literature

"I wasted time, and now doth time waste me"

— Shakespeare, Richard II

This month marks my one-year anniversary as a blogger for the New York Public Library. A blogger is something I never thought I would refer to myself as, but I suppose there are worse things that can be said about a person. My first post on May 30, 2008 concerned the release of Sex and the City, a movie which featured the library among its New York locations. This was and remains my most-read post. I don’t kid myself into thinking that the world was so desperately waiting to hear from me; I happened to coincide exactly with the release of a much-anticipated movie, based on a television show which it seemed everyone (except me) had watched, which in turn was based on a popular novel.

Mulling over this early post set me to wondering if the movie Sex and the City had driven people back to the Candace Bushnell novel in a sort of self-generating circle. I like to think that almost anything can send us back to books and the experience of reading if we’re so inclined. Or is that simply a case of cock-eyed optimism? Once we become involved with movies and television, is there any time left over for reading; or have the other media splintered our concentration into so many different pieces that there’s no putting them back together again?

After a year’s worth of blogging, I can now confess my belief that one of the worst things about the 21st century is the number of electronic devices created exclusively to waste our time. There are television sets the size of doors with a hundred or so stations that we restlessly flip through, searching for something--anything-- to engage our imaginations. There are hand-held gadgets--the cell phones, iPods, and BlackBerries--that we fiddle with on bus and subway trips as our attention waxes and wanes. And there are the primary culprits, our computers, which leech away time like blood. Sitting before them, we’re like the Time Traveler who, during the trial run of his time machine, nudges the lever ever so slightly, sees nothing in his room has changed, and thinks his experiment a failure. . .until he notices the fresh candle worn down to a stub, indicating several hours gone by in an instant. (Was that a scene from the H. G. Wells novel, the 1960 movie, or the 2002 remake?) Do all these things damage our ability or even desire to focus on a book?

With a somewhat judicious approach, however, computers and gadgets can also lead to books. Despite my initial qualms about the Google book project, it has proved an important resource in my work as a librarian. Although I personally would not want to read a book downloaded onto a little gadget, that doesn’t make the existence of e-book readers any less real. A reader at the main reference desk once raved to me about his Kindle reader because he was visually impaired and could magnify the font size of his text as many times as required, giving me my first positive feeling about something I’d always looked on with a certain scorn. And, ironically, the internet is a great purveyor of real books, too. I admit that I have done my share of killing off the world’s bookstores by ordering lower-priced books online.

As I started to think about these matters, I began to ask myself questions about books being adapted into other media and whether that other media will ever lead us back to the real thing. Now, I know you’re reading this on a computer, and you probably have better things to do with your time, but assuming you’re still with me, I’d like to share these questions with you, give my answers after the break, and invite you to submit your own answers to any or all of them.

1. What was the last movie you saw, adapted from a novel, which disappointed you?

2. What book would you like to see adapted into a movie, even if you know it will ultimately be a disappointment?

3. Are there any theatrical works which have led you to seek out their literary source?

4. Does it work the same way for television? Name a show or shows which drove you to the fictional original. Or the other way around: fiction which drove you to television.

5. Can adaptations be overdone? Should there be a moratorium on adapting any particular author?  read more »

"To Those who Appreciate Wistaria and Sunshine. Small Mediaeval Italian Castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be Let Furnished for the Month of April. Necessary Servants remain. Z, Box 1000, The Times."

For those of you who are of a literary bent (you know who you are), April is “the cruelest month.” For those, however, to whom April is the month of tender shoots bursting through the soil, trees hazy with the first green traces of foliage, and perfumed air trembling with the promise of spring, the more appropriate adjective would be “enchanted.” This distinction brings me to a novel which always seems to infiltrate my senses at this time of year: The Enchanted April, by Elizabeth von Arnim.

