Author: ellen

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“To the End of the Land”

Someone I know, reading this book, said that he hated putting it down because it was so beautiful and he hated picking it up because it was so painful. That seems as good a description as any of reading “To the End of the Land,” the new novel by Israeli author David Grossman.

Yes, it is a beautiful book. The characters are complex, flawed, understandable, inscrutable. They live with an impossible backstory and an equally impossible present that is part of living in a country where the political is overwhelmingly, pervasively personal.

The story is this: Ora, mother of a son in the army, leaves her home to hike through the country so that if/when the “notifiers” come to her door with bad news, she will not be there to receive it. It is a hike she had planned to take with her son. She takes it, instead, with an old friend, “old friend” in this case being a bloodless euphemism for how these two intertwined lives have unfolded.

“A Woman Escaping News,” the novel’s title in Hebrew, carries a very different message from the English. “To the End of the Land” has echoes of geopolitics and journey. “A Woman Escaping News” deals more in magical thinking, the illusion that anything we do could be a bargaining chip for the lives and safety of those we love. The news the woman, Ora is trying to escape exists not only in the world and possibly on her doorstep, but also in her anguished rehashing of past events, regrets, misunderstandings.

Because so much has been written about this book and its author it is impossible to come to it without the knowledge that Grossman’s son Uri, who was in the Israeli army, was killed while his father was writing the book. But even knowing that, it feels like a shock to come to the afterword in which Grossman tells how he started this book three years before Uri’s death, gave Uri updates on its progress, and completed it after the story had taken this tragically personal turn.

This is a sad book, yes, but it’s also an extraordinary one that I highly recommend.

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Jane, Annotated

At first I was less than charmed by the idea. An annotated edition of “Pride and Prejudice”? Could be interesting, yes, but this was one of my favorite books. Did I want to read it with 2000 footnotes? Did I want this additional voice intruding on my private time with Elizabeth Bennett? The answer, as it turns out, is yes. I kept an open mind on this, and now, dear reader, I must tell you how much I am enjoying this. The book, officially, is “Pride and Prejudice: An Annotated Edition,” edited by Patricia Meyer Spacks and published by Harvard University Press.

First of all, the book is physically beautiful. An e-book is all well and good in its place, but this is not the place. This is a large, heavy book with paper that affords noticeable tactile pleasure. There are wonderful illustrations, from the familiar watercolor of Jane painted by her sister Cassandra, to a wonderful drawing “A Gentleman’s Art Gallery” that shows what a room at Pemberley might have looked like, to a group of illustrations done for the book in 1894, including a priceless one in which the unbearable Mr. Collins is recoiling at the thought of–horrors!–reading a novel. One of my favorites is the poster from the movie version with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier, that looks like the cover of a paperback bodice-ripper.

The footnotes, rather than getting in the way, are like having a knowledgeable companion on the sofa next to you, pointing out all the good bits. I had the pleasure of hearing Patricia Spacks talk about the book, and her warm voice is exactly what I hear as I read about various kinds of coaches the characters rode in, the relative levels of social standing of the characters, or what quadrille is. A chatty aside may dish about how Mr. Collins looks at women and furniture alike as objects awaiting his approval or disapproval.

Maybe a gift for the Austen fan in your life?

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Mary Ann is back!

I just got my online copy of this week’s New York Times Book Review and–thank you, life!– Armistead Maupin has given a gift to everyone who ever loved the residents of 28 Barbary Lane.

For the uninitiated, Maupin wrote a series of novels–”Tales of the City,” “More Tales of the City, “ “Further Tales of the City,”etc. in which a very diverse group of San Francisco residents lived under the unstated motto of “Can’t we all just get along.” I loved those people–Michael Tolliver, Anna Madrigal of the anagram name, and the often naive Mary Ann Singleton who innocently rented a room in the boarding house and, well, you have to find out for yourself. Reading those books felt like having an endearing, but slightly out of control group of houseguests descend for an intense, brief time. A little crazy, but after they left, you worried about them, missed them, wanted them to come back.

PBS made a film of the first book that starred Laura Linney as Mary Ann and Olympia Dukakis as Anna, so you can just imagine the deliciousness. And now–oh joy!–a new book. Mary Ann in Autumn. Oh, autumn. Well, ok, I got older, too. I can handle this. I’m ready for whatever Maupin brings my way. In fact, I can’t wait.

