"Something Wicked This Way Comes" by Ray Bradbury

I love Bradbury. 


His talents, especially the ones which bend to the darkening, orange winds of October, are beautiful, poetic odes, often to the nostalgic aura of childhood, adolescence and the subsequent bridge to adulthood. And his talents are in full display in "Something Wicked This Way Comes." 

With this novel, Bradbury uses his poetry to write a love letter to his childhood, All Hallow's Eve, and how the rites of the autumn season had such an influence over his life. At once, this is the story of two friends growing up alongside each other, facing, for the first time, the lurking death which hangs over all of our autumn's. And, this is a story about one of the boy's father's growth while accepting-- and winning?-- over this lurking specter of death and evil. 

The circus which travels by night and its cast of weird characters is so eloquently representative of fear of the coming winter, and Bradbury does not waste one character, one mirror-house, one twisted carousel to show us this. To breathe life into these characters, Bradbury unleashes his poetry, his own way of talking that so beautifully takes one back through years, to a place both reminiscent of our own youth, and a magnificently rendered historical moment of a small town, rural 1920s harvest time. 

I love this novel.

Autumnforest: Thank you!

"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving

I have always been fascinated by, and loved, the ghost story of Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman. Since childhood, I loved everything I had seen about the tale on TV, in the Disney animated version, in children's novel adaptations. But I had never read the original source material of Washington Irving's story. 

Irving's tale-- part of a larger work "Sketchbook"-- has everything one could want for a pastoral, autumnal work of the small town tale, fable and ghost story. Ichabod and the drowsy, small village/settlement in New York's Hudson country at harvest is beautifully described, in passages such as this: "It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet." And it is from this lush, secluded, rural autumn setting Irving explores the nature of myth, of legend, of the ghost story. 

The work-- somewhere between a novella and a long short story-- is brief, and spares not a word. The reader is told and shown different pieces, viewpoints of this greater story which has become legend. We are told the story was found in papers, and in these papers we are told of the telling to the papers' writer from another. We see Ichabod, in glimpses, and know only what appear to be flashes on his lead up to the now famous ride home from which he never returns. And then we are left with the many tales the locals tell about what they believe happened to Ichabod-- and we are left to wonder. Did Ichabod meet the Headless Horseman on the fateful night? Was he simply a victim of harassment or worse by Brom? It seems, at first, probable that Ichabod did not meet the ghost, but fell victim to Katrina's other suitor. But the questions abound. Because, if so-- why would Brom attack Ichabod after it appeared Katrina rejected him? There are so many questions left unanswered, and so many answers which become the ghost story legend of Sleepy Hollow-- and the reader is beautifully shown just how local legends are born.

Artwork: Source

"We Have Always Lived in the Castle," by Shirley Jackson

"My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood... I like my sister Constance... Everyone else in my family is dead." (1)

Although Shirley Jackson is now given her just due as one of the most influential literary voices of the last one-hundred years, and is often described as a literary parent, of sorts, to major, even more modern voices such as Stephen King-- there has never been a voice quite like Jackson's. And her talents are on display, with beautiful, eerie force, and at their height in her last complete novel "We Have Always Lived in the Castle." 

Yes, Mary Katherine Blackwood, known affectionately as Merricat, has always lived in the castle. The big, looming mansion on a solitary, secluded estate just outside of town. With a large, wandering fence spanning the outskirts of the property, locked at all times to keep the town out. Always, she has lived with her family away from the world, above. She would like to take this further, as she consistently fantasizes about how life would be "on the moon." When we first meet Mary Katherine, she informs us that her family, aside from her sister Constance, ailing Uncle Julian and her beloved cat Jonas has died. They were victims of a poisoning which happened-- curiously enough-- within their own home away from the world. Arsenic was laid in the family's sugar bowl, claiming the lives of all but Constance, Merricat and Uncle Julian. Constance, the maker of the evening's meal, has been spared any charge and the family continues to live freely, alone.