The excellent 1992 BBC film version (which, incidentally, will be released on DVD next month) introduced me to this small miracle of a story, but the novel on which it was based contains an even more effortless combination of charm, wit, and sensual feeling for the natural world. The plot is hung on the slenderest of threads. February in London in the 1920s is about as cold, damp, and dreary as this past winter in New York has been. Lotty Wilkins and Rose Arbuthnot--childless women burdened with stifling duties and distant husbands--catch each other reading the above personal notice one miserable afternoon and are seized with the idea of leaving everything behind, including their boorish husbands, for one magical month in Italy. The husbands are not the worst of their species (men fare less well in some of Elizabeth von Arnim’s other fiction), but they are cold and rather remote. Mellersh Wilkins is a man who “produced the impression of keeping copies of everything he said.” Frederick Arbuthnot writes risqué historical novels which are a great embarrassment to his wife, who firmly believes that “No one should write a book God wouldn’t like to read.”  read more »

Want to breakfast with Theodore Dreiser?

Grab a cup of coffee at Grey Dog Coffee or Out of the Kitchen and mosey on down to 16 St. Lukes Place.

Hey, you’re right across from the Hudson Park Library! And just down the street at 14 and 12 St. Lukes Place are the former homes of Marianne Moore and Sherwood Anderson. They all lived here in the 1920s.

View Greenwich Village Writers in a larger map
Use this map (I'll continue to add to it) to create your own coffee jaunt or late night crawl. You’ll be inspired by walking the streets of the literary greats. You might even write something! Or at least, stop by the Hudson Park Branch and take out one of their books, grab that coffee, and relax knowing that you’ve found yourself in the center of the world.

From the dust jacket of Pigeon Feathers →

A number of summers ago I saw John Updike at the library. He was sitting in the back of the main reading room, leaning over the table, and writing with a small gold pen. I felt as oddly excited and privileged as someone else might feel who, in the course of day-to-day activity, had encountered Johnny Depp or Angeline Jolie. I ached to know what he was writing on that pad, if it was a story for the New Yorker, another episode in the chronicles of Harry Rabbit Angstrom or Henry Bech, or just a tally of his day’s expenses in New York. I didn’t ask. Library professionalism, New York sang-froid, or maybe just temperamental shyness kept me from saying anything at all. When I looked again a short while later, he was gone.  read more »

“There was only one catch and that was Catch-22”

Books can accumulate a lot of personal baggage. Keep them in your life for long enough, and they’re likely to become encrusted with memories. This dust jacket is from my personal copy of Catch-22 and goes back a long way, as you can tell from the $2.45 price drastically marked down to $2.19. This was the second and more durable copy I owned after I read ragged the more familiar blue paperback with the dancing airman on the cover. The library’s copy in the Berg Collection of English and American Literature is the first edition, published in 1961. The branch libraries have a recent Everyman's Library edition with a picture of Joseph Heller on the cover. But it is the Modern Library edition and its cover art that resonate with me. I didn’t encounter the novel until the early 1970s, during my first years of college and the last nightmarish years of the Vietnam War; but I read it again and again, not only for its wit and style, but for the message, articulated for me clearly and for the first time, that governments and other institutions were not always to be trusted, that they might even be out to cause harm. Heller’s assertion that “The only freedom we really have is the freedom to say no” vibrated through the halls of Hunter College--as well as most other college campuses--and black humor was the very atmosphere we breathed.  read more »

A strange relationship is established with favorite novelists, particularly those who are our living contemporaries. In reading their work, we are reconstituting word by word their mental landscapes and experiencing the energy which has gone into the act of creation, thereby establishing an extraordinary sort of intimacy. Although it should work the same way with deceased authors, the relationship lacks the reassurance that they are safely off somewhere, working on their next book. Since these authors no longer inhabit our present reality, their fiction inexorably turns into historical fiction. When we have turned their last page, there is nothing beyond.