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Facing “The Social Network”

Judging by how empty the theater was, I was probably was among the last people in Cambridge to see “The Social Network.” Since I saw it I’ve been unable to get it out of my mind.

It’s not the accuracy of the portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg that I’ve been wondering about or the merit of the lawsuits brought against him by those who felt they had been done wrong in the Facebook creation story. And, though the look at undergraduate life at Harvard is cringe-inducing and depressing, that’s not what has been staying with me either.

Here’s the thing: Zuckerberg, rightly or wrongly, is pictured as socially dysfunctional. His one friendship, with Eduardo Saverin–which actually seems like generosity on Saverin’s part–is tossed away with, well, did I detect even a flicker of regret. Nowhere in the film is any indication that Zuckerberg, brilliant though he is, has any real connection to any other human being. He appears in the same room with other people; he talks with other people, though the subject matter here is always Facebook-related, but there is no sense that any human interaction is taking place. It’s all about the work, work that has, admittedly, rewarded his single-mindedness with unprecedented wealth and power.

I admit that, just like 500 million others, I’m on Facebook. It’s fun to catch up with friends I might not otherwise be in touch with very often. And some of my “friends” are people I don’t really know or barely know, but whom I like or admire or am interested in and am glad to be a little in contact with. Put down in writing, that does sound strange, but never mind. You understand, I know you do. Everyone’s doing it.

And that’s what I can’t stop thinking about about “The Social Network”: this is essentially the story of a loner who, despite being apparently socially clueless and not all that interested in other people, has created a way for them to interact. And the way we interact on Facebook, the way we think of our connections to other people, the way we’ve learned to use the word “friend” is…well…kind of like Mark Zuckerberg.

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Time to “Howl”!

The word made picture is always problematic, especially when the word is poetry. But I was happy to find the movie “Howl” the most successful attempt I’ve seen.

There are many layers here. There’s “Howl” the poem at the heart of it all. And there’s “Howl” the event that made a generation of critics, readers, and self-annointed keepers of public morality howl with varying degrees of delight and outrage. And there was “Howl” the court case, which ruled on the question of whether or not publication of the poem should be prohibited on the grounds of obscenity. Finally, there was the poet, Allen Ginsberg, himself, whose howl of protest became one of the 20th century’s touchstones.

The movie manages to incorporate each of these. It cuts from James Franco as the young Ginsberg reading his poem to Ginsberg a few years later giving an interview to a courtroom in which the obscenity trial is taking place. In doing so, the film gives a sense of the immediate reaction to the poem and the context of its appearance in 1950s America.

The movie does one other thing, which I found extraordinary. It actually makes parts of the poem visible through illustrations that are as imaginative and captivating as they are uneven. They’re far from perfect, but they are an engaging attempt to add an additional dimension to the words. Do the words need an additional dimension? Most definitely not. But how likely would it be to have a film about a poem that relied on the spoken word alone? Actually, how likely would it be to have a film about a poem at all?

That’s what I found most exhilarating about “Howl” the movie. It actually starred “Howl” the poem. It has a lot going on, to be sure, but it gets out of the way of the words enough so you can tell what all the fuss continues to be about. “Howl” the poem is astounding.

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What’s a book review for?

I’m often baffled by book reviews. Especially the ones in the New York Times on Sunday, which sometimes seem to have a backstory between reviewer and author that we, the reading public, are not privileged to know. This week’s Times has a page one review of Philip Roth’s latest by Leah Hager Cohen that, for me, is exactly what a book review should be.

Cohen starts off admitting that, in the past, she has been less than charmed by Roth’s body of work. I’m right there. She freely admits, too, being a little surprised to have been the one The Times called on for this review.

And then she writes the sentences that I have longed to see in a review: “Why, I wondered, if the guy’s so anti-everything, does he keep bothering to write?…I don’t think it’s a bad question.My mistake was in asking it rhetorically.”

And she goes on to uncover with great care and an open mind, exactly what she thinks Roth is trying to accomplish in novel after novel and now in this latest, “Nemesis.” Yes, she makes me want to run out and buy the book, but that’s only part of the point. She also makes me grateful to be a reader on the verge of opening a book I can look at in a new way. She makes me, as a writer, hope for readers who come to my work with respect and in a spirit of open inquiry.

I have written–well, maybe ranted–before about why some book reviews are written when they seem to be about showcasing the reviewer’s own oh so clever and perceptive writing. In this one, Cohen herself was very visible, but in the best possible way. She was offering herself as our intelligent guide to a book we, apparently, must read. Isn’t that what a review is for?

