Category Archives: Literature

Writer Colin Harrison has provided plenty of resonant inspiration during my march to manhood (spoiler alert: I’m still marching) and this excerpt is no exception. Just a little something to see you through the noon hour…

Such men believe in luck, they watch for signs, and they conduct private rituals that structure their despair and mark their waiting. They are relatively easy to recognize but hard to know, especially during the years when a man is most dangerous to himself, which begins at about age thirty-five, when he starts to tally his losses as well as his wins, and ends at about fifty, when, if he has not destroyed himself, he has learned that the force of time is better caught softly, and in small pieces. Between those points, however, he’d better watch out, better guard against the dangerous journey that beckons to him -the siege, the quest, the grandiosity, the dream. ~ Colin Harrison 

We are now deep in the dark of fall, the brief lull before the holidays kick into their festive frenzy. Before all the leaves are ripped from the trees and the chill settles in for the rest of the year, we may yet have a few days of calm and stillness, when the wind isn’t starting to unleash its fury, when the cruelty of the rain is kept somewhat at bay. As awful as those states may be, they still pale in comparison to the melancholy doldrums of an overcast sky that teases but never delivers snow. The best balm at such a time is poetry, especially the poetry of Mary Oliver, who has a keen way of weaving words into something as beautiful as their inspiration.

THE RETURN by Mary Oliver

                                                                      1.

When I went back to the sea

it wasn’t waiting.

Neither had it gone away.

All its musics were safe and sound; the circling gulls

were still a commonplace, the fluted shells

rolled on the shore

more beautiful than money –

oh, yes, more beautiful than money!

The thick-necked seals

stood in the salted waves with their soft, untroubled faces

gazing shoreward –

oh bed of silk,

lie back now on your prairies of blackness your fields of sunlight

that I may look at you.

I am happy to be home.

2.

I do not want to be frisky, and theatrical.

I do not want to go forward in the parade of names.

I do not want to be diligent or necessary or in any way

heavy.

From my mouth to God’s ear, I swear it; I want only

to be a song.

To wander around in the fields like a little reed bird.

To be a song.

3.

Two eggs rolled from the goose nest

down to the water and halfway into the water.

What good is hoping?

I went there softly, and gathered them

and put them back into the nest

of the goose who bit me hard with her

lovely black beak with the pink

tongue-tip quivering,

and beat my arms with her

lovely long wings

and beat my face with her

lovely long wings,

what good is trying?

She hissed horribly, wanting me to be frightened.

I wasn’t frightened.

I just knew it was over,

those cold white eggs would never hatch,

the birds would forget, soon, and go back,

to the light-soaked pond,

what good is remembering?

But I wasn’t frightened.

4.

Sometimes I really believe it, that I am going to

save my life

a little.

5.

When I found the seal pup alone on the far beach,

not sleeping but looking all around, I didn’t

reason it out, for reason would have sent me away,

I just

went close but not too close, and lay down on the sand

with my back toward it, and

pretty soon it rolled over, and rolled over

until the length of its body lay along

the length of my body, and so we touched, and maybe

our breathing together was some kind of heavenly conversation

in God’s delicate and magnifying language, the one

we don’t dare speak out loud,

not yet.

6.

Rumi the poet was a scholar also.

But Shams, his friend, was an angel.

By which I don’t mean anything patient and sweet,

When I read how he took Rumi’s books and threw them

into the duck pond,

I shouted for joy. Time to live now,

Shams meant.

I see him, turning away

casually toward the road, Rumi following, the books

floating and sinking among the screeching ducks,

oh, beautiful book-eating pond!

7.

The country of the mockingbird is where I now want to be,

thank you, yes.

The days when the snow-white swans might pass over the dunes

are the days I want to eat now, slowly and carefully

and with gratitude. Thank you.

The hours fresh and tidal are the hours I want to hold

in the palm of my hand, thank you, yes.

Such grace, thank you!

The gate I want to open now is the one that leads into

the flower-bed of my mind, thank you, yes.

Every day the slow, fresh wind, thank you, yes.

The wing, in the dark, that touches me.

Thank you.

Yes.

Nobody captures the enchantment and mystery of autumn better than Nathaniel Hawthorne. This will be a short but sweet entry into the exact middle of the week. Mastering an economy of words is the sign of a powerful writer. 