This February, Iris Murdoch will have been dead for ten years. For those of us who remember waiting anxiously for her new novels to appear—at the typical rate of one every year or two--that seems especially hard to believe. That sturdy, striking face from the book jacket photographs—with eyes that, if you stared long enough, seemed to puncture holes in you—suggested that mortality would never be an issue. Although hers was one of the most reliable literary voices throughout the latter part of the twentieth century, it was remarkable to discover, shortly after her death, that most of her monumental output (26 novels) was no longer in print. In our ever-accelerating information age, new books are kept on bookstore shelves for ever-decreasing amounts of time and allowed to go out of print with no apparent qualm on the part of publishers. It was gratifying to find, however, that over the last few years Murdoch seems to have emerged once again in paperback; but I wonder if she isn’t nowadays more remembered than read, due to the memoir of her final days by her husband, John Bayley; the Peter J. Conradi biography Iris: A Life; and Iris, the movie of her life with Kate Winslet and Judi Dench.  read more »

Words or music? Which is more important to opera? This is a question which intrigues opera lovers, such as me, as it is endlessly arguable without being finally answerable. Richard Strauss devoted an entire opera, Capriccio, to the debate. The opera culminates in a lengthy scene of ecstatic, mesmerizing musical intensity* which might seem to give the nod to music, if not for what the soprano is actually singing: that words and music are both indispensible, take one away and whatever is left will not be opera.

This season, the Metropolitan Opera has plastered every nook and cranny of the city with posters of Renée Fleming as Thaïs (just as, last year, you couldn’t turn around without spotting Natalie Dessay as the mad Lucia). If I’m any interpreter of expressions, this Thaïs, peeking knowingly through a loose lock of hair, is probably not thinking about her next trip to the library. But, music and words aside, the library is a good source for tracing the seed from which most operas are grown-- their original literary sources. Shakespeare had Holinshed, but the operas we now love typically sprang from works of popular fiction or drama, most of which have fallen out of fashion and are now known only through their later, musical incarnations. Of the few works I’ve selected to discuss, the library has multiple editions, but I’ve chosen the English translations (where applicable), and only those volumes which contain compelling illustrations. (Click on the picture for the catalog record.)  read more »

(Image from NYPL Digital Gallery)

I've just begun reading Nancy Mitford's essay collection The Water Beetle and have learned that this author's name can be added to the list of notable needlewomen who contributed to the World War I effort.

In "Blor," the first essay in this collection, she recollects how she crocheted for the cause:
"I was soon sitting like a tricoteuse, on the balcony of Grandfather Redesdale's house in Kensy High Street, crocheting an endless purple scarf while the troops marched by on their way to France. (There was no khaki wool to be had so early in the war--you took what you could get.)"

Soon after, she apparently obtained a supply of khaki yarn:
"I fell in love with Captain Platt in my father's regiment, an important General of the next war, and crocheted endless pairs of khaki mittens for him--I am not sure that they were inflicted on him. In any chase, all this crocheting was the nearest I ever got to killing an enemy, a fact which I am still regretting."

In 1914, Nancy Mitford would have turned just ten years old. To learn more about the life of Nancy Mitford, you can read books about her that the Library has at the Humanities & Social Sciences Research Library or those available for checkout at the branches.

With only a few notable exceptions, I haven’t been very lucky with theatrical productions of Shakespeare. Of course, I’ve seen the Olivier and Branagh movies and some fine BBC productions, but film isn’t really theatre. In the theatre, especially here in New York, bad Shakespeare generally outweighs good Shakespeare. The problem with these productions, I find, usually stems from a distrust of Shakespeare’s language, either of the audience’s ability to understand it, or of the actors to speak it. I’ve seen the tragedy, Timon of Athens, played with irrelevant slapstick stage business fit for the Marx Brothers. I’ve seen a production of The Merchant of Venice, which contains subtle hints of homosexuality, embellish that subtext by dressing its characters in day-glo robes and platform shoes, like bit players in The Rocky Horror Show, and having them mince about in degradingly stereotypical fashion. I once even saw a Royal Shakespeare Company version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in which Titania, while speaking some of the most sensual love poetry ever, was lying on her back using her bare foot to massage Bottom intimately, driving him to eye-rolling ecstacy, as if the language weren’t already making enough of an erotic point. (Unfortunately, I did not see Ian McKellen or Patrick Stewart in their recent appearances at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, which I heard were wonderful; before I could muster myself to making the trip to Brooklyn, all tickets had disappeared.)  read more »

