July 12, 2012--Midcoast: Summer Reading
No surprise, everyone here is reading Richard Ford's latest novel, Canada.
It is no surprise because, though he was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, he and his wife and dog now reside in East Boothbay, right across the bay from us, and therefore might be considered a local author.
I joke that when I'm up at dawn and begin my own writing regimen he already has his light on as is typing away. When I feel blocked, this gets my competitive juices going. I force myself to do my own typing so as not to let him get too far ahead of me. Which in his case means a Pulitzer, a PEN/Faulkner Award, and a Guggenheim. I'm still struggling to get a first novel published so the comparison and one-sided competition, begins and ends right there--in my fantasies.
And then the cultural event of the year was last week when he came to the local bookstore to talk about writing and read the first chapter of Canada. I wasn't liking it all that much until he appeared, spoke movingly about his and my craft (there go those fantasies again), and turned on his Mississippi charm when he read. I've never listened to a book on tape, but if he does the reading, I plan to buy the CD. And then it doesn't hurt that he looks like a cross between Clint Eastwood and Henry Fonda.
Maybe tired of hearing us talk about the book and him over coffee at the Bristol Diner every morning, some of our friends tried to change the subject, including bringing in other things for us to read. To get us off the Canada-Richard Ford jag.
A friend who has a mother almost as ancient as mine and, like me, wonders out loud what will become of us if we inherited their genes and lived well past 100, brought in a book for me to read, Nicholas Delbanco's Lastings: The Art of Old Age.
"It's not one of those how-to books," he assured me when I looked glumly at it and him. "Not a 12-step program on how to deal with aging."
"So what is it then?" I asked, eager to get back to talking about Canada.
"I know it's a hokey title," he said, "Lastings. But take a look at it. It's really pretty interesting. And hopeful to people like us who may turn out to be blessed and cursed with the possibility of living well beyond our allotted four-score-and-seven."
So I thumbed through it and it does seem worth reading. It's about how artists like Leonardo and Verdi and Titian did some of their greatest work when they were older than 80.
"Sure," I said with the beginnings of a smirk, "but then there's Rimbaud who died when he was 33 and poor John Keats who didn't even make it to 30."
"True, but you already made it well past them. Way past," he added. "The point is that we won't necessarily be washed up in our 90s. Verdi, for example, wrote Falstaff when he was 80. And Titian, who lived to almost 100, painted his Pieta when he was nearly 90. And he was sick and blind to boot."
"I'm not nearly that old or blind so maybe there's hope for me," I said, winking.
"Maybe you're just a late starter." I smiled at that hopeful thought.
"What is with you guys, always talking about getting old." It was Len who is older than either of us. And as it turns out it was his birthday. "Here's something that I know you'll enjoy," he said passing a xeroxed article to me.
"What's that about?" I asked. "There's a diagram here that looks like some kind of military vehicle."
"I know you're interested in the Second World War." I nodded. "Well this here's about DUKWs. Ducks they called them back in the day. Ever hear of 'em?"
"Can't say that I do. They look like landing craft to me. You know, the type they used for the Normandy invasion."
"That's pretty close. They were built by GM to be amphibious, not to take men ashore, but to transport supplies from ship to land."
"What does DUKW stand for?" Rona was getting involved in this sharing of reading material.
"Some kind of code, I think," Len said. "You're good with the computer. Maybe you'll look it up." He knew she would and would report back the next day."
"Richard Ford's a downer who writes brilliantly but about loneliness and abandonment, abandonment and loneliness," Jack finally joined in. "And then there's all this talk about dying and death, including through world war. What is it with you guys? What you need to read is something to make you laugh. Which is why I brought this in." He slid across the table, almost knocking over my coffee cup, a book of Charles Saxon's New Yorker cartoons called Oh, Happy, Happy, Happy.
"This is what you need--a little happy. Look at this one." He opened the book and pointed to a drawing of two guys at a cocktail party, both looking decidedly affluent, with one saying to the other, "You know it's true. Why don't you admit it? You're living a lie."
"Now that's what I call happy," he said, sitting back in the booth with a triumphal grin.
"I don't even think it's funny," Art chimed in. He hadn't brought in anything to pass around.
"Saxon can be a little subtle," Jack admitted. "So what about this one?" He had flipped the pages and was tapping on another drawing. In it a smart-aleeky guy, cocktail in hand, sitting on a sofa next to a dowager who is looking back blankly at him. Feeling good about himself, he proclaims, "Man has reason to be proud. Of all the animals, he alone asks himself, 'Whither, whence, and why.'"
"Maybe it's too early," Art said with a theatrical yawn. "I've only had two cups of coffee." John stared back at him.
Exasperated, the friend who had passed around Lastings, unsmiling said, "Read this. Here." He pointed to a page toward the beginning of the book. "Read this out loud," he said to Rona.
Without enthusiasm, clearly having had enough of all of us, she dutifully read--
"Clearly getting old and remaining supple-minded and even imaginative is a synaptical crapshoot: the body may be willing, but the mind lives its own devious life."
"Who said that?" he asked Rona.
She looked back at the book and ran her finger down the page. "Richard Ford," she said under her breath.
"Who?" he asked. "Speak up."
"Richard Ford," she said now in full voice.
"I rest my case," he said.
"What case might that be?" I asked.