Merricat is simply put one of the most fascinating narrators (unreliable? Or nothing so simply categorized?) I've ever read. Her direct, often fantastical prose reads more like she is entering adolescence than leaving it (which, in reality, she is); and perhaps that adds even more to her power, that she will not be changed, or swayed, simply by growing up. Once, when Merricat is forced to venture into the town, the commoners, the hated for groceries, we are shown just how powerful her imagination is, and how much she relies on it to help her get through the experience: "I am walking on their bodies, I thought, we are having lunch in the garden and Uncle Julian is wearing his shawl." (10) In fact, the only way she is able to get through the experience of the town is to kill the various residents off-- in her mind.

Her life, so grounded in imagination, also relies on a form of magic, an almost individualized, nature-based witchcraft through which she lives out her own superstitions and rules for protection. Merricat shares many qualities with her beloved feline Jonas-- most notably the later half of her nickname, and that Merricat lives out part of this magical witchcraft by burying various things of meaning and for different meanings throughout the vast Blackwood property. She also takes things of value to different people-- a book of debts from her father, and later on his watch-- and places them elsewhere in nature, such as being nailed to a tree. When the unimaginably hated cousin, Charles Blackwood, first enters their home the sisters share with cat and uncle, it occurs when her father's book Merricat has nailed to the tree has fallen down. The younger Blackwood sister continues to draw on nature to use this magic to expel Charles' unwanted, transparent ways from the house, bringing water, leaves and twigs and branches into his bed. And, later on, quite possibly fire.

Charles' presence in the Blackwood home is, at the very least, problematic for several reasons. Though he is a relation, he is an outsider, who, Uncle Julian consistently reminds, is quite obviously only interested in the Blackwood fortune. Male and dominating (unlike Uncle Julian's male but wounded presence), Charles' mere presence in the house threatens everything-- and he directly threatens to end the life Merricat and Constance have made for themselves.

Just like her cat, Merricat has buried things around the property. Possessions of people she has loved. Part of Jackson's brilliance leaves the reader with constant speculation of what else, what people, Merricat may have had buried, as well. And why. Though everyone else in her family has died, Merricat barely mentions her feelings on this, or what she thinks of the memory of her parents, and the others. Perhaps the most telling glimpse into Merricat's psyche happens when she retreats one night to the family's summerhouse, which has not been used in years, and recreates a vision of her family sitting down at dinner. A vision which, quite glaringly, appears revised, the hyperbolic opposite of the way things likely, truly were. "'Mary Katherine should have anything she wants, my dear. Our most loved daughter must have anything she likes... Mary Katherine must never be punished. Must never be sent to bed without her dinner. Mary Katherine will never allow herself to do anything inviting punishment.'" (95-96) And so. Jackson leaves the reader to wonder what Mary Katherine has done to invite punishment that led her to be the way that she is, led her to do what she has done.

"Last Night in Twisted River" by John Irving

"'She bu de...'
 Neither the cook nor his son had ever known if Ah Gou and Xiao Dee's translation of the Mandarin was essentially correct-- that is, if she bu de literally meant "I can't bear to let go" -- but what did it matter, really? " (430)

  All the world is full of the odd, the fear, the random accidents which lead to friendships, nothing of consequence, death. The danger of bear lurk in the woods, during harsh New England winters-- where at prep schools, the years spent there have unending consequences on those who've attended. Relationships are complicated, as are sexual dynamics, angels and saviors fall from the sky, and SOME CHARACTERS LEAVE SUCH A LASTING SPIRIT WITH THOSE HE TOUCHES, AND THE READER, HIS WORDS OR SPEECH IS WRITTEN ALL IN CAPITAL LETTERS.

  This is the world of John Irving, the currents of life he draws from to create some of the most original and classic novels of the last fifty years-- and it is all so real. So true, do detailed, and so lush with description-- a modern, old-fashioned way of writing which firmly established him as among the most Dickensian of contemporary writers.

