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Dear Readers,
I am going to take a possibly brief, possibly very long, possibly infinite break from this blog.  We shall see.
-Sam

Sentence By Sentence Rewards In This UNACCUSTOMED EARTH

I've heard literary types talk about writing that rewards sentence by sentence.  I just finished Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth.  I rarely read writing that exemplifies sentence by sentence beauty, poise, humanity, anguish, and joy the way Lahiri's does.  She's amazing.

On Prologues, Prefaces, Forewords, and Introductions...

Recently, I picked up a book (one I’ve been very much enjoying), and I was reminded of a certain…quirk I have as a reader.  I love to read, and I love to read across of broad swatch of forms and genres, but across all these genres, there’s a certain thing I don’t like, something that, while it might not make me put a book down, might make me skip part of that book.  And it’s right at the beginning.

Forewords, Prologues, Prefaces, Introductions…they have their differences, but they all say the same thing to me: “Here’s some stuff that comes before the actual story begins.”  While I’m slightly less biased against words placed at the beginning of the book by the author at the time that book was first written (as opposed to later, in reflection, after a book’s wild success), I view even these sections, arguably organic parts of the whole (and sometimes quite essential to the reader’s understanding of that whole), with a good dose of skepticism.  I read them with one eye closed—worried the author might slip something into this opening material that I’d rather have discovered on my own, later in the novel.  As a child, I routinely skipped these sections without a second thought.  As an adult, my tendencies lie in the same place; I just feel a little shy about admitting it (thus, a blog post to the universe).  I mean, I’m a reader.  I read all the time.  Why would I get hung up on having a few extra pages added just because they’re not called “Chapter One”?

That said, I’m a huge fan of Acknowledgements.  I adore the story of the book that seems to lie in Acknowledgments, even when it’s pretty much a list of names.  In fact, I’ll happily indulge in all sorts of extra material at the end of the book; often it gives me a chance to extend the experience of reading.  Sometimes, I might even go back and read the beginning, whatever it might be called.

Riding Out the Storm With CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS

A friend of mine who knows my interest in young adult books, asked if I’d ever read Captains Courageous.  When I said I hadn’t, he offered me his copy, and I had a chance to voyage back in time and onto the Atlantic Ocean along with Harvey Cheyne and the crew of the We’re Here.  While the place and time and people of Rudyard Kipling’s fishermen’s tale were pretty unfamiliar—I’m not sure I ever quite got my sea legs and fully acclimated to the jargon and dialect—there was also the sense of the familiar pulling me through.  For these are Gloucester fisherman, and I grew up on the North Shore of Massachusetts.  Every time someone mentioned Cape Ann, I wanted to mark the page for nostalgia’s sake alone.

Kipling sets up Harvey’s character and background quickly and efficiently, with lines like the following: “Like many other unfortunate young people, Harvey had never in his life received a direct order—never, at least, without long, and sometimes tearful explanations of the advantages of obedience and the reasons for the request” (7).  And once he’s established this spoiled boy lounging aboard a luxury liner, Kipling promptly dumps him overboard.  From that point on, Harvey—and the reader—joins the fishing crew of the We’re Here.

As you’d guess, the voyage—complete with direct orders—does Harvey well, and I’d recommend Captains Courageous to any boy—or man—who dreams of the open sea.  And I suspect Kipling’s We’re Here would stand up to those readers with actual experience on a fishing boat.  And while I never quite felt comfortable amongst the men of the We’re Here, part of me thinks that this is as it should be on board a late nineteenth century schooner, if I settled in cozily, the details probably wouldn’t be so real.  But the details that matter most are real, and stark, and unforgettable.  Once need not have fished cod in the Atlantic to understand the following statement of truth: “When a man has lost his only son, his summer’s work, and his means of livelihood, in thirty counted seconds, it is hard to give consolation” (90).

So if you’ve ever wanted to take a voyage back in time and into the sea, join Harvey and Dan and the rest of the crew.  I suspect all those aboard the We’re Here will welcome you so long as you work your share.

[Kipling, Rudyard.  Captains Courageous. New York: Bantam Dell, 1896.]

Drifting and Waiting

My next post will be about Rudyard Kipling's Captain's Courageous.  One of the reasons I read Captains Courageous is that a friend recommended it, another is that I was interested in reading a book about a teenager written before the term "YA" existed, and the third is that last summer I read Victoria Vinton's The Jungle Law.

The Jungle Law is fictionalized account of the time Rudyard Kipling lived in Vermont.  One of the great things about a novel that blends fact and fiction is that it can go deeper into the mind of a real person than might be possible in straight non-fiction.  I loved reading about Kipling's creative process, and I was especially taken with this passage:

"...his Daemon has arrived.  He can feel it like a change in the wind or a quickening of the pulse, the presence of the numinous spirit he believes inspires his work.  For this he's been accused of false modesty, of denying his own toil and gifts, but he knows better than his critics.  He knows he is only a vessel.  And all he must do now is what his Daemon asks: he must drift and wait and obey." (16)

I'm enchanted by the idea of an unseen muse, and this description of Kipling's relationship with his Daemon intrigued me and made me realize that I've yet to read one of his books...until now.  So next, I'll write about one of the gifts Kipling's Daemon delivered.

[Vinton, Victoria.  The Jungle Law. San Francisco: MacAdam/Cage, 2005.]

Book Club of Two?

My mom’s a reader, and I’ve been lucky enough to get a steady feed of great books sent my way when my mom finishes reading them.  Neither one of us is a book-club person, but the way I see it, we’ve got a book club of two.  It’s a transcontinental book-club at that—one that ranges from Vermont to Alaska.  We talk at least once a week, and it’s a rare conversation that doesn’t involve books.

Sometimes I’ll meet a student who has a book club of two with his or her parent.  This is so exciting to me.  It doesn’t have to be anything formal, but it’s a fun thing to try, and there are so many great books out there that can appeal to both teens and their parents.  In fact, these books are sort of evolving into their own genre “Crossover Lit.”  Think of The Book Thief, read by tons of adult book clubs yet classified as Young Adult.  Some of Jodi Picoult’s novels have crossed over in the opposite direction, and of course there’s that whole vampire series…what’s it called again?  When I read Little Brother by Cory Doctorow (which I’ll write more about in a later post), I immediately saw the crossover possibilities.  I think parents would enjoy meeting Margaret Rose Kane and her uncles just as much as their kids would.  Mothers who fondly remember Judy Blume might try reading Sarah Dessen books with their daughters; I promise it will still be just as much fun as it was when you were in eighth grade.

I’m grateful to my mom for inspiring me to become a reader, and I’m glad that she’s never stopped encouraging my literary pursuits.  My bookshelves, filled with books sent across the country from mom to me, are a true testament to that.

So consider forming a Book Club of Two…even if it’s just for a single book, who knows where it will take you.