Humoring me, Art said, "Now that's funny."
It is no surprise because, though he was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, he and his wife and dog now reside in East Boothbay, right across the bay from us, and therefore might be considered a local author.
I joke that when I'm up at dawn and begin my own writing regimen he already has his light on as is typing away. When I feel blocked, this gets my competitive juices going. I force myself to do my own typing so as not to let him get too far ahead of me. Which in his case means a Pulitzer, a PEN/Faulkner Award, and a Guggenheim. I'm still struggling to get a first novel published so the comparison and one-sided competition, begins and ends right there--in my fantasies.
And then the cultural event of the year was last week when he came to the local bookstore to talk about writing and read the first chapter of Canada. I wasn't liking it all that much until he appeared, spoke movingly about his and my craft (there go those fantasies again), and turned on his Mississippi charm when he read. I've never listened to a book on tape, but if he does the reading, I plan to buy the CD. And then it doesn't hurt that he looks like a cross between Clint Eastwood and Henry Fonda.
Maybe tired of hearing us talk about the book and him over coffee at the Bristol Diner every morning, some of our friends tried to change the subject, including bringing in other things for us to read. To get us off the Canada-Richard Ford jag.
A friend who has a mother almost as ancient as mine and, like me, wonders out loud what will become of us if we inherited their genes and lived well past 100, brought in a book for me to read, Nicholas Delbanco's Lastings: The Art of Old Age.
"It's not one of those how-to books," he assured me when I looked glumly at it and him. "Not a 12-step program on how to deal with aging."
"So what is it then?" I asked, eager to get back to talking about Canada.
"I know it's a hokey title," he said, "Lastings. But take a look at it. It's really pretty interesting. And hopeful to people like us who may turn out to be blessed and cursed with the possibility of living well beyond our allotted four-score-and-seven."
So I thumbed through it and it does seem worth reading. It's about how artists like Leonardo and Verdi and Titian did some of their greatest work when they were older than 80.
"Sure," I said with the beginnings of a smirk, "but then there's Rimbaud who died when he was 33 and poor John Keats who didn't even make it to 30."
"True, but you already made it well past them. Way past," he added. "The point is that we won't necessarily be washed up in our 90s. Verdi, for example, wrote Falstaff when he was 80. And Titian, who lived to almost 100, painted his Pieta when he was nearly 90. And he was sick and blind to boot."
"I'm not nearly that old or blind so maybe there's hope for me," I said, winking.
"Maybe you're just a late starter." I smiled at that hopeful thought.
"What is with you guys, always talking about getting old." It was Len who is older than either of us. And as it turns out it was his birthday. "Here's something that I know you'll enjoy," he said passing a xeroxed article to me.
"What's that about?" I asked. "There's a diagram here that looks like some kind of military vehicle."
"I know you're interested in the Second World War." I nodded. "Well this here's about DUKWs. Ducks they called them back in the day. Ever hear of 'em?"
"Can't say that I do. They look like landing craft to me. You know, the type they used for the Normandy invasion."
"That's pretty close. They were built by GM to be amphibious, not to take men ashore, but to transport supplies from ship to land."
"What does DUKW stand for?" Rona was getting involved in this sharing of reading material.
"Some kind of code, I think," Len said. "You're good with the computer. Maybe you'll look it up." He knew she would and would report back the next day."
"Richard Ford's a downer who writes brilliantly but about loneliness and abandonment, abandonment and loneliness," Jack finally joined in. "And then there's all this talk about dying and death, including through world war. What is it with you guys? What you need to read is something to make you laugh. Which is why I brought this in." He slid across the table, almost knocking over my coffee cup, a book of Charles Saxon's New Yorker cartoons called Oh, Happy, Happy, Happy.
"This is what you need--a little happy. Look at this one." He opened the book and pointed to a drawing of two guys at a cocktail party, both looking decidedly affluent, with one saying to the other, "You know it's true. Why don't you admit it? You're living a lie."
"Now that's what I call happy," he said, sitting back in the booth with a triumphal grin.
"I don't even think it's funny," Art chimed in. He hadn't brought in anything to pass around.
"Saxon can be a little subtle," Jack admitted. "So what about this one?" He had flipped the pages and was tapping on another drawing. In it a smart-aleeky guy, cocktail in hand, sitting on a sofa next to a dowager who is looking back blankly at him. Feeling good about himself, he proclaims, "Man has reason to be proud. Of all the animals, he alone asks himself, 'Whither, whence, and why.'"
"Maybe it's too early," Art said with a theatrical yawn. "I've only had two cups of coffee." John stared back at him.
Exasperated, the friend who had passed around Lastings, unsmiling said, "Read this. Here." He pointed to a page toward the beginning of the book. "Read this out loud," he said to Rona.
Without enthusiasm, clearly having had enough of all of us, she dutifully read--
"Clearly getting old and remaining supple-minded and even imaginative is a synaptical crapshoot: the body may be willing, but the mind lives its own devious life."
"Who said that?" he asked Rona.
She looked back at the book and ran her finger down the page. "Richard Ford," she said under her breath.
"Who?" he asked. "Speak up."
"Richard Ford," she said now in full voice.
"I rest my case," he said.
"What case might that be?" I asked.
Humoring me, Art said, "Now that's funny."
posted by Steven Zwerling at
5:36 AM
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