Of Making Many Books, There is No End — or Reward?

“Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”

Ecclesiastes 12

It was that way right from the beginning, I’m sure. Carvers in stone, makers of runes,  scribes in papyrus and parchment, right up to workaday paper — Hebrew, Greek, Latin, English — Making books is weary WORK, not glamour. Don’t take my word for it; here is Gabriel Garcia Marquez, author of, among many other long works, One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera:

 ”Ultimately literature is nothing but carpentry. Both are very hard work. Writing something is almost as hard as making a table. With both you are working with reality, a material just as hard as wood. Both are full of tricks and techniques. Basically very little magic and a lot of hard work involved.”

Carpentry! But people persist in regarding writing books as a high road to fame and fortune. Hah!  The Biblical quote called it more accurately: there is no end to the making of, not only fiction, but books about (as here, the beginning of my shelves on music and cooking) everything under the sun. There are books by unknown people — that’s most of them. But some of these are books by friends (on the lower left). On the right, some of the favorites that make every cut, however we try and clear out our stock. We cannot bear not to keep these few.

(A Side Note: Why so many books on booklovers’ shelves?  I have a theory. I am convinced that, in the middle of the night, books hop down off their shelves and mate, which is why people always find their shelves overflowing all the while swearing, truly, I did NOT buy all of these! )

I am also convinced that everyone is convinced that they “have a book in them.” If not several books — Writing does seem beguilingly easy, doesn’t it? Just put one word after another. We’ve all been doing that since infancy! There is a catch though, which occurs very soon after sitting down at a desk. Here is Stephen Leacock, the Canadian humorist, in this case, the Canadian truth-teller:

“Writing is no trouble, you just jot down ideas as they occur to you. The jotting is simplicity enough – it is the occurring which is difficult.”

The lure probably begins with its simplicity. No special equipment required. A pencil or a pen and a blank piece of paper. Which, maddeningly, remains blank. Or is rapidly scribbled over with words that, read the next morning, are at best nothing much, at worst, drivel. Because what no one considers in this alluring prospect is the rewriting. But it’s the essence of writing: rewriting. Ernest Hemingway, who never wasted words, said it best:

“The first draft of anything is always shit.”

Not that I expect anything I’m writing here to innoculate anyone against the writing bug. If you like hitting your head against a stone wall, if you like to dream The Impossible Dream, you’ll go to it anyway. I did. And what’s more, I’ve been published. By big name hard copy publishers. Fame? Have you ever heard of my books? Fortune? The 1% never included me in it!

My two books are on these particular shelves, Going to Jerusalem (in a luxurious leather binding that was a gift from publisher Simon & Schuster, although I’ll bet they don’t do that these austere days) and Convergence (Doubleday). There’s a book about Brother Roger of Taizé, which I translated from the French, and copies of a “little” magazine, The Berkshire Review, which published some of my stories. My friend Madeleine L’Engle, whose Penguins & Golden Calves is only one among her countless works of science fiction and memoir, is here to remind me of scale. Natalie Goldberg and Brenda Ueland wrote two of the best, and my favorite, books on writing. The other books hanging out on the same shelf deal with creativity of various kinds, and with motivation and balance and psychology, and are by authors as distinguished as Rollo May and Viktor Frankl. At the right of the photo, somehow fittingly, is If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him, by Sheldon Kopp.

And was it, in the end, worth all the time (years, sometimes) and trouble? Hard to say. Simply put, it’s what I did, and do. Words are my instruments, my playthings, the iridescent shimmering bubbles that I blow. And I’m stuck with that! There really is a reward, though, even if the fame and fortune and glowing critical reviews never materialize. It’s an unexpected reward, stated clearly by the poet C. Day Lewis:

We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.  

So there you are —

Do you want to understand better? Yourself? Others? The world? Life? Truth? Write as long and hard and truthfully as you can, and that’s what you can look forward to. Believe me when I say I only set out this morning to write a funny little post about there maybe being too many books in the world. I didn’t expect to discover anything, but I was ambushed and surprised. And that, my friends, is a reward of writing.

