THE LIBRARY BOOK by Susan Orlean

I read this book with my ears. I wished for photos and illustrations, but I just can't own every book I read. But I wanted this one. I really wanted this one, considering my 25-year history working in libraries and a lifetime of loving libraries and simply the idea of libraries. I read it with my ears, meaning I listened to the author read it as I drove around in my car. Susan Orlean is one of my top-shelf favorite Creative Nonfiction authors of all time, so it was a treat to hear her interpret her work just for me. Then my friend, Sue, a different Susan, told me that she got me a book for Christmas and she hoped I hadn't read it...and I pulled the red-covered book out of the wrapping... and gleefully shrieked, "I DID read it, BUT I really wanted to HAVE it!" I was so happy. After listening to Susan O.'s descriptions of the L.A. Public Library, and the person of interest who may have set it on fire, and other interesting personalities in the history of libraries, I now have photos of them and the correct spellings of their names, and I can re-read sections any time I want. I am so happy. YAY!

The Library Book, (Simon & Schuster, 2018), is the story of the big L.A. Library fire of 1986 told in-depth with information about events leading up to, stuff happening simultaneously, and things that happened after. That story alone is compelling, but I mentioned Susan Orlean writes Creative Nonfiction. She goes in and out of library history, and then back to the L.A. story, and never loses the reader's interest. I don't know if you are aware of this, but you can check with my friends who have heard my stories: libraries are not boring. Susan Orlean, lover of libraries, has done her research and interviewed people, and come up with fascinating stories to weave into the tale of the 1986 California fire.

Orlean pays homage to the institution of libraries, and the idea of libraries, and the movers and shakers of the library world, past and present. The Library Book got a lot of positive buzz in late 2018 when it was released and made it onto many end-of-the-year best-of lists. In this digital age, when I still get questions from the unenlightened about the future of libraries and librarians, this is sweet validation. (We'll always need human brains to organize information, retrieve it efficiently, and teach other humans how to retrieve it.) This is a treasure of a book and should be required reading (or listening) for everyone, enlightened or not.

A librarian reading The Library Book in a library

REALITY HUNGER: A MANIFESTO, by David Shields

Reality Hunger is a thought-provoking book. Nonfiction writers like me will probably come away from it thinking about where to draw the line between fiction and nonfiction. Should there be a line at all? Maybe a blurrier line? Do we need new forms or a new taxonomy? Are we obsessed with reality? (I think I am.) Non-writers will probably ponder how the books they read are put together. Did the author base this novel on facts, possibly autobiographical? Is this alleged nonfiction piece journalistically nonfiction? Consider the books you read, but the magazine articles, too, and the television you watch. (Reality TV!) True? Not true? Have you investigated? Are you skeptical?

Reality Hunger is made up of short, numbered entries that circle around a particular cryptically-named topic: Memory, Books for people who find television too slow, Contradiction, Thinking, Manifesto. Don't get too hung-up on the section titles, though, because the numbered entries are all interesting, even if the section titles are not inviting. Check this one out:

615 What actually happened is only raw material; what the writer makes of what happened is all that matters. 

This rings true for me, the creative nonfiction writer, because I take an experience, a thought, a place, or even the concert I'm watching on PBS right now, and create some analysis of it. It is a fact that I am watching the Vienna Philharmonic New Year's concert right now on my TV. You can't argue with that. To make this story my own, I have to provide some sort of analysis or reaction. You may disagree with me that this concert is an annual treat, but you can't disagree with me that I see it as an annual treat. Tonight's host, Hugh Bonneville (from Downton Abbey) was just standing in the Vienna Opera House!!! You may not be excited by Hugh Bonneville or the Vienna Opera, but I am because I am a Downton fan and I got to tour the Vienna Opera when I was there in 2015. I remember its opulence, and I remember being impressed at how important opera is to Viennese culture. While you may not agree with me or share my taste or travel history, but reading my thoughts, you understand why I enjoy watching this concert on TV. Maybe I haven't convinced you to watch it, but I have explained my music nerd-ness. Go back to #615 above and read it again.