  "Last Night in Twisted River," Irving's most recent novel, has marked the first Irving I've read in a number of years. (And for those of you who may not have read the novel, I will be discussing the novel's ending.) Throughout his novels, Irving has proudly drawn on the same, similar themes and images, and always managed to create a new, original and stand alone tome. But in this novel, his body of work has never been more referenced, used or drawn on-- and never has it been so welcomed. All at once, the novel is his most unique plot and concept yet-- the story of what happens when a father does what he can to protect his son from this world of accidents. Yet during the flowing new story, Irving's take on a "chase novel," which takes the reader across New England, across America and beyond, what has come before is briefly referenced, and explored in new ways. Thus we are given the cook and his writer son's life-long friend, the woodsman Ketchum, who-- while nothing like him-- brings to mind memories of Owen Meany, another truly unforgettable Irving creation, firmly rooted in his sense of what is right, and speaking to his friends on the run through faxes WRITTEN ALL IN CAPITAL LETTERS, as Owen used to speak.

  And, with all these new situations among memories of what has come before, Irving has given us what is his most personal novel, in terms of his life as a writer. Yes, the novel is about the cook and his son on the run from a psychotic sheriff. However, the majority of the novel is about what happens to the characters in between-- their life. Danny's growth, his finding himself as a son, a writer, a father, a partner- -and, at times, the loss of those roles. And how he deals with living, dying. "'Well, writers should know it's sometimes hard work to die, Danny'..." (516-517) When the novel ends, and Danny, after it all, having lost and been found, it is no more apparent that one thing "Twisted River" can tell us is the insatiable need for writers to tell their life story, to never stop telling the tales of the characters and parts of people who have been a part of one's life. The stories of the childhoods, adolescences, the bears, THE FRIENDS, the New England where we have been, the stories we have created and the lives we have been a part of.

Inuksuk, Kuujjuaraapik, Canada

  "Oh, God-- here I go again-- I'm starting! the writer thought.
   He'd lost so much that was dear to him, but Danny knew how stories were marvels-- how they simply couldn't be stopped. He felt that the great adventure of life was just beginning-- as his father must have felt, in the throes and dire circumstances of his last night in Twisted River." (554)

  In other words, Irving can be seen here using this novel and the others as his own inuksuk-- the Inuit stone landmark used as a point of reference, which Daniel discovers at his winter cabin in Pointe au Baril. For the Inuit, the stone structures representing people were used for landmarkers in travel, and the journeys of life that take us across great distances. For Danny, and his writer Irving, each novel appears to be its own landmark; an unstoppable need to document, the remember the life we have had through the art of fiction, the truth in the lie, that which we cannot bear to let go.

Photo

Ruben Toledo Penguin Classics Book Cover Art

 While seeing what the rather sad Borders liquidation sale had to offer this weekend, I found several new (and amazing) book covers of interest.

 The first to pop out at me was this striking, long-haired version of Bram Stoker's "Dracula."

Which I nearly bought. And still may. I did take home the second cover which struck me as original, unique, amazing and needed on my shelf: this take on Charlotte Bronte's "Jane Eyre."

 Some light Google-ing has shown the artist to be a Ruben Toledo, born in Cuba in 1961, who is described as "a painter, sculptor, fashion chronicler and critic and surrealist." Toledo has done what appears to be a continuing set of Penguin Classics, done in an attractive paperback, with French folds.

 I've found the front and back covers for "Pride and Prejudice," "Wuthering Heights," and "The Scarlet Letter." With my known soft-spot for book covers and book cover art, I may be adding more of these to my collection, soon. I've also found some of his front cover art for "The Picture of Dorian Grey." 

To build a bookstore...

 With the unfortunate times many of even the largest of chain bookstores have fallen upon as of late, it is extremely refreshing to see a bookstore being built instead of being torn down, going out of business. 

 This video is from Half Price Books, and shows, in sped-up time, the creation of their new bookstore in San Antonio, Texas.  