Like a Snake in Springtime …

“The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die. As well the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

Spring, that season of new growth, is generally greeted with joy. And yet, in many ways, growing time is mostly a time of discomfort.  It certainly is so for snakes. As they grow, their skin stretches until it can’t stretch any more. Then the poor snake, blind and girdled tight in pain, desperately rubs and rubs against anything sharp or hard until its old skin splits, and out slithers a larger snake in a sleek new skin. Left behind, discarded in the grass, lies an old split casing once belonging to a smaller snake.

It’s much the same with people, I believe. Look:

The cast-off gloves still bear the shape of my hands, uncannily so. But my hands are no longer in them. Winter is over, it’s time to put them away.

Maybe it’s because it’s springtime, the season of growth, that I’m thinking these thoughts.  Casting skins is a human process, too. We live, and we experience new things, and inevitably we outgrow our knowledge, our capacities, and our opinions, perhaps even without realizing it. People boast of being consistent, of never changing their minds or their opinions, as if this were a virtue.  But Nietzsche, at least, knew better: if we live and undergo suffering and joy and a myriad experiences and never change, what are we?

But change mustn’t be frivolous, either. Changing something as important as a skin or an ideal or an opinion is a serious matter. We seem psycho-genetically (I just made that word up, but it’s useful, isn’t it?) to be programmed to resist change, even while it’s happening to us. Most often I’ve found that, like the snakes, for a longer or a shorter time, I need to be girdled in psychic discomfort or flat-out pain until — against my will — I come to accept a change that’s already been forced upon me. First I accept, and then if I’m wise, I embrace, and go on my way again, freer and stronger than before.

Of course, we still have to use judgment and discernment about what we’re discarding, and when. These sunglasses weren’t needed indoors at the store inside the Mall when I took them off. But the sun was still shining outdoors, and it wasn’t long before I put them on again.

It’s a balancing act then, isn’t it? A matter for judgment. In the end we aren’t snakes; we’re complex human beings driven by instinct AND intellect, fated to navigate an ever-more-complex world. A single guideline won’t do it for us. So let’s have the wise words of Victor Hugo sum up the task:

“Change your opinions, keep to your principles; change your leaves, keep intact your roots.”

And so we get to round it off, to end where we began, with Spring, the season of new growth and rejoicing. Onward!

 

Cakes and Ale — and Young People!

While I was lying awake at quarter to four this morning (a normal occurrence) a jingly poem leaped into my mind, and frolicked there for quite a while. I didn’t remember all of it, but I knew the ending for sure was “And King David wrote the Psalms.” So this morning when fully awake I Googled it, and here it is:

King David and King Solomon led merry, merry lives,

With many, many lady friends and many many wives;

But when old age crept over them, with many, many qualms,

King Solomon wrote the Proverbs and King David wrote the Psalms.

(Here’s King David long after Bathsheba and his other ladies, in the throes of composing a psalm.)

I never knew the poem was actually written by anyone, but it was, and that someone turns out to be James Ball Naylor, a versifier and novelist of the turn of the 20th century. I knew for sure, however, that the poem came to me for a reason, and the reason is this: later today we — grandparents in our ‘seventies and ‘eighties — are expecting a weekend visit from two granddaughters, 22 and 21 respectively.

Some of you may remember them, a little younger, from this post:

The elder of the two (and first-born grandchild) invented the title of Papat for The Hub. It was her approximation of Grandfather, and it so charmed him that he refused to hear of its ever being changed. It sounded like Grandpa, he said, in an obscure Central European language. I demanded my own equivalent, which turned out to be Pamma. To this day we are Papat and Pamma to all seven grandchildren.