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The occasional recipe: Laurie Colwin’s tomato pie

In my last post I mentioned Laurie Colwin, a writer who inspired the same kind of great affection as the late Wendy Wasserstein. Like Wasserstein, Colwin died tragically young and, like her, had a quality in her work that made me feel she could have been one of my best friends if only we had had the chance to meet.

In addition to her wonderful novels and short stories–and if you haven’t read them I strongly suggest you do–she wrote essays on food which were collected into two books, “Home Cooking” and “More Home Cooking.” Mixed into with the smart, funny, opinionated musings are some terrific recipes. One of them is a tomato pie that never fails to delight. When I made it for a brunch not long ago, everyone wanted the recipe. Recently my friend Dan said it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. So you really need to try it.

Colwin offers it with a made-from-scratch biscuit crust that I can only imagine is heavenly, but which I have never made. Because I’m really bad at pie crusts, I have, instead, used frozen prepared ones. And still it tastes delicious! In these waning days of the tomato season you could make it with fresh tomatoes, but the recipe calls for–and I have always used–canned. Colwin’s recipes aren’t in standard recipe format, but, rather, are offered in a kind of chatty discussion, as if she were giving you the recipe over a kitchen table. So here is the recipe, as it appears in “More Home Cooking”:

“I have never yet encountered tomatoes in any form unloved by me. Often at night I find myself ruminating about two previously mysterious tomato dishes, which I was brazen enough to get the recipes for. One is Tomato Pie and is a staple of a tea shop called Chaiwalla, owned by Mary O’Brien, in Salisbury, Connecticut. According to Mary, the original recipe was found in a cookbook put out by the nearby Hotchkiss School, but she has changed it sufficiently to claim it as her own. The pie has a double biscuit-dough crust, made by blending 2 cups flour, 1 stick butter, 4 teaspoons baking powder, and approximately 3/4 cup milk, either by hand or in a food processor. You roll out half the dough on a floured surface and line a 9-inch pie plate with it. Then you add the tomatoes. Mary makes this pie year round and uses first-quality canned tomatoes, but at this time of year 2 pounds peeled fresh tomatoes are fine, too. Drain well and slice thin two 28-ounce cans plum tomatoes, then lay the slices over the crust and scatter them with chopped basil, chives, or scallions, depending on their availability and your mood. Grate 1 1/2 cups sharp Cheddar and sprinkle 1 cup of it on top of the tomatoes. Then over this drizzle 1/3 cup mayonnaise that has been thinned with 2 tablespoons lemon juice, and top everything with the rest of the grated Cheddar. Roll out the remaining dough, fit it over the filling, and pinch the edges of the dough together to seal them. Cut several steam vents in the top crust and bake the pie at 400F for about 25 minutes. The secret of this pie, according to Mary, is to reheat it before serving, which among other things ensures that the cheese is soft and gooey. She usually bakes it early in the morning, then reheats it in the evening in a 350F oven, until it is hot.

“It is hard to describe how delicious this is, especially on a hot day with a glass of magnificent iced tea in a beautiful setting, but it would doubtless be just as scrumptious on a cold day in your warm kitchen with a cup of coffee.”

For Colwin’s other favorite tomato treat, you’ll just have to get the book! I would suggest eating this pie with good friends and offering a nod of gratitude to this gifted and generous writer.

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To read or not to read

I hate to start and book and not finish it. And I know I’m not alone in this. It feels like some kind of character flaw, or maybe a breakdown in the unstated contract between reader and writer. And yet at this very moment I have TWO books on my nightstand that I probably will not finish.

The first is “The Adventures of Augie March,” Saul Bellow’s early break-through coming-of-age novel. It’s masterfully written and every time I pick it up I am astounded by Bellow’s craft, his beautiful use of language, his astounding breadth of reference. And then I put it down. I’ve been reading it since May. Okay, it’s not a short book, but still. Since May I’ve read maybe a dozen other books, many of them just as long if not longer. And I keep asking myself why I can’t seem to stick with this one. I know this is an admission of my deep lack of something or other, but, much as I admire the writing, I’m just not all that interested in the story. So I am close to admitting defeat and putting Augie back on the shelf, where–true–I could resume reading any time.

