Wednesday, February 10, 2016
call a professional
February. Now is the month of my discontent. I've been disgruntled about all kinds of things lately, and as usual, the only remedy is action. Take action! Take active steps toward any dream going! And, since some of the things I'm dreaming about are outside of my scope of engagement, I've had to call in professionals. Deep winter in Maine is the time of year for such people. Things break down during deep winter in Maine (people too, but that's another story). Around here, over the past few weeks, I've called in professionals to repair the furnace, the oven, and the roof. The furnace needed a new igniter. The oven needed a new temperature sensor. The roof needed emergency repairs after a storm carried away many shingles. The roofers say we need a new roof. And possibly some chimney-work, while they're at it. We are soon to be on their spring schedule, for both, after visiting the professional lenders at our bank. Speaking of money, I also had to find a new accountant, since our old one just informed us he is retiring for good. Professionals - what would we do without them!
In my life away from home maintenance, I've also recently hired a professional photographer to take pictures of a big batch of paintings. And now I'm working with a professional designer to use the photographs to create a booklet for my upcoming solo show. In each of these cases, I considered doing the work myself, and then realized that what I wanted to have happen was beyond my current ability and technical means, and I needed a professional. Now is not the time for amateur work! I sometimes hope my dilettante years are behind me, but then I look at the evidence - all around, much of it to the contrary - and thank goodness I can at least call on professionals when I need help.
Speaking of dilettantes. As we do sometimes around here. I still haven't finished Horace Walpole's Letters. And at this point, I think I won't. I'll let him live on in the eternal present of his correspondence. A world I have come to love. Although Walpole doesn't have terribly good opinions about professionals, come to think of it. He hates physicians and refuses to be treated by them over the course of his life, with a few notable and disastrous exceptions. He dislikes printers and booksellers (often one and the same) and their cabals and contracts. Not to mention many authors, and historians. And politicians... well, he feels about them the way many of us still do today. Poets and artists, now, these are another matter. I wish he had had a better opinion of his own dear self, however. Near the end of his life, he writes:
"...when I came to rummage in the old chest of my memory, I found it so full of rubbish that when I came to set down the contents, some of which were imperfect remnants, I grew ashamed..." (Volume IX p.473)
I know how he feels. Even as I strive for professionalism in my own chosen fields. But I'm meandering at this point, for lack of anything better to say. Except, in the wake of Walpole, I am really missing the structure of a long winter reading project this year - something to occupy the cold late afternoon hours, after I've either worked or tried to work in the studio, and want to make the most of my time on this planet, by learning all that I can about the ways and means of its inhabitants. That might be at the heart of my current discontent. I haven't been idle by any means - all this maintenance - and much more besides. Like, in the past week, applying for a juried art show, applying for a grant for painters (for art supplies; for help with the roof over my painting studio), and framing seventy paintings for my show! Idleness is not in my nature, although I enjoy it if it occurs naturally. But lately, with everything on my mind and then some, I often find myself awake in the middle of the night, thinking, "Am I doing enough? Am I doing everything I need to be doing? Time is passing!" February thoughts. Stronger than usual, this year.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
unfinished business: a heap of words
Okay, enough gloom and doom. January's bad enough, already, without lingering on the unspeakable (for long). Instead of continuing in this vein, staring down various memento mori, I thought I'd take care of a bit of housekeeping instead. Because for months now (literally) I've wanted to write about Horace Walpole and his opinions about the books and authors of his own time. One of the great pleasures of reading his Letters has been hearing him voice his decided opinions. He was such a book-lover, and responded to so many major publications as they happened. He was not afraid to say what he loved and what he despised, as well as mention the many lukewarm inbetweens. I've had a stack of my diaries sitting here by my computer for weeks, waiting for a quiet afternoon to go through them and revisit my copious notes from Walpole's Letters, and today is the day. I usually fill three moleskine diaries a year; this year I filled five. All the notes I took from Walpole are largely responsible for this state of affairs. Let's riffle through the pages together and let Walpole speak once more.
