In my imagination, May, especially early in the month, during that transitional period before moving into the new house, was going to be a period filled with open expanses of time: time for engaging with books, for reading and writing, for sharing those things that moved me in one direction or another. Alas it was not to be. There was a necessary period of post-packing naps, but otherwise my time was often too full with obligation, and although there were moments of blessed solitude, freedom of time seemed illusory, always hoped for but just slightly beyond reach.
It is not that there was no time for reading, plenty of reading occurred in the first half of the month, but there was no time for reflection, and as the month went on, that reading became more insubstantial and less likely to induce frustration at my inability to write out or talk out my thoughts on what I was reading.
Haruki Murakami's Men Without Women arrived just as packing was winding down, and I was so eager to get started I plunged in at the first opportunity after closing on the old house. I was not disappointed, although I did struggle with the first story and wondered if this would be the first Murakami I did not love. But each subsequent story drew me in, and although each story was separate and completely different from its predecessors, the progression of the stories seemed to build layers of insight, creating something that was simultaneously disconnected and unified. As usual, the characters and stories were complex, quirky, and profound and I wished I had spent more time and thought with the book, wished I had been able to explore my reactions more fully. I may well be reading it again soon.
I also wish I had been able to explore the multiple levels of interconnectedness, lies, and self-delusion in Domenico Starnone's Ties, a novel that is raw, often painful, but also insightful on many levels. It is not the easiest read, primarily due to the rampant emotions, deceit, and the slow dissolution of the walls the characters have built around themselves and between themselves as the family unravels. The book begins and ends in fury and it could be easy to read on that level alone, taking sides and blaming, but there is much more to this book. The beginning reminds me of Elena Ferrante's Days of Abandonment, but Vanda remains trapped in her fury, and this book is far more complicated, examining the story from the perspectives of all the family members, weaving a complex fabric of the many ways we layer and entwine ourselves without really understanding the consequences. I was so upset after reading it I thought I would never want to go back to it, but now wonder if perhaps I have left it unfinished, and need to return and wrest with my thoughts more deeply.
Partly due to this frustration over being able to work out my reactions to the above books, in my head and on paper, my further reading leaned more toward works suited to my transitional mind-set, insubstantial reading which was entertaining and often captivating, but which did not leave me yearning for my pen. Memoirs and personal reflections figured highly, including Betty Halbreich's I'll Drink to That, which I found charming and, at times, touching. Yes, the book is about clothes and style and the women who buy clothes, but really that was only a small part. It was the perfect book for those first days after moving out of my old house, light but not completely insubstantial. I followed this with Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, which is more a memoir than a book about how to write. King is nothing if not a good storyteller, and the story of his life and how he came to be the writer he has become is entertaining and fascinating.
Then I read An Economist Gets Lunch by Tyler Cowen, which I suppose is technically not a memoir, but then I'm not really sure what it is. It is not a book about food, and yet it doesn't escape food, or Cowen's personal experiences with food, although it is not so much about preparing food. It is also a book about economics, but economics mixed with personal annectdotes, and food history, and politics and a little mishmash of this an that. The title actually describes the book well. It is a book about an economist who gets lunch, and the explorations, mental and physical that arise from two simple precepts: that one must get lunch, and that the author makes his living by thinking about things, The book is an exploration that arises from those two principles. I personally loved it, economics, history, idiosyncracies, and all, but I recognize that it is most definitely not a book for everyone and many will find it boring, tedious, and/or unfocused.
The last memoir, read just before I moved in to my hew house was Susan Hermann Loomis's On Rue Tatin, the story of finding and renovating her family's home in France, with recipes. I have enjoyed Loomis's cookbooks, and I enjoyed the story of finding her crumbling old house and making it her own. It made me yearn for my own house, which is not as old, probably not as charming, and in far better shape. In the end though, I am a person who likes stories, and I connected with this book. Loomis is very good at describing the tastes and smells of France, of exploring the sights, the interactions, the rubbing together of cultures and expectations. It was a lovely, and yes, escapist, read; a story revolving around people, time, place and the bonds that are formed.
The two more significant books that I read during this period, Tyler Cowen's The Complacent Class and Lior Lev Sercarz's The Spice Companion, will influence my thoughts for some time to come. I don't always agree with Tyler Cowen's analyes, and I don't have to agree with an author to love a book, but he has made me think, and reconsider some closely held shiboleths. The resulting insights will continue to influence my thoughts and my choices and I think the book is well worth reading. The Spice Companion is not so much a book to cook from, although the author does offer menus for spice blends and ideas on how to use spices, but an inspiring look at spice and flavor and the way flavors work together, or against each other. Reading the book has already had an impact on the way I cook and think about cooking even though I haven't picked it up since moving into the house and filing it on the shelf.
On a lighter note, I listened to Michael Connelly's The Lincoln Lawyer while I took my morning walks during my period of transition and, as always I enjoyed it immensely. I have not read the series in order, but that really hasn't hurt my enjoyment of the books at all. I also found Ilia Delio's Care for the Earth: A Franciscan Spirituality of the Earth to be very light reading, although I believe my EFM classmates found it more inspiring and more difficult than I did. I would say it was clearly written, and my main objection to it was that it mostly consisted of stringing together ideas from other books, books I had already read and found more insightful. I suppose then that, in my case, the author was preaching to the choir, but it is probably a good introduction to the idea that caring for the earth is both a moral and a spiritual or religious responsibility and in helping the reader articulate a theological response to environmentalism.
I'm hoping to be more focused in June, but it may be simply wishful thinking. Either I'll pull myself together or I'll abandon book posts all together.