The Vienna Opera on the Ringstrasse, 2015

573 To write only according to the rules laid down by masterpieces signifies that one is not a master but a pupil.

Think about Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms (staying in Austria) for example: if they hadn't broken the musical rules they were taught we probably wouldn't remember them today. They broke the rules and created new art that got attention. They were innovators! I chose this excerpt because it illustrates the concept in this book that got the biggest reaction out of me. At the end of the book is an Appendix. Here, the author, David Shields, explains that the numbered quotes were not all his original thought. Some are. Some, like #573 above, are not. Personally, I did not appreciate not knowing as I read the book that these were not all David Shields's thoughts. In fact, in the Appendix he writes, "However, Random House lawyers determined that it was necessary for me to provide a complete list of citations; the list follows (except of course for any sources I couldn't find or forgot along the way.)" He encourages the reader to tear these pages out and destroy them. WHAT?!?!?!?! I spend my life teaching college students how to cite their sources and why this is necessary. Unlike David Shields, I don't emphasize copyright. I tell students that it is important to cite borrowed material in case your reader or listener would like to follow up on some quote, and to read more. Here's a perfect example: #573 above is a quote from Prokofiev, a Twentieth-Century composer who will probably be included in one of my 2019 lectures. I'd love to know the context of this quote so that I can use it (and cite it), but I won't get that from Shields. I'll have to start from scratch to find where, when, and why Prokofiev said or wrote this sentence. All I find in the Appendix is that #573 came from Prokofiev. I'm not even sure if he's referring to Dmitri Prokofiev, the composer, or Fred Prokofiev, the barkeeper.

Aside from my disagreement with David Shields over the provenance of these quotes, I found this to be an intriguing, thought-provoking, and worthwhile book. I marked many of the quotes to re-visit when working on various upcoming projects, and some just to think about further. If you have an interest in writing, reading, truth, or fiction vs. nonfiction, get your hands on this book! (Just know that not all of the entries come from the same mind!)


 

The Lady and the Monk: Four Seasons in Kyoto by Pico Iyer

Pico Iyer chooses his words carefully. He has access to the same English language words we have, but he strings them as pearls creating sophisticated, elegant prose. Owing to his cosmopolitan background, he has a collection of jewels to enhance that pearl-string: words from other languages and accessible jargon from aesthetics and art make his writing as clear as recently Windexed glass. Even his name is elegant and unique. No extra vowels or consonants. No extra syllables.

Along with his high-brow cosmopolitan brilliance though, Iyer reveals himself as a hardcore Bruce Springsteen fan in this book. I felt that needed to be said.

The Lady and the Monk: Four Seasons in Kyoto is an exquisite memoir from Iyer's visit to Kyoto, Osaka, and Nagasaki. In Kyoto he befriended a local woman who taught him about Japanese culture and made him aware of Easter, Japanese, and local perspectives and cultures. It's a remarkable and unexpected friendship. Iyer created the setting masterfully:a mysterious Japanese Zen Buddhism world of kimonos, tea ceremonies, monasteries, and the moon. With his descriptive language he introduces the reader to characters he encounters. There are laugh-out-loud moments, and sad, poignant experiences.

The original "The Lady and the Monk" is a folk tale that Iyer tells his Japanese friend in one of those poignant moments. The tale comes back at least twice as a kind of veiled trope. On the surface, this is a masterful piece of literature, but I felt throughout that I was somehow supposed to be reading between the lines for even deeper meaning. I was inspired to read a little about Iyer's life, and this small bit of knowledge gained two-thirds through the book enhanced my enjoyment of it. I wish I could read the book again for the very first time so that I could re-enter that curious world again as a gaijin (foreigner).

In Other Words by Jhumpa Lahiri

The Italian text is on the left side and the English translation is on the facing page. The translations from Italian to English are not, however, by the author, who happens to be a native English speaker. She hired a translator to move her newly-acquired Italian text into her own native tongue. Huh?

The author is Pulitzer Prize-winning Jhumpa Lahiri who wrote Interpreter of Maladies and The Namesake and other books. She fell in love with the Italian language as a young traveler and twenty years after that decided to embark on a challenging experiment: she would learn Italian, really learn it, by immersing herself in Italian culture and speaking English only to her family. This involved moving her family to Rome

where she would begin to read and write only in Italian. This includes reading the classic literature in that language. Anyone who has attempted to learn a new language for a trip abroad will recognize the magnitude of this endeavor. I can get by in Germany or Austria with my limited German (mostly nouns, mostly food words), and in France with my simple French  sentences and phrases. That's only one side of it, though, making myself understood. I can order Schnitzel, and waffles with chocolate, and get the water without bubbles. I can find my way through the Paris Metro, ask for the check in a restaurant, and get the water without bubbles there, too, but what if a German or French speaker is trying to make themselves understood to me? They speak fast, use tenses I haven't studied, and know way more nouns than I do. Lahiri's project is admirable.