Before that, though, I must mention what I actually read. Late last spring, I began with the two-volume set, A Selection of the Letters of Horace Walpole, edited by Wilmarth Lewis (Harper 1926). I enjoyed them so much that I then turned to The Letters of Horace Walpole, edited by Peter Cunningham, in nine volumes. Originally published in 1858, my set is a reprint from 1906, published by John Grant in Edinburgh. I started with the ninth volume, because I couldn't wait to read more of his letters to his friends during the years just before his death. Then I went back and started at the beginning, with Volume I. This all happened last April. I wonder, if I stretch out my reading just a bit more, if I could spend an entire year in his company...? That's never happened to me before, with any one author. I still haven't finished Volume VIII. And I've never read his famous gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto, and I have many other little bibelots of his on hand, also as yet unread. Hmm. But, that's for another day. For now - books and authors. A lifetime's worth of reading! (This will be an impossibly long post - I'm sure no one will bother to read it all the way through, since it's only going to be a very long list of quotations from our hero, of all the things I don't want to forget - so please bear with me, as I attempt to cope with my unfinished business...!)
First, in his literary panoply, there is a definite a hierarchy:
"...when I think over all the great authors of the Greeks, Romans, Italians, French, and English (and I know no other languages), I set Shakespeare first and alone, and then begin anew." (Lewis Volume II p.271)
He also states his general reading preferences:
"I revere genius; I have a dear friendship for common sense; I have a partiality for professed nonsense..." (Lewis Volume II p.395)
And then spells them out for us even more clearly:
"...I read only to amuse myself, and not to be informed or convinced..." (Cunningham Volume IX p.338)
After these basic assertions, shall we discuss his loves or hates first? The hates it is. Let's start with the big one. Or rather, ones. It pains me to write this, but Walpole deeply disliked Samuel Johnson and James Boswell. His letters are full of anecdotes, disparagement, and mockery of them both. Johnson reminds me of a bumblebee (*dum-de-dum-de-dum*), and Walpole a wasp (*zing*). Walpole starts with Boswell:
"Boswell, that quintessence of busybodies, called on me last week, and was let in, which he should not have been, could I have foreseen it." (Lewis Volume II p.348)
Then Johnson fares no better. Walpole thought Boswell's Life of Johnson betrayed their mutual friends. He disliked Boswell for the betrayal, and disliked Johnson for his style and manner:
"He loved to dispute to show his superiority.... Johnson's blind Toryism and known brutality kept me aloof.... In the two new volumes Johnson says... that Gray's poetry is dull, and that he was a dull man! The same oracle dislikes Prior, Swift, and Fielding. If an elephant could write a book, perhaps one that had read a great deal would say that an Arabian horse is a very clumsy, ungraceful animal." (Lewis Volume II pp.447-449)
Walpole gets pretty specific about why he dislikes Johnson so much:
"...Dr. Johnson's 'Tour to the Western Isles.' What a heap of words to express very little! and though it is the least cumbrous of any style he ever used, how far from easy and natural!" (Cunningham Volume VI pp.178-179)
And, of Johnson's Life of Pope:
"It is a most trumpery performance, and stuffed with all his crabbed phrases and vulgarisms, and much trash as anecdotes.... How was it possible to marshall words so ridiculously?" (Cunningham Volume VIII pp.26-27)
He also says of Johnson:
"Some of his own works show that he had, at times, strong excellent sense; and that he had the virtues of charity to a high degree, is indubitable; but his friends (of whom he made a woeful choice) have taken care to let the world know, that in behaviour he was an ill-natured bear, and in opinions as senseless a bigot as an old washerwoman." (Cunningham Volume IX p.46)
Ouch! Hard to read! He did have good things to say about other contemporaries, however, so let's leaven this conversation with a few notes to that end. About finishing the early volumes of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon, Walpole is:
"...extremely pleased. It is a most wonderful mass of information." (Cunningham Volume IX p.126)
He even writes directly to Gibbon, that he is "...in the greatest admiration of the style, manner, method, clearness, and intelligence...." of his writing. And again to Gibbon, "You have, unexpectedly, given the world a classic history. The fame it must acquire will tend every day to acquit this panegyric of flattery.... do not suspect me of flattering you. You will always hear that I say the same of you to everybody." (Cunningham Volume VI pp.306-308)
