when I looked to my left and saw the sign for Quitters Coffee.

After parking I walked into the coffee shop, mainly intent on grabbing a quick bite and buying some t-shirts if they had any (which, fortunately, they did).  I'm placing my order (a latte and a smoked meat sandwich because, well, it is Canada) and talking to the two nice young ladies up front when a woman walks in from the back, hugs one of the girls in one of those "I'm the boss and you're doing a good job" type huge, and turns around - and it's Kathleen Edwards, just looking like any other coffee shop owner carrying on business.  I finish ordering and go grab a table, and am looking down at my phone as I try and hook up to the shop's wifi when suddenly I hear, "Gary."  I look up, and it's Kathleen Edwards bringing me my sandwich.  There's a pause, and then I blurt out, "I'm sorry, I know you must hear this all the time, but I'm a huge fan and I really appreciate all your albums which have meant so much to me over the years - and this is a great coffee shop."  Now, at that point she should have done the only logical thing: back away towards the door without losing eye contact.  Instead, she just stood there and chatted for a few minutes.  She could not have been nicer.  When she found out I was heading back to Burlington she told me how much she liked it there and loved playing at Higher Ground and how she always stocked up at the wine and cheese shop next door.  At the end she shook my hand and thanked me for coming in.  As I was checking out I heard her raising her voice back in the kitchen (truthfully, it sounded more for comic effect).  I turned to the girl and asked, "Does she yell much?," and the she smiled and said, "Oh yeah.", which actually made the experience even better.

I've included some pictures below, but you're probably wondering why I didn't include a picture of her.  Well, I never asked for a picture.  Partially it's because it's my natural resistance to bothering people, and, well, I know what she looks like and I know I was there, so I don't think I need a picture.  However, it also seemed an affront to her reason for opening the coffee shop in the first place.  It seems to me that one of the reasons why she created Quitters Coffee was to lead something akin to a normal life, which in my mind does not include people stopping by to snap your photo.  I remember seeing her on, I think, Austin City Limits years ago and at the end she said she wanted a career like Neil Young's because he always recorded what he wanted to record and did what he wanted to do.  I've always felt that one of the reasons (beyond his own talent and drive) he could do this was because decades ago he bought a ranch in southern California and never really led the life of a celebrity, and this kept him grounded; and finally it also meant that he had the freedom to do what he wanted.  Edwards might very well disagree with me (and, Kathleen, if you need someone to talk to my email address is scudder@champlain.edu . . .) but on my continued drive across Canada it occurred to me that she was doing something very similar in opening up her coffee shop.  She's attempting to lead a grounded, sane life and also provide a little financial security in her life, which in turn will allow her to follow her muse with fewer distractions.

I see where she's starting to play on some local venues and small festivals, so her self-imposed exile is probably coming to a close, but I hope she keeps her coffee shop.

The inside of Quitters Coffee, which is what it should be but maybe not what you'd expect: a great little coffee shop with fantastic food and service.  What I mean by that is that it's not a mechanism to feature Kathleen Edwards.  So, they apparently don't have open mike nights or manufactured opportunities for her to sing, but I guess they have a pretty competitive quiz night.

One of several t-shirts I picked up while there.  There are no Kathleen Edwards t-shirts there or Kathleen Edwards posters on the wall.  Instead, it's a coffee shop run by a woman who clearly, and sensibly, wants to live a sane life.

My excellent friend Cyndi Brandenburg who sort of won this Quitters Coffee t-shirt from me at bocce, which is appropriate because she's a big Kathleen Edwards fan (and also because she's insanely competitive with me, as little sisters are with their older brothers).

Some essential Kathleen Edwards songs (in no particular order).  I do think she's an amazing songwriter and, seriously, could end up being this generation's Lucinda Williams, a compliment I would not throw around haphazardly.  Of course, she could also be a successful coffee shop owner and occasional performer and most importantly a happy person, and that would be a sweet life.

Pink Emerson Radio, Album: Back to Me (2005)

Goodnight, California, Album: Asking for Flowers (2008)

12 Bellevue, Album: Failer (2003)

Change the Sheets, Album: Voyageur (2012)

Copied Keys, Album: Back to Me (2005)

Summerlong, Album: Back to Me (2005)

Scared at Night, Album: Asking for Flowers (2008)

A Soft Place to Land, Album: Voyageur (2012)

Sweet Lil' Duck, Album: Failer (2003)

Independent Thief, Album: Back to Me (2005)

Mercury, Album: Failer (2003)

Asking for Flowers, Album: Asking for Flowers (2008)

For the Record, Album: Voyageur (2012)

Now, go buy all these albums!