Then there is “The Corrections,“ the book Jonathan Franzen wrote before he was anointed Boy Genius, Great American Writer, and maybe the Second Coming of Elvis for his new novel, “Freedom.” There was a little something gnawing at me that felt as if Franzen’s Genius was being crammed down my throat. But I hadn’t read this earlier novel and there it was on the shelf, just waiting. Reader, I hated it. I know, I know, many people have loved it. Many people whose opinions on books I respect have loved it. But not me. I find his repetition of the word “correction” used in various ways, annoying and silly. I find his characters mostly small and unlikable; the few I liked the most seemed to be the ones he liked the least. And, up to page 335 out of 562, I am not seeing the ambition of scope that I had expected. I closed the book last night and have returned it to its place next to E.M Forster. Hmmm.

Meanwhile, as a little palate-cleanser, I picked up Laurie Colwin’s “The Lone Pilgrim.”which I had not looked at in many years. Colwin, if you are not familiar with her, wrote five luminous novels, two short story collections, and a series of food columns that were collected into two books. Sadly, she died at 48, in 1992. Her stories are filled with characters you wish you knew–complex and human and trying to figure out their lives. Here’s a small taste selected totally at random: “Woe to those who get what they desire. Fulfillment leaves an empty space where your old self used to be, the self that pines and broods and reflects. You furnish a dream house in your imagination, but how startling and final when that dream house is your own address. What is left to you? Surrounded by what you wanted, you feel a sense of amputation. The feelings you were used to abiding with are useless. The conditions you established for your happiness are met.”

Next post I’ll give you the recipe for her fabulous tomato pie!

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Let us now praise copy editors

For the past few years I’ve been thinking about copy editors. Actually, I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for them: as a writer I’ve appreciated their ability to keep me from embarrassing gaffes and missteps. In fact, that keen second look is one of the things I miss now that I’m writing a blog instead of a newspaper column. And as a reader, I’ve appreciated their behind-the-scenes touch that leaves me free to concentrate on the sense of what I’m reading without being distracted by errors.

I just read about a major copy editing lapse at the New England Journal of Medicine where, you would think, attention would be paid to the fact that a mistake could actually be a life or death issue.

Typical, I say. For several years now I’ve been wondering if copy editing, even at major publishing houses, has been replaced by a quick run through a spell check program. So “here” can sometimes be “hear.” Or maybe “there’s” no “they’re” “their.” No book, it seems, is significant enough to get careful hands-on editing. I was particularly grieved to find two glaring mistakes in the late Wendy Wasserstein’s final work, her novel, “Elements of Style.” And more recently, the Pulitzer Prize winner “Tinkers,” too, had two sadly obvious problems. In fact, there’s hardly a book I’ve read lately where I haven’t noticed at least one error.

And, really, copy editing is one of those things that shouldn’t be noticed. It should be invisible. You should be able to read a book without thinking that someone had to make sure each word was right. Each word should, simply, be right.

Putting something in print gives it authority, so it had better be right. There is a lot of fine writing out in the world. And there is some good, careful editing, too. Maybe it’s economics. Maybe it’s the democratizing effect–good in so many ways–of everyone being able to publish instantly. Whatever the cause, there’s also a lot of bad writing, too, and it chips away at our respect for the craft, to the detriment of the good writers. And, perhaps even worse, careless editing leaves us distrusting the written word.

To all you copy editors, my thanks for work well and unobtrusively done. Your work may be invisible, but when it’s left undone or poorly done, it shows all too clearly. And we, as writers and readers, are the worse for it.

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Going with the (poem) flow

Have you heard of Poem Flow? Have you seen it? What do you think? If you haven’t seen it–it’s a daily poem delivered onscreen. It was developed as an iPhone app, but you can also see it on the Internet.

I heard about it a few months ago when the poem of the days was “Dover Beach” by Matthew Arnold. It was astounding to see the poem spreading itself out onto the screen like the sea with its full tide under the fair moon.

It was also fun to see that it had been viewed last by someone in Santa Cruz, California.

I love the thought of a poem offering itself word by word on iPhones everywhere. I love the graceful font and I often love the way the words deposit themselves slowly, deliberately, in a way that sometimes lets you hear the poem whispered in your ear.

And sometimes not so much. Sometimes it feels annoying, like interference, as if someone is getting between the poem and me. Sometimes the words flow out in a way that feels precious and calls attention to the “flowing” more than to the words. And whose reading is it, anyway?

Still, I can’t help thinking that, for all the inherent flaws and the missteps, the idea of poems flowing out into the world is pretty good.