Walpole tells us at one point that his favorite book is the Memoirs of the Count de Grammont (Cunningham Volume V p.426); he even reprinted it at his own press, but in a small edition, so as "...not to make my favourite book common." (ibid)
And one of his very favorite authors is Madame de Sévigné. Throughout his own letters, he refers to hers, with grace and gratitude. He calls himself a "Sévignist" and even goes to see her house, when he visits Paris (Cunninham Vol II p.442). He writes so beautifully about her. I'll just choose one example from the many, which accomplishes what any good reading recommendation should - inspiration to seek her writing out, to see for myself:
"Madame de Sévigné spread her gold-leaf over all her acquaintance, and made them shine..." (Cunningham Volume VI p.24)
He admires other female writers. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and the impending publication of her papers, for instance, which sound fascinating indeed:
"...I do not doubt but they are an olio of lies and scandal. I should like to see them. She had parts, and had seen much." (Cunningham Volume IV p.32)
And other writers of letters, too. Such as Montesquieu:
"...I could not go to bed till I had finished them at nearly three in the morning; and yet there is very little in them but ease and graces. I am a little scandalised at the notes, which, though very true, are too bitter, considering the persons are alive..." (Cunningham Volume V p.52)
"I shall go to town to-morrow and send for my Lord Chesterfield's Letters, though I know all I wished to see is suppressed." (Cunningham Volume VI p.73) When he does get them, he stays up late reading: "...without being well entertained, I sat up reading last night till between one and two, and devoured above 140. To my great surprise they seem really written from the heart, not for the honour of his head..." (Volume VI p.74)
But then, after all this praise, we swing back to some strong dislikes:
"...at present nothing is talked of, nothing admired, but what I cannot help calling a very insipid and tedious performance: it is a kind of novel, called 'The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy;' the great humour of which consists in the whole narration always going backwards. I can conceive a man saying that it would be droll to write a book in that manner, but have no notion of his persevering in executing it. It makes one smile two or three times at the beginning, but in recompense makes one yawn for two hours." (Cunningham Volume III p.298)
He comes about, however, with Laurence Sterne's other great work, A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy, in two volumes:
"They are very pleasing, though too much dilated, and infinitely preferable to his tiresome 'Tristram Shandy,' of which I could never get through three volumes." (Cunningham Volume V p.91)
Walpole could damn with faint praise, so well. On Edmund Burke:
"He is a sensible man, but has not worn off his authorism yet, and thinks there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one. He will know better one of these days." (Cunningham Volume III p.420)
He notes the "Stupefying effect of Richardson's novels on the French nation..." (Cunningham Volume IV p.xvi)
And thought Voltaire a genuine genius, who had let his genius go to seed, through complacency and ego:
"I heard last night that Voltaire is dead; now one may buy his works safely, as he cannot write them over and over again." (Cunningham Volume VI p.21)
Walpole has little tolerance for the boring. Like Lord Lyttelton's Henry the Second:
"I began it, but, I don't know how, I was tired. It is so crowded with clouds of words, and they are so uninteresting..." (Cunningham Volume V p.356)
He gets disappointed, as we all sometimes do, with long-awaited sequels:
"I am reading Montaigne's Travels, which have lately been found; there is little in them but the baths and medicines he took, and what he had everywhere for dinner." (Cunningham Volume VI p.89)
Not to mention the times in general:
"What shall we come to? I am afraid of opening a new book. The reigning dulness is so profound, that it is not even ridiculous. (Cunningham Volume VI p.92)
And shall we talk about poetry? He loves good poetry, and several poets are among his closest friends. But, he really hates epic poetry. Says the Aeneid's story is "...silly and unaffecting..." (Cunningham Volume III p.193), but other ancient authors he loves. Says Lucan's lines "...go to one's soul and one's heart..." (ibid)
But back to epics: about Fingal/Ossian - "...I cannot at once compass an epic poem now. It tires me to death to read how many ways a warrior is like the moon, or the sun, or a rock, or a lion, or the ocean." (Lewis Volume I p.139) And, "Epic poetry is the art of being as long as possible in telling an uninteresting story; and an epic poem is a mixture of history without truth and of romance without imagination." (Lewis Volume II p.358) And again, "...I see no materials for making anew an old thing called an Epic poem." (Cunningham Volume VIII p.251) Enter Lord Byron! I couldn't help but think!