The reason she embarked upon this journey was to learn to express herself using new words and language. As writers would say, she wanted to find a new voice. The book has an open ending, one in which Lahiri ponders which language she will use when she returns to the United States. She leaves the door open for Italian, but I think I'm hearing a possible preference for English. Either way, she anticipates a feeling of loss for the Italian language once she is no longer immersed in it.

This book was recommended reading for a writing class I took, and I used it in my own class to illustrate the power of words and the arbitrariness of the sounds we put together to form language. Lahiri has found new words for everything and learned to string them together to make a fascinating book. I wish I had thought of this idea...well, maybe not.

Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is a Treasure

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. NY: Harper & Row, 1974.

There's been a lot of talk this week about groundhogs. I have nothing against those critters, and in spring I'll be seeing many in my neighborhood. I've often said that those groundhogs rule my neighborhood. They make it impossible to grow any vegetables in my yard because they will sit on the deck and eat whatever they find. It's insulting. But enough about groundhogs. What about muskrats? Have you considered the muskrat lately?

Annie Dillard spent ten pages describing muskrats in Tinker Creek. Her descriptions are vivid enough to call up in my mind that mysterious animal that Fred and I saw in a pond in Cape May Point. Our mystery animal glided rather than swam through the water, just as Dillard described, with its little brown head above the surface facing forward, just as she described. Her discussion of the muskrats in Tinker Creek caused me to pull up my Cape May Point memory while I was reading, and once I realized the memory was conjured, to recognize what I had seen was a muskrat.

Those ten pages of muskrat talk reminded me of another memory, buried far deeper than the creature swimming in the Cape May Point pond. Many years ago, when I was in my twenties and my mother was well enough to sift through old things in her house, she showed me a fur coat. I’d never seen that thing before and I was quite surprised she owned it. She explained it belonged to her Aunt Mattie and found its way to her even though she didn’t want it and never wore it. (Great Aunt Mattie had no children, so many of her belongings found their way to us.) Was I interested in the coat? She asked me this knowing I’d say no; I wasn’t about to wear antique dead animal fur. In a last-ditch effort to find the coat a home, she told me it was “Hudson seal.” Still no, I said, although I appreciate the coat as a family antique. Why did Annie Dillard’s pages on muskrats bring up this memory, I wondered, until I got to the tenth page where she writes about muskrat pelts and their value (five dollars per pelt in 1974), and how fur dealers call this fur anything but “muskrat,” and usually, “Hudson seal.” I must have known once that muskrat furs were called Hudson seal, but that knowledge was long-forgotten until I read Annie Dillard.

The muskrat pages were part of a chapter called “Stalking,” in which Dillard describes her own stalking of the waterborne muskrats, animals stalking their prey, and the possibility that unseen animals were stalking her. Each chapter is built upon a theme like this, examined from multiple angles. The themes fall in chronological order, starting with a January day and moving through the year to the beginning of another winter.

Throughout the book, Annie Dillard appears as a character, or, more specifically, Dillard represents herself via an interior monologue which braids together her environmental observations, her spiritual and mystical thoughts, and her knowledge of nature and mysticism. She examines her knowledge and ideas, and I think this analysis inspired me to compare my own experiences in nature to hers. That’s why my synapses connected to my long-dormant muskrat experiences. They were brought forth for me to examine as she was riffing on her muskrat knowledge while stalking the “unstalkable” swimming muskrat in Tinker Creek.

While writing a thoughtful email to a good friend, I caught myself unintentionally copying her writing style (and admitted it to him). Has reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek also influenced my thinking style?

Dillard’s observations of nature are not all bright and shiny, baby ducks and wildflowers. She writes about the grotesque in great detail, too: the waterbug who sucks out the innards of a frog. The frog’s body caves in gradually and finally the eyes, terror-struck during the process, lose their emotive quality altogether and join the collapsed skin. The scene must be horrifying, especially to a person who, like me, cannot remove a dead mouse from the house. Dillard gives us the waterbug-and-frog story as one of a series of carefully-chronicled, unpredicted observations.

Dillard often uses what I’ll call the Second-Person-Hypothetical where a passage begins with “If you were a…” and then goes on to describe what you as that thing would do. On page 170, she suggests that the reader is an ichneumon, a type of wasp. The reader as ichneumon is carrying around a cache of fertile eggs and must find a caterpillar on which to lay their eggs so that they don’t starve. If the reader as ichneumon does not find a caterpillar host, the eggs will eat the reader from the inside. The Second-Person-Hypothetical is an engaging device for adding tension to the “Fecundity” chapter.