One day last year, as I was walking home from work, so wrapped up in my own furiously careening thoughts that I wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the general direction my feet were taking me, I found myself momentarily halted in the middle of a crowd alongside Gramercy Park. As I looked around, it dawned on me that the men in the crowd were all wearing fedoras, like 1950s Madison Avenue executives, most of the women wore long pleated skirts to the knee and some had gloves on, and at the same time I realized that all the cars parked on the street were vintage models I remembered from my childhood. This prompted an eerie moment of disorientation before I realized that I had stepped into the middle of a movie shoot, in this case Revolutionary Road, based on the novel by Richard Yates. I clearly remembered the story of Frank and April Wheeler, whose lives in 1955 suburban Connecticut become inexorably and tragically unglued, but was strangely distressed to learn that a book by an author who was always sort of a secret treasure of mine was being given the big-time Hollywood treatment. Soon, I imagined, I’d be spotting people on the subway holding movie tie-in paperbacks with photos of Leonard DiCaprio and Kate Winslet on the cover. Yes, great books are meant to be shared--but the act of reading them is inherently a private one, the emotions they engender are deeply personal, and I confess to a smug satisfaction in keeping certain books to myself.

It isn’t even that Yates is so much of a secret any longer. At the time of his death in 1992 he was out of print, virtually forgotten, his name and books known only to a select and cultish group of readers and a few admiring fellow writers. Much of this neglect was due to the fact that these novels and stories are not comfortable reading. Yates knows who you are: your weaknesses and cruelties, the humiliations you receive and inflict, even the lies you tell yourself in order to get through your day. His fiction is fashioned without a hint of contrivance or fabrication, wherever absolute truthfulness will lead, no matter how painful.  read more »

This giant could learn a thing or two about dapper dressing from Mr. Awesome. (Image from NYPL Digital Gallery.)

Awesome is the title of the newest book by Jack Pendarvis, which has just been published. It is Mr. Pendarvis's first novel, and, as I was reading it this past weekend, I began to suspect that the author might have craft sympathies. Why, you ask? Because handmade habits crop up again and again throughout this riotous tall tale of a self-involved giant who embarks on a cross-country quest for love. The resulting story is bawdy and unsentimental, filled with cannily precise humor that begs to be read aloud, to be performed.

The following handmade bits make appearances in Awesome:
The giant protagonist (giant in stature and ego) plans a visit to "a hub of recreational sewing" in search for a needle in a haystack. He also meets an artisanal cheesemaker who sells craft supplies to "sewing aficionados" on eBay. And throughout, he makes robots, fashions a "mighty wagon" to transport his collection of treasures, and designs his own car. Beekeeping, mosaic repair, "underground knitting culture," homemade zines, and a pair of giant trousers fashioned from some circus tents all have cameo roles in this novel as well.

Mr. Pendarvis's two earlier books, both collections of short stories, are available for borrowing. The Library doesn't yet have Awesome, but I'm confident that we will soon.

To learn more about Jack Pendarvis, visit his blog.

(Perhaps our heroine should have knitted for herself! From the NYPL Digital Gallery.)

Leave to it P. G. Wodehouse, comic genius and creator of The Inimitable Jeeves and Wooster, to bring levity to my growing obsession with wartime knitters. Lately I have been reading The Clicking of Cuthbert, a collection of Wodehouse’s golf tales. And let me add here: even if you, like me, know nothing of golf, you can still embrace these comedies set among the niblicks and mashies. Included in this volume is a cautionary tale about two rival golfing men, one stout and one lean, who attempt to guess which of them is favored by a certain young lady by studying the size of the item she is knitting. The assumption that they make is that she’s knitting for one of them. Of course, since this tale is by Wodehouse nothing turns out as these golfing gallants might expect. And Wodehouse includes the following warning, concerning the risks of amateur knitting:

“With amateur knitters there must always be allowed a margin for involuntary error. There were many cases during the war where our girls sent sweaters to their sweethearts which would have induced strangulation in their young brothers.”

If Wodehouse’s humor is your style, then check out NYPL's holdings for this prolific writer, musician, and essayist. A quick author search for him (Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville), 1881-1975.) will point the way. On that note, toodle pip!