The jingly poem diverted me in insomnia, but it came with a more profound mission than that. It seems to me there’s a moral attached to the poem, which is, that it’s easy to forget the follies and frivols and fads of our own youth, and look with a jaundiced eye on today’s young people. It’s easy to forget — and fatal.

Papat and I may be of an age where proverbs and psalms are appropriate, but we mustn’t, we oldies, forget the music and the dancing. We’ll remember to rejoice this weekend with our granddaughters, and take delight, not only in our nicknames, but in their exuberances and rejoicings.

Shakespeare always has a word, or a line, for any idea or occasion, and this is no exception:

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Let’s hear it, then, for the cakes and the ale and the young people!

UNEXPECTED “UPLIFT”

In my recent Glimmers of Hope posts after the Boston Marathon bombings, I’ve pretty obviously been seeking inspiration and uplift. Well, how does the old saying go? Be careful what you wish for. This morning brought uplift all right, but hardly in the way I anticipated or was looking for!

The trusty Subaru had got us to Amherst and back for the HD opera on Saturday, entered peacefully into its garage, all was well. Until the next morning, when I discovered a lake of reddish-brown fluid on the garage floor. Not gasoline, thank goodness. But (thanks to googling) it’s either transmission fluid or engine oil. Either way, definitely NOT A GOOD THING.

This morning I called the AAA. Ernie’s Towing came promptly, with a strong arm for the winch and steel cable and chains to lift up and fasten the car. (Subarus are all-wheel drive, which means they must be towed on a flat bed.) After which — to my amazement and profound gratitude — he used Kitty Litter and a broom to clear up most of the oil, and away went the car.

What this is likely to cost in terms of keeping a 2004 car running is unknown at the moment. Ryan’s hasn’t called with the diagnosis yet.  But the politeness and concern of everyone — from the AAA call center folks to the towing guy to our auto repair guru and to our neighbors (with offers of cars and shopping trips) make it a little easier to take. Keep your fingers crossed for us!

A Glimmer of Hope (3): NATURE

Last week, the bombing of the Boston Marathon, another “little death” of innocence, plunged me into despair. Very slowly I began seeking, and finding, some glimmers of hope in an inner darkness: first came music, next came sharing of food, and now comes testimony of another source of healing. Like music, it is a traditional source: NATURE.

Photo by Christel J.

Our friend Evamaria, in Cologne, Germany, has a delightful backyard garden with a tiny pond. Our mutual friend Christel takes wonderful photos of it. Spring was still teetering on the edge here yesterday when via email I received this primrose set off by blue lace.  Here’s another testimony to Evamaria’s love of gardening:

Photo by Christel J.

Evamaria’s garden was laid out and engineered by her father. It is a legacy for her. He also took her walking and climbing in mountains, another legacy. I, on the other hand, was a city child. From my memoir, Convergence (Doubleday, 1993):

I walked on paved streets, paved sidewalks, paved alleyways. I was never aware of walking on the earth. We had no fields, no crops, no rivers, no lakes, no mountains or woods…. My rivers were the waters rushing in the gutters after a hard rain; my mountains, the mounds of snow my father shoveled in the back. Wildlife in Brooklyn consisted of Japanese beetles and mosquitoes and little black ants on the front stoop with which my sister Mindy would play; and inside the house there were silverfish. Not roaches, which are ugly and come from dirt, but translucent darting silverfish, which feed on books and glue and papers, a civilized diet.

It’s been a liberal education for the Hub and me to visit so often with our friends, for whom living and exploring and wandering in Nature is, well, second nature. But for this once-and-forever city child, books are my natural refuge, not Mother Nature. So it’s no wonder I needed a reminder that life goes on, the earth keeps spinning, the flowers emerge, and the universe is far vaster than the uglinesses humans can contrive to spoil it.

Evamaria’s garden got me thinking about flowers, and how I love all of them, especially the brightest and boldest. And I got to thinking about the symbolism of color, because beyond beauty there is also meaning. For instance, red:

Red to us most often evokes blood, destruction, and death. Blood for the ancients, however, had an opposite meaning. For them also, red symbolized blood, but blood itself meant LIFE, the lifeblood that flows through our veins so long as we live. Red stands for vitality, vita, the Latin word for life.

