the cassandra pages

A Year in Books

At the end of each year, I like to look back at the books I read and see which ones stand out particularly. Oddly, I liked almost everything I read this year, but I've put stars(*) next to the, well, starry ones, and double stars (**) next to the very best or most memorable.

Particular highlights were reading and writing about William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom! with Peter Stephens; going deeply into the world of Saramago's "Ricardo Reis," exploring New France along with Samuel de Champlain and then taking a trip up the St. Lawrence River with much greater appreciation of the place names and their history; delving deeper into both the literature of both India and Africa; discovering the writing of Javier Marias and Haruki Murakami -- definitely to be continued in 2011 -- and sharing Orhan Pamuk's appreciation of his great Istanbul literary predecessor, Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar.

But the greatest pleasure and excitement(!) came from reading two books by friends. Open City, by Teju Cole, which will be published by Random House in February 2011, is a tour de force debut novel by a man I feel will become known as one of the best writers of his generation, familiar to many of you from his own blog and from these pages.I will be writing much more about it in a few weeks.

The Blind Contessa's New Machine, by Carey Wallace, is an entirely different sort of book - a fantasy based on a true story that reads as both fairy tale and love story. It caught me up and carried me into its beautifully-constructed magical world, and I enjoyed it tremendously. I met both of these writers and friends through blogging, and I am so proud of them.

And then there were the wonderful manuscripts I've been privileged to read for Phoenicia Publishing projects, which I haven't included here, nor have I included the poetry chapbooks for the qarrtsiluni chapbook contest last summer (we got 60 submissions; I read the top 10) or the ongoing panoply of great writing we publish nearly every day online at qarrtsiluni. Riches.

2011 begins auspiciously, too: I've started reading two terrific books, Lords