There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October. The sunshine is particularly genial…. It seems to be of a kindly and homely nature. And the green grass, strewn with a few withered leaves, looks the more green and beautiful for them. In summer or spring, Nature is farther from one’s sympathies. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

It’s summer, and the time for reading is at hand. Some years I tend to dive deep into a sprawling classic – like ‘David Copperfield’ or ‘Moby Dick’ – while others are spent with lighter fare – all those summer Harry Potter releases – though I like when things fall somewhere in-between it all. (See ‘The Summer That Melted Everything‘ or ‘The Whale: A Love Story’.) This year I started with ‘Lie With Me’ by Philippe Besson. Originally written in French, it was translated by Molly Ringwald of all people. (Who knew she had so many talents? I’m still getting over her surprisingly decent collection of jazz standards.) Mssr. Besson tells a tale of teenage same-sex love, and how it shapes and creates two young men, not unlike the fertile ground that blossomed ‘Call Me By Your Name’ (Andre Aciman is actually one of the writers tapped to give a blurb of praise on the back cover). Even better than praise is some of the writing itself, so enough of my babble. Here’s the real deal.

“This is important: he sees me in a certain way, a way he will never deviate from. In the end, love was only possible because he saw me not as who I was, but as the person I would become.” ~ Philippe Besson 

“It’s hard to know what he’s thinking. It’s an elegant way of suggesting that his father isn’t affectionate, tender, or reassuring, that he remains aloof, that what he offers is a mix of reserve and unspoken pride for his son. I know what that’s like, to be the son of a man like that. I wonder if it’s cold fathers who make the sensitive sons.” ~ Philippe Besson 

“There is the insanity of not being able to be seen together. An insanity that is aggravated in this case by the unprecedented situation of finding ourselves in the middle of a crowd and having to act like strangers. It seems crazy not to be able to show our happiness. Such an impoverished word. Others have this right, and they exercise it freely. Sharing their happiness makes them even more happy, makes them expand with joy. But we’re left stunted, compromised, by the burden of having to always lie and censor ourselves.

This passion that can’t be talked about, that has to be concealed, gives way to the terrible question: if it isn’t talked about, how can one know that it really exists? One day, when it’s over, when it finally comes to an end, no one will be able to attest to what took place.” ~ Philippe Besson

“I have suffered too much grief in setting down these memories. Six years have already passed since my friend went away from me, with his sheep. If I try to describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not everyone has had a friend. And if I forget him, I may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in anything but figures…” ~ Antoine De Saint-Exupery, ‘The Little Prince’

Speaking of princes, that book that we “traded” for the copy that Suzie’s brother had was never even read by us. ‘The Little Prince’ would stay on our bookshelf for years, untouched with pages unturned, and I didn’t return to it until Suzie loaned me her version – a much nicer hardcover edition with pictures, as originally published. In preparation for an upcoming project, I opened it and read the story for the first time. All these years later, I was brought back to childhood – to the wonder and amazement of reading a classic story for the first time. (I also have a costume idea for a future party, because this little Prince has a sense of fashion that is elegant, refined, and just the slightest bit whimsical. The coat pictured here is divinity in progress. I just need to find the wizard who can make one. All able thread magicians are encouraged to contact me. Looking at you, Christian Siriano.)

“If someone loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself: ‘Somewhere, my flower is there…’ But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened… And you think that is not important!”

He could not say anything more. His words were choked by sobbing…

I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward and blundering. I did not know how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go on hand in hand with him once more.

It is such a secret place, the land of tears. ~ Antoine De Saint-Exupery, ‘The Little Prince’

It’s been a while since I’ve been this excited about a book, but Tiffany McDaniel’s ‘The Summer That Melted Everything’ is going to be a favorite for years to come, with pages already dog-eared for all the passages I want and need to remember. Even better, it’s a timely summer read, and, like certain songs, there’s something about the summer that makes it mean a little bit more.

“Why, upon hearing the word devil, did I just imagine the monster? Why did I fail to see a lake? A flower growing by that lake? A mantis praying on the very top of a rock? A foolish mistake, it is, to expect the beast, because sometimes, sometimes, it is the flower’s turn to own the name.” ~ Tiffany McDaniel

The summer of 1984 finds a small Ohio town besieged by both a heat wave and a little boy portending to be the devil. Such is the start of this exquisite novel, which and the promise of a powerful summer read is suddenly fulfilled. Reminiscent of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird‘ in the best possible ways, this is an updated take on morality and humanity, one that posits the impossible questions of what makes a person good and what truly constitutes evil. In addition to that eternal power play, there is McDaniel’s uncanny use of time, as she weaves tales within tales, shifting perspective and time frame in a way that never feels jarring. Even the smallest fragments of fables – such as the brief recounting of what the devil himself may have seen over his years – are powerful ruminations on what the world does to us, and what we in turn do to each other.