I could go on and on. I will for a bit longer. Walpole talks about Pope, Hume ("...that superficial mountebank..." Cunningham Volume VIII p.421), Rousseau, Fanny Burney, Hannah More, the other bluestockings, the whole literary scene of the time, for decades. It's fascinating stuff, in my book, and I wish the Letters would never end. With that in mind, I'm still considering taking some volumes of the massive Yale set of his correspondence out of the local research library, but can't quite bring myself to to so. Yet.
A few more quotations of note, before I wrap up. Walpole mentions many books I will never, ever read - for instance, something he refers to as Dr. Nash's Worcestershire, Volume One:
"It is a folio of prodigious corpulence..." (Cunningham Volume VIII p.21)
And Lord Hardwicke's proposed mention of Walpole's father, Robert Walpole, in his forthcoming unnamed book:
"There is generally a little indirect malice, but so much more dullness, that the latter soon suffocates the former. (Cunningham Volume VIII p.25)
Then Walpole mentions someone named Harris of Salsbury, who wrote two volumes, on a subject unknown:
"Harris was one of those wiseacres whom such wiseacres as himself cried up for profound; but he was more like the scum at the top of a well." (Cunningham Volume VIII p.36)
Unlike the last few, this next one does make me want to track down the item in question:
"Soame Jenyns's book is a chef d'oeuvre of imprudent profligacy..." (Cunningham Volume VIII p.180)
Likewise, this - Walpole says of his friend Mason's memoir of the poet Thomas Gray, another dear friend:
"...I shall be reading it and reading it for the rest of my life." (Cunningham Volume VI p.197)
Perhaps I will be able to say the same, about Walpole's Letters. A few months ago an old well-read friend of mine asked me what I was reading, and when I said Walpole, he sighed and said, "Oh, his style is so good. He sounds so contemporary." Very true. His prose remains clean and conversational and funny and interesting, throughout his life. And, I loved reading about all these books and authors, as they happened - in real time, as it were. A literature class come to life, in the best ways. I want to write more - Walpole's observations about illness, medicine, and physicians, for instance, are terrible and fascinating. He spent months and months prostrated by gout, and had many subsequent thoughts about that particular ailment. Perhaps another day. Thanks for reading, if anyone made it to the bottom of this long missive. Bless you!
Saturday, January 16, 2016
ashes to ashes
Not having a long winter reading project this year has me at loose ends, bookwise and otherwise. While casting around for something good to read this month, something fresh and immediate and consoling, I lighted upon John of the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir, edited by Linnie Marsh Wolfe (my copy is a 1981 softcover reprint from the University of Wisconsin Press), bought at a booksale earlier this year for a dollar, and languishing on my to-be-read stack ever since. Maybe reading diaries is going to be my winter project, since I burned through Muir this week and am now in the middle of The Daybooks of Edward Weston, but I'll save the latter for another day, and just mention Muir for now. So many lovely passages and notes, made on his scrambles, rambles, and journeys around the American West. My glad heart responded, as so many hearts already have, to his firsthand accounts of the glories of nature, from quiet moments to overwhelmingly magnificent spectacles. Some of my favorite passages are as hushed as the snow falling here in Maine today.
January 1869: "A sweet, bright balmy cluster of radiant January days." (p.17)
February 1873: "Jubilee of snow descending ceaselessly from the fields of light." (p.114)
Undated: "The touch of invisible things is in snow, the lightest, tenderest of all material. I have lain in the calm deeps of woods with my face to the snowflakes falling like the touch of fingertips upon my eyes." (p.439)
Muir tells us in the Journals that he had a terrible time trying to put his thoughts down and then form them into his books. But he found a way, and we are blessed with the results of his toil, both on paper and in the land he was tireless in advocating for (his story is well-known but here is a link anyway, about his life and work). He would rather have been out in the woods or up on mountaintops, rather than attempting to write:
1872: "I have a low opinion of books; they are but piles of stones set up to show coming travelers where other minds have been, or at best smoke signals to call attention.... One day's exposure to mountains is better than cartloads of books." (pp.94-94)
January 1873: "Instead of narrowing my attention to bookmaking out of material I have already eaten and drunken, I would rather stand in what all the world would call an idle manner, literally gaping with all the mouths of soul and body, demanding nothing, fearing nothing, but hoping and enjoying enormously. So-called sentimental, transcendental dreaming seems the only sensible and substantial business that one can engage in." (pp.102-103)
1895: "Busy reading. This I can do always from morn till night and never weary. But composition - the devil seems to keep me from it, though I feel that my day of life is fast speeding away and that I must tell my story to the world." (p.338)
Well, I know how he feels. That swiftly-moving river of time is relentless. The death of my biological father was profoundly unsettling, and I've just been getting my feet under me again and even feeling a measure of peace. And then... my grandfather died, last Sunday. My stepfather's father. I've known him for over forty years now. He lived a beautiful life, full of so many of the best experiences and things that this world has to offer, and died at age 95. He had recently finished a new sculpture and was planning on having it cast.