YouTube User: HalfPriceBooks

"Love That Dog" by Sharon Creech

 Waiting for my partner, in the car on a hot summer day that fell into what appeared to be an oncoming storm with night, I read this novel my mother had given me, which ended up in my bag. "Love That Dog" by Sharon Creech.


 This small novel told through a series of poems is a small, but great, beauty. In these few shorts pages, the reader is witness to a child's assignments and discussion with a teacher, who is teaching poetry. The child responds poetically, begins to write poetry, and reveals wonder in life's big emotions through terse, deep bits of poetry based around well know poets from Blake to Frost to-- of course-- Walter Dean Myers. 

Throughout the narrative, our young poet Jack picks up on themes, phrases from the poems he is reading in school and employs them to describe his life, his feelings on what he is learning and his dog. 

"We were going for a drive/ and my father said/ We won't be long--/ You come too" he writes, of going to the "ANIMAL PROTECTION SHELTER" to find a dog. "And that's where we saw/ the yellow dog/ standing against the cage/ with his paws curled/ around the wire/ and his long red tongue/ hanging out/ and his big black eyes/ looking a little sad/ and his long tail / wag-wag-wagging/ as if he were saying/ Me me me! Choose me! / And we did. / We chose him." 

Sharon Creech has, with so few words and such large talent and art, created a beautiful portrait of childhood love for poetry, and a child's love for his dog.

Joyce Carol Oates & I

 Tonight, I met Joyce Carol Oates. One of my favorite writers, I started reading Oates some 6 or 7 years ago, and know full well there is a lifetime of work to be read of hers.

 My mother and my cousin, both fans, too, drove up to see her speak in Toronto, as part of the Luminato Festival. We had seen Joyce speak several years ago at the University at Buffalo, and while that was a great night, it was nothing like the personal encounter with the writer we were fortunate enough to have tonight. With the publication of her latest novel, a memoir on the death of her long-time husband, "A Widow's Story," Joyce sat down for a conversation with another writer regarding her work for about an hour and a half. The look, first hand, into this uncanny writer's life and writing in the face of her recent tragedy was so touching and precious. Hearing this literary giant relate "fantasies" of re-reading the classics when older or sick, something I from time to time think about and share, was greatly humanizing and representative of the huge talent Oates is.

 One woman fortunate enough to get to ask a question during the Q&A asked Joyce how she is able to connect with and portray such brutally honest "dark sides" to her characters. Somewhat taken aback, Joyce Carol Oates answered by stating that she empathized with humanity-- a humanity which is never entirely, for lack of a better word, good or evil. And that response is so very indicative of what Oates' work is. While great tragedy and horrific situation loom over much of her fiction, it is her understanding of all which is the human condition-- her understanding and her empathy-- that keeps her so far above the rest of the literary world.

 Afterwards, she stayed for a book signing. My mother went first, and asked if she had a favorite among her books. At this time, Joyce responded, it was "A Widow's Story," as that is so close to her heart. When I got up there, and two of my books (one, "The Falls" signed), I told her that we had driven up from Buffalo. She asked how long the drive was, almost two hours. And she said she liked my necktie, a floral arrangement of blue and red and pink roses on a blue background. At this point, my cousin mentioned my recent invitation to the White House for this year's LGBT Pride reception, and if she had any advice for me, as she herself had recently received an honor at the White House from the President. Joyce asked what the occasion was, and I told her an LGBT Pride Month Reception, to which she smiled and nodded, and told me it was nice to meet me.

 I could not have been more ecstatic.

Art of Art

 These pieces of art are really striking. Last week, HTMLGiant gave the world John Sokol's "Word Portraits;" pieces of art which are portraits of literary giants illustrated strictly with words from their works. Each portrait is truly a work to behold on many levels. Seeing greats such as Joyce Carol Oates, Toni Morrison and Walt Whitman literally composed of the words of each's works-- this is a great achievement.

http://flavorwire.com/171511/portraits-of-authors-in-their-own-words