Dillard tells us she “blooms indoors like a forced forsythia,” in winter, reading and writing in response to and in advance of the nicer spring/summer/fall weather where she will be observing nature. She calls upon that reading often during the book to reinforce her musings and observations. After reading Marius von Senden’s Space and Sight, she sees color patches in nature (p. 29). The writings of British astronomer and physicist Sir James Jeans inspired her to think of the universe as a “great thought” rather than a “great machine” (p. 144). Woven into the narrative, these great thinkers’ thoughts give the reader more to ponder.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek relies on Annie Dillard’s interior monologue which is a synthesis of her observations, readings, knowledge, dreams, and acute self-awareness. The combination reveals subtly to the reader a sense of where we are with Dillard. Our scene is revealed in small increments, and is more vivid as a result. Would I recognize Tinker Creek? The author is included as a character we know well thanks to her personal revelations. Dillard-as-character fades out when the focus turns to nature or spiritualism.

The book, another “great thought,” is captivating from start to finish.

The Pine Barrens by John McPhee

I was never a scientist. I was only briefly a science student because it was required. Nonetheless, one of the most critical life-changing events of my teenage life happened because of a research paper assigned by a high school Biology teacher. All of the students in the class were required to write a research paper about the Pine Barrens region of our home state of New Jersey. My friend and I did not know how to approach this, so upon arriving at the Hamilton Public Library we mustered up courage to ask the reference librarian. Of course we expected her to be mean, aren't all librarians? We were so young. That librarian took the time to show us how to look up newspaper articles in the New York Times Index (big red books) and The Reader's Guide to Periodic Literature (fat green books). I had no idea that the library saved old issues of magazines and newspapers and could retrieve them if you asked for them with the titles, dates, and volume numbers listed in the big red and green books. This was huge. "Not all of the newspapers and magazines will be in print," she probably said, and I can make an educated guess about this because I've been teaching library patrons about these mysteries of knowledge for 25+ years now. "The newspapers and magazines we don't have in print will likely be on microfilm, like The New York Times which we have back to its beginning." I remember being stunned. We looked up the Pine Barrens, found the dates and pages we needed, and the librarian taught us how to use the giant microfilm readers similar to the one Brick added to his family's living room decor on the TV show, "The Middle."

The librarian had helped other students with the Pine Barrens topic, so she was able to recommend a compelling read about the region by author John McPhee. The Pine Barrens (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1968) was the first nonfiction book that wowed me to the point of wanting to be a nonfiction

writer myself someday. First I had to study Music Theory and Library Science, and then I finally got around to advanced study in Creative Writing. (I received my MFA in July.) But anyway, THAT BOOK is so compelling that I bought my own copy with my allowance and savored it. McPhee told us about a certain treefrog that only lives in the Pine Barrens, and how the cranberries grow there in bogs where they are harvested by local residents called Pineys. Pineys work "the cycle" which is a string of jobs relating to the Pine Barrens environment including cranberry harvests, blueberry harvests, and sphagnum moss collecting. (Both berries grow well in the sandy soil of that region.) It was fascinating then and it is still fascinating now. The book might be somewhat dated, but it is still in print which should tell you something. McPhee's writing style includes interviews with experts on whatever topic, and I can imagine him asking at the conclusion of an interview, "Who should I talk to next?"

Read the book. I wouldn't steer you wrong, would I?

The reason The Pine Barrens is on my mind is that John McPhee, a Princeton native, has just released a book called Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process, (also Farrar, Straus and Giroux) in which he writes about writing. I love reading writing about writing. I'm savoring each essay, reading slow. Slow reading. Savoring. The second essay included, to my delight and fascination, a story about McPhee when he was preparing to write The Pine Barrens, and I hadn't formulated my nonfiction research organizing strategy yet, but oh how I wish we could have collaborated on that book!

that Pine Barrens book, and he didn't know how to go about it. There was so much information, coming from research, interviews, and observations, that he put himself flat on his back on a backyard picnic table and just thought about organization and about all that research. After a few days he figured out a strategy to mold all that information into a logical story, and he got up off the picnic table and went to his typewriter to write it. (Yes, he did leave the table to eat and sleep he assures us.) This fascinates me because it is a story about how a favorite author wrote one of my all-time favorite books. It delights me because I'm teaching an actual 3-credit nonfiction writing course next semester on how to organize research for nonfiction prose into a coherent story. I was 5 when McPhee was writing The Pine Barrens, and I hadn't formulated my strategy for organizing research for nonfiction yet. What an interesting conversation we would have had!