I did so much in July. None of it was exotic or exciting. Mostly I just started doing things, the kinds of things that were once routine. Finally I am feeling like I am getting my feet back under myself and beginning to function in some way that feels like it is approaching normal. I am still tired; occasionally I become temporarily frustrated, especially when I overtire myself and all my routines and plans crumble around me. I do realize, however, that I am tired because I am doing more, and this is a good thing, and my frustrations are alleviated. There is nothing like getting your assumptions about your own independence knocked out of you. And yet at the sometimes it is necessary to stare upward from the bottom of the well before realize that "doing more" has nothing to do with the meaning or purpose of life.
But that does not mean I am not going to write a blog post. Nor does it mean that I will not admit that I did not lot read a lot of books in July. I read. It is just finishing that was slowed, and it is ok to admit that, even to admit that I struggled with some of my reading. There was one book I loved, and one, more difficult, that I did not love, but the reading of it was still a good thing. Alas I just noticed that I listed the first book, the one I love, in my last post, crediting it to June when I actually finished it on July 8th.
That leaves only one book to list here:
44. Edgar Allan Poe: The Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.
As. I've already stated, I struggled. I am quite aware that Poe is a seminal American author, and that much of the development of American Literature, are influenced by his work. I am not just talking about mass or popular culture and our love of horror stories and tales of mysteries and the haunted house at the county fair. His influence percolated into high culture as well. I cannot deny that he was a great storyteller, or that he was brilliant, a genius, really.
I was plagued by the thought that he could really never be credited as being a fabulous wordsmith, or even at least to my mind, a great writer. That is okay. There are those who write beautifully but emptily, and those who capture our imaginations and even shape our culture but whose prose is pedantic at best. Perhaps that is one of the downsides of working one's way doggedly through over a thousand pages of an author's work. Most of the work is not great. Even the great work could use editing, but as I also look at the some of the edited editions, I also see that much of Poe's genius gets edited out as well. Oh we all know the stories.
If I don't feel that Poe's poetry is great as poetry, it is certainly great in terms of its cultural influence. I suspect that most Americans, especially those educated in this country, can quote at least some part of the Raven. Poe, was also a critic, and particularly a critic of the influence of the earlier poetic tradition America had inherited from Britain, and I do think his thoughts on the evolution of poetry are something he explored in his own writing. He is also on the cusp, if not a pivotal influence, although this is nowhere near my own level of competence, in the changes in poetic form that were soon to occur, both in American and English poetry. But I think his insight, and his obvious attempt to pursue it, were more astute than his craftsmanship.
In terms of the stories, I think the best of them have seeped into the popular mindset. They have been edited and reprinted for readers of all ages. They have been turned into movies. Much as I disliked reading some of the stories, and thought they needed editing. Poe tends to expound at length on distracting topics, and he repeats, again and again, the same tropes and conventions to the point of pedanticism. But he is a brilliant storyteller. His stories are cryptograms, often historically funny as well as frightening, Poe had great insight into the human psyche, and also a great understanding of how to create myths that pervade the mind of both the individual and the greater culture beyond. In this, he reminds me of Dickens, although Dickens was by far the better artist. And in his understanding of the motivations, fears, and actions of his characters, he reminds me also of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. But Tolstoy wrote his novels with great understanding of the human psyche, but also with great love and care for his characters. Both he and Dostoyevsky were, again, far superior artists. And although Dostoyevsky explored some of the darker impulses of the human mind, and did so with great insight, his novels seem almost naive compared to the darkness explored by Poe. Perhaps here it is blessing that Poe's art does not bring the reader that sense of connection that Dostoyevsky does, because to do so would make the story unbearable.
But enough of Poe. I don't regret reading Poe, and he made me think of many things, including how little I understand Poe's writing and in fact that entire period in American Literature and its influence on the literature of today.
I do want to mention, briefly, What Strange Paradise. It is a beautiful book and I loved it. But it is also very dark, very sad, and has a very ambiguous and not hopeful ending. It is the story of a 9 year old Syrian boy who follows his uncle onto a fishing vessel set to sail north with a load of refugees seeking asylum. It is a rash decision and the boy, Amir, does not really understand what is happening, the pressures, or the consequences. The boat flounders, and Amir is the only survivor among hundreds of refugees found dead on a beach. The story is told, quite effectively, in alternating segments titled "Before" and "After". In each we see the world, often as interpreted by a small child. It can be quite devastating, and much of the story will bring up issues about bravery, desperation, hope, and fear, but also uncomfortable truths about cruelty, about the fleeting nature of outrage, and even kindness. It is a novel that can be quite uncomfortable to the sensitive reader, as it is explores the limits of hope, and the reality of a comfortable world that may rise up in occasional moments of outrage, but us otherwise perfectly content to keep unpleasant truths, especially those we fear might affect our own security, hidden behind barriers. It is a novel I will not soon forget.