All of our plans, for our lives. To what do they amount? A few books, here and there, some paintings. One volume of Complete Poems, perhaps. I'm having more trouble than usual with this idea, this week, and experiencing cognitive dissonance, if I'm thinking of the right term. Everything matters. Nothing matters. Both feel true. This makes my my brain hurt, not to mention my heart.
Books are a refuge, as always. Muir's Journals were a joy to read. I feel like I could make paintings from the word-pictures he writes, about clouds, mountains, waterfalls, glaciers, trees, creatures. He paints with words the way painters do with paint - using facts and specifics as starting points, then quickly moving to some other place that incorporates all of those and yet reaches beyond, toward transcendence. After finishing the Journals, I cast around once again. Now, I would have sworn I had no other John Muir books in this house. But. I remembered having a Galen Rowell photography book about Yosemite - which Muir wrote about so feelingly - so I went in search of that, to see if I could match up some images with what I'd been reading (I have six or seven Galen Rowell books, some of his work is simply sublime, and takes me to places I might never experience otherwise). I found the book in question, pulled it off the shelf, and... saw that it is in fact a reprint by the Sierra Club of John Muir's book The Yosemite, with new photographs and commentary thereon by Galen Rowell (Sierra Club Books 1989). So I sat down and read, and gazed, and read some more. All the wildness, the polar opposite of the Letters of Horace Walpole, I can't even say. I mean, talk about cognitive dissonance - all the ways in which a life might be successfully lived! I think I've postponed finishing the Walpole Letters because I don't want to read about his death, after having spent so much time in his company. (And, in a different vein, but not really, don't even get me started about David Bowie - ashes to ashes - goodbye, to one of my first loves.) Muir's Journals don't spare me from that, although his take on the finale of life is not a harsh one. In fact he writes in a singularly beautiful manner about death in all its forms.
About a heart-friend:
"Him I regard as one of the noblest, most devoutly revered enrichments of my life, on which distance, and even death, makes no difference." (p.432)
About everything in nature:
"...all alike pass on and away under the law of death and love." (p.440)
Again, about all of us:
"Myriads of rejoicing living creatures, daily, hourly, perhaps every moment sink into death's arms, dust to dust, spirit to spirit - waited on, watched over, noticed only by their Maker, each arriving at its own heaven-dealt destiny." (ibid)
He did not have a dark view of our denouement. Quite the contrary. Because he knew otherwise, from direct observation:
"Every dark and terrible abyss in nature is lighted with a like circle of love...." (p.125)
Surely that includes us, and our lives. After all, we're nature too.
Friday, January 01, 2016
a new day, for a new year
2016 is off to a fine start. Ryan and I spent most of this first day of the year beachcombing (and scouting out potential painting locations) on a remote point, with ocean on three sides, and spectacular views in all directions of the compass. The sun peeked in and out of soft clouds, the new snow from earlier in the week had melted just enough to be picturesque without being dangerous, on the wide granite ledges we were scrambling around on, sea ducks were softly talking amongst themselves just offshore, and the day was even warm enough to go without a hat when we were in the shelter of the point. My heart felt as wide open as the big spaces around me. A huge, clean, clear feeling. An antidote to recent grief. Couldn't be much happier, I thought:
But happiness comes in so many forms - communion with nature certainly, but also via words, books, and blogs - and my heart lifted yet again when I read Ronald Blythe's most recent essay, just added to the Word from Wormingford blog of his writings for the Church Times. So much I love, contained in a few brief paragraphs - Blythe himself, of course, and also Pepys and Evelyn, Horace Walpole and Chips Channon (haven't read his diary yet, cannot wait) - diaries and journals, their similarities and differences, and the resolution to begin writing such things oneself, on New Year's Day! I couldn't let all this go by unmentioned, here, when my gratitude for all good things is running high.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Lots of end-of-year thoughts are wending their sluggish way through my brain this week. I have irons in the fire, and lots of them, and yet very little incentive or gumption or whatever it takes to stir them up and watch the sparks fly. I walk into my painting studio and turn around and walk back out. I walk into the book room and do the same. Most disheartening. I think I'm experiencing the state of torpor common to so many animals this time of year, in our cold climate. The usual, then, plus the death of my father, which is a reality I am slowly becoming accustomed to, has me in something of a state. However, I'm self-aware enough to remember that simple household chores and blessedly thick books have carried me through many another dark hour, and so I clean the house and turn to my bookshelves to see what there is to see. I can't seem to finish the Letters of Horace Walpole, and am at a loss, for the first time in forever, regarding a really substantial winter reading project. So I find myself picking up books I've already read many times. They offer comfort, in their familiar roundabout way. And even make me laugh, too:
"The situation threatened to prolong itself."