“I was once told writing in a journal could help me. Something about putting the pain on the page. So I got one and finished it in a day. I looked back to see what I’d written. Nothing but little lines, swooping and curving. Not one word. And yet didn’t it say everything? The way their smiles did? All the dark, all the hurt, scooped up, carried by curve.” ~ Tiffany McDaniel

I’m not going to delve into any more specifics about plotline or character, because it’s so much better if you read it yourself and enjoy each and every revelation. Then be sure to spread the good word. McDaniel says everything better than I ever could, so I’ll leave you with one of my favorite passages:

“Being the devil made him a target, but it also meant he had a power he didn’t have when he was just a boy. People looked at him, listened to what he said. Being the devil made him important. Made him visible. And isn’t that the biggest tragedy of all? When a boy has to be the devil to be significant?” ~ Tiffany McDaniel

If you’re looking for a good book to see you through this last stretch of winter, dive into ‘Lily and the Octopus’ by Steven Rowley. A work of heartbreaking beauty and love, this is much more than a story of a man and his dog – it’s a moving treatise on how we deal with loss.

Opening with a discussion on the various merits of the Ryans (Reynolds, Gosling, but not Phillippe), the Matts (Bomer and Damon), the Toms (Brady and Hardy), and the Chrises (Evans, Pine, Pratt and Hemsworth), it’s a veritable greatest hits of hunks, and an enthralling way to begin. This is no ordinary tale, filled as it is with whimsy and wit. Soon, we discover that Lily is a dachshund, Ted Flask is her adoring owner, and the octopus is an unwelcome visitor about to wreak the worst kind of havoc in their companionship.

While odd for some non-animal-lovers (Rowley anthropomorphizes Lily to such an extent that she plays board games, talks about guys, and even mans the steering wheel of a ship), for anyone who’s enjoyed the love and adoration of a pet, it’s not such a far cry from the truth. There are deeper layers of meaning at work here, particularly in the dream scenes, and an over-the-top voyage that strongly echoes the fight against one’s own nature in ‘Moby Dick’. More impressive than that, however, is the exploration of the gradual acceptance of grief for love lost. This encompasses all kinds of love – romantic, familial, unrequited and unconditional – and what happens when it ends, for whatever reason.

‘Lily and the Octopus’ reminds us that sometimes we need to break down, that it’s ok to cry, and if you love someone with all your heart, that love doesn’t ever really go away.

Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.

— Mary Oliver

The universe has a way of making little winks, signifying whether we are on the right path and if things are properly aligned. Most of us chalk it up to coincidence and chance, but I’ve always felt there was something deeper at work, some grander scheme of a destined plan where everything happens for a reason. Case in point was the sudden proliferation of the octopus as I began one of my favorite reads this summer: ‘The Soul of an Octopus’ by Sy Montgomery. Once I started this, fittingly on the beach, I could not put it down. The ocean and its inhabitants have perennially intrigued me, and the octopus especially has been an animal of fascination and wonder, given its intelligence and shapeshifting prowess. In fact, the eight-armed creature is one of the premiere tricksters of the animal kingdom, and Montgomery manages to demystify and investigate this ‘Surprising Exploration into the Wonder of Consciousness.’

It’s a marvelous book for anyone looking to delve further into the curious relations between humans and animals, and especially for those of us beholden to the magic and mystery of the octopus. As I turned the pages during our seaside stay, suddenly I found octopuses everywhere: in a print on the hotel wall, in a restaurant poster, on a bathroom rug, and even on a lobby throw pillow.

Reassuring proof that we are all connected somehow, and that there are no accidents. The trick is in deciphering why… Why ‘The Soul of an Octopus’? Why the octopus itself?

More importantly, why does the summer have to end?

On my summer bedside table reading list:

‘The Whale: A Love Story‘ by Mark Beauregard

‘Porn Again‘ by Josh Sabarra

‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child’ by J.K. Rowling

‘The Soul of an Octopus‘ by Sy Montgomery

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.” ― Alan Bennett, The History Boys

It was, rather expectedly, in a poetry class where I first read this epic work of Keats. Now, when all things are going Greek this summer, it fits in well with some statuesque posing.

Ode On A Grecian Urn

By John Keats

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,

For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

 

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”