Purple was the color of royalty in ancient times; only rulers — emperors, kings, queens — were allowed to wear purple. “Born to the purple” means being born into nobility. Later on it became the color of the very highest Lord, symbolizing Jesus’ Passion on the Cross. White has always been the color of purity, at least in the West. (In China, it sometimes is the color of death. Perhaps purity itself can be a kind of death?)

Yellow, of course, is the symbol of the sun.

And blue symbolizes the sky, the vault of heaven.

All these flowers, of course, grow in bowers of green, and green is the color of growth. Green symbolizes Nature herself. So a garden is not simply a garden, it is also the pattern and glass of our universe. And so for me at this raw time,  Nature’s greatness and our littleness becomes a comfort, and a source of hope.

Perhaps it is a source of hope for you also.

A GLIMMER OF HOPE (2)

It was quite a week. Started out with the Boston Marathon bombing, continued with poison letters sent to a senator and the president, closely followed by a shameful sellout vote in the Senate against the wishes of 90% of Americans (so tell me again what our senators are supposed to be doing in Washington?), a fearsome factory explosion in Texas, all climaxed by killings and shootouts and the shutdown of Boston until it ended with one suspect DOA at a hospital and – after a Hollywood six hours -  the other arriving barely alive in that same hospital. A surreal week.

My first response to the massacre on Patriot’s Day at the Marathon was, frankly, rage and despair (What Does Being Human Mean, Anyway?). How would it be possible to regain lost hope? By Wednesday, I had the first tentative gropings toward a possible answer, A Glimmer of Hope (1). A traditional answer, but no less powerful for all that: it was through music. (If you missed these amazing pieces, click the link and listen.)

A couple of days later a product catalog arrived in the mail. Not usually an uplifting experience, is it? But this is a different kind of catalog. On the inside back cover I found this:

Another glimmer of hope it was, shining out from the kitchen.

The colorful painting is by Jeri Penzey, wife of Bill Penzey, owner of Penzey’s herbs and spices. I always look forward to their catalog not just for checking out my spice supplies, but for its recipes and interesting stories about people. Along with their spices, Penzey’s sells hope and love and sharing and even speaking one’s mind openly and bravely. Bill Penzey, husband to artist Jeri, is the boss. He’s the one who calls ‘em as he sees ‘em, even on controversial issues where another businessman might hold his tongue lest he offend some customers.

This catalog issue (which you can download at the link above) is a two-parter dedicated to Moms: “Mother’s Day is a refreshing chance to celebrate both true heroes and what really works in life. Moms freely give of themselves, of their time, effort, and even money, selflessly, not for personal gain but simply to make the lives of others better. For this they are heroes.”

Heroes come in lots of shapes and sizes, and they do lots of different things, whether or not there are TV cameras watching them. Maybe it’s the spirit in which they do those things that’s part of their heroism. Back to Bill Penzey’s note: “Kindness works”:

Our years of selling spices have taught us that cooking is not a one size fits all world: far from it. We’ve learned the wonder of cooking lies in the incredible diversity of the people who cook, and in the incredible variety of the food they cook. Over the years we have come to understand for all of our differences…. people who cook have something in common. They care enough to make the lives of those around them better. The research shows that the kindness of cooks works. People who share dinner together at the kitchen table go on to share a brighter future. A brighter future made possible by people with the kindness to build it one meal at a time… Through our pages we hope to share the greater family of human kindness that we’ve found all cooks belong to. Come along and join us.

Wonderful idea, isn’t it? The greater family of human kindness. I want to believe in it, even though it’s been tough going these days. In fact, I’m CHOOSING to believe in it. I’ve always believed that if all meetings and conferences and negotiations were obliged to begin with sharing a meal, they’d go a whole lot smoother. Even if it doesn’t solve all problems,breaking bread together can ease them. 