A perfect - and perfectly apt - sentence, in my book. From Dorothy L. Sayers, Busman's Honeymoon (Avon 1968, p.137).
This month I got lost once again in a few of her mystery novels, including Strong Poison, then her masterpiece, Gaudy Night, and The Nine Tailors, and the aforementioned Busman's Honeymoon, and all the Lord Peter short stories, then turned to her letters, the first volume of which I happen to have on hand. Fascinating to read on the heels of her novels - they illuminate and reveal so much about her life and relationships. Not to mention the course of her creative life and attendant motivations. I loved this, in particular, from "How I Came to Invent the Character of Lord Peter Wimsey" - an essay printed in Harcourt Brace News in 1936 and quoted in a footnote of The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers 1899-1936: The Making of a Detective Novelist, selected and edited by Barbara Reynolds (St. Martin's Press 1996, pp.184-185):
"Lord Peter's large income... I deliberately gave him. After all it cost me nothing and at that time I was particularly hard up and it gave me pleasure to spend his fortune for him. When I was dissatisfied with my single unfurnished room I took a luxurious flat for him in Piccadilly. When my cheap rug got a hole in it, I ordered him an Aubusson carpet. When I had no money to pay my bus fare I presented him with a Daimler double-six, upholstered in a style of sober magnificence, and when I felt dull I let him drive it."
And, most satisfyingly, he proceeded to make her fortune for her (or rather, she made it for herself). I love that message - even the potential of it, that one's creations must be made, and are made, to suit oneself, and then...? They make their way into the world and from time to time might even offer varying definitions of success in return. Of course I know this is rare, but wonderful nevertheless, to know that it could happen. Dorothy L. Sayers certainly earned it. Meanwhile the rest of us un-geniuses work on (or not, as the case may be...), with hope. A good thought to end with, as my own creative projects languish on their respective shelves and easels, waiting for brighter days ahead. Soon to come, I know. A blessed new year to us all.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
'Tis the season: the solstice, and acknowledgement of our darkest days; the time just after, including Christmas, for the gradual return of the light; then the new year ahead, stretching out like a fairweather promise. Here at our house we've got our favorite Christmas books set up in the living room - among them Miracle on 34th Street by Valentine Davies and Christmas in Maine by Robert P. Tristram Coffin. Father Christmas, New York City, and Maine, all sharing a small table. We also have a chair, old, but new to our household. It belonged to my father, in his last years, when he moved from New York City to Maine. He is far away once again, but the chair now lives here with us.
When I walk into the living room and see it, with its cheerful cushion, it feels as if I am welcoming his memory. Come and sit, for a time, and browse in some good books. Stay a while. Rest, in peace.
Donald Gordon Faragher, October 6, 1933 - November 30, 2015.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Another week will mark ten years of writing here. Will I ever stop? I can’t answer that question, but I do know that the time is not yet. And I also know that I always regretted the times I did stop, and always rejoiced when I started to write on this page once again (today is such a day). My love of books and reading has waxed and waned and waxed again, over the years. I have always written diaries, but I began to write here because of my bookshop. Then closed the shop. I loved it and still think of it fondly and often, but I’m so very glad I’m no longer sitting in it from day to day. Life has opened up in ways I never could have foreseen and I hope this continues indefinitely. And of course I continue to read, and hope that continues indefinitely too!
Speaking of reading. As we do around here. I went away for a painting residency at the end of October and took nearly a carton of books with me. The residency was three weeks long. Did I read any of those books? Among them many old favorites and some brand new can’t-wait-to-read-THIS-ones? No, no I did not. I painted and painted and painted some more, and during the dark evenings inside, after painting outside all day in the clear, slanting late-fall sunshine, I turned on a clip light with a full-spectrum lightbulb and kept right on painting. Then I only wanted to write about those paintings and nature, and my feelings – and how they all intersect – in my diary, and then maybe look at a book about Maine trees and books about bird identification, since I wanted to know more about the birds and trees I’d just been painting and gazing at. Thus I read much of Forest Trees of Maine, which has terrific color pictures, and browsed in Birds of Maine Field Guide by Stan Tekiela (Adventure Publications 2002) and the National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds, Eastern Region (Knopf 2003). And that was it. I did not open the new book I was most excited to start, M Train by Patti Smith (Knopf 2015). Or the second new book I was most excited to start, Distant Neighbors: The Selected Letters of Wendell Berry and Gary Snyder (Counterpoint 2015), who have been writing to each other for decades, which I did not know. And, when the residency ended, and I returned home, I still didn’t want to read anything. I did pounce on my job-well-done-Sarah gift, a wordless book that arrived in the mail while I was away. A Yorkshire Sketchbook by painter David Hockney (Royal Academy Books 2012). I gazed and gazed at this gorgeous little facsimile watercolor sketchbook as if it contained all the most important news of the day.
Speaking of the news of the day. Everything is almost unbearable, isn’t it? Terrorist attacks around the world. Refugees. Ridiculous political situations in this country and elsewhere. Guns. Climate change. I don’t even know what to say about any of it. Other than this: I cannot live an effective (much less happy) life while feeling continually appalled and fearful. So I take in what I am able to, then take small active steps toward peaceful change, and determine within myself to be at least twice as kind as usual with everyone I encounter in life. And I keep trying to add to the sum total of beauty and meaning in the world. By painting, writing - any means necessary. It seems so futile, but I believe in beauty and goodness and peace and I refuse to stop believing, despite evidence to the contrary.
I’ve been home for well over a week now. And a few days ago, when I finally had the urge to pick up a book, what was it? I looked through the massive stack of wonderful reading material that’s been waiting so patiently for some attention from me for months now, and what did I do? I went back to a familiar bookshelf, gazed at The Letters of Horace Walpole, saw my own bookmark in the middle of Volume XIII, pulled the book off the shelf, carried it off, and began to read once more. Returning to the drawing-rooms of the eighteenth century, after three weeks of living outside in wild nature, was, in a word, a trip. He writes about the contemporary scene so beautifully, and I missed him so much! And I realized again with a shock just how far we’ve come in some arenas, in some countries – here for instance, I, a middle-aged woman, was just able to go and live alone on public land (in a national park), and spend my days exactly as I most wanted to. Working at my art, wearing what I want – work pants! warm clothes! blaze orange! – making no concessions to anything other than nature and the limits of my own body, skills, and knowledge. How completely different than the lives of Walpole’s female friends! Card-playing dowagers, minor royalty, married nieces, and in-laws – I just read about one dying after having thirteen children, for god’s sake. And yet Walpole’s take on politics and wars and violence is fairly close to my own, and his writing on those subjects, during that volatile time in world history, is full of sketches that sound utterly modern. More despair on my part – will the human race ever learn? Anything?? I will answer these questions myself, and I know where the answers are to be found. Yes. In art. In books. And in the making of these things, and in the experiencing of them. Not that I have any inside track on what might be the right thing to do in life – far from it! I wouldn’t presume to speak for anyone else – all I know is what works in my own heart, to keep despair at bay and keep gratitude in bloom.
Speaking of gratitude. I have a great deal for the few long-term readers of this blog. It's been a tremendous pleasure to engage in a shared literary life with like-minded souls, over the past ten years. As you may know, I am a homebody who enjoys solitude, perhaps too much, and finds it difficult to speak easily about all sorts of things in person, books among them. As such, writing here has been a great blessing. Thank you, so very much. I hope we continue to read and discuss books and life for years to come.