Rinsing, peeling, chop chop chop, assembling the ingredients: mindless, or meditative? Chore or offering?

In the Hebrew Bible, elder son Esau sold his birthright to his younger brother for a mess of pottage. This week we saw an elder brother and a younger tragically led astray — by what? Not by a mess of pottage, that’s for sure! (Lentils are the Biblical pottage. This supper is curried red lentil soup with Swiss chard and a slice of bread. Elemental.)

It doesn’t have to be fancy, it doesn’t have to be expensive, it doesn’t have to be elaborate. All it has to be is from your hands, and from your heart. I think the Penzeys have it right: Heal the World. Cook Dinner Tonight.

A GLIMMER OF HOPE (1)

(Gemma, this post’s for you. We have a deal.)

When I wrote the post What Does Being Human Mean, Anyway? the morning after the Boston Marathon Massacre, I was angry, distraught, and in despair. Despair = de spero = out of hope. Blogger friend Gemma of Dear Bliary was in the same bleak place. Where was our hope to come from? We made a deal. If one of us found hope somewhere, we would share it with the other.

Well, the pain remains, and I’ve made no progress with the age-old problem of evil. But I have experienced one balm for the PAIN of evil, and so I’m sharing it with Gemma, and with you. As it happens, the Hub and I are taking a class in The Music of Mourning, requiems and other musical forms of struggle with loss. On the very next morning, then, I was exposed to music I’d never heard before, a requiem, Lux Aeterna, (Eternal Light) by a contemporary composer from the Pacific Northwest, Morten Lauridsen. A very eminent composer, it turns out, although I’d never heard of him before.

The Boston Massacre was forefront in my mind during the first class offering, a hyperemotional requiem by hyperemotional Andrew Lloyd Webber, of Cats and Les Miz and Phantom of the Opera — none of which touch my heart. (Forgive me if you’re a fan of his; he just doesn’t get through to me.) No solace for me there. And then we heard Lauridsen’s requiem. Gentle, contemplative, hypnotically chantlike sound — As I listened, much of my outrage was absorbed into the quiet. By the end I was restored to a state resembling serenity. Only then I realized just how churned up I’d been by the noise and tumult and chaos and anguished images endlessly  filling the TV screen, and what a relief it was to have my ears and my being filled with quiet harmonies.

Music can begin to offer hope, to heal the heart —

Like the old saying, music really has charms to soothe the savage beast, or breast, or soul. This youtube excerpt is Part 3, O Nata Lux (dawning light). In this centerpiece of his requiem Lauridsen uses human voices as his principal instruments. When you have time to give yourself to the music (because gentleness and quiet and openness take time), you might try it. No action, no images, simply the bearded composer watching in the stillness. Just close your eyes, and listen:

In another mood, on another morning, however, I might choose something totally different. Music that heals can take many forms. Another of my choices is VERY well known. That supreme man of music who wrote it, Beethoven, was rapidly going deaf. His cherished hero, Napoleon, had turned out to be nothing more than a tyrant and despot of the kind he most loathed. Beethoven himself is the very model of the lonely, anguished genius, and “happiness” is hardly a word associated with his private life. And yet —

The triumphant conclusion to his magnificent Symphony #9 is an Ode to Joy (Freude, Freude). For the first time a composer uses human voices among the instruments in a symphony. The ode carries us along, raises us beyond disillusion, heartbreak, and despair to some other place of timelessness. You can watch its power working right here in this youtube, a performance of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy happening amidst people simply going about their daily business.  Just ordinary people, as the people of Boston attending the Marathon were just ordinary people. Watch it unfold here in Sabadell, Spain, on an ordinary day:

In the end the noise of the bombs will be silenced. In the end, the music and the joy and the love and  people will win out. Love will drive out hate, and we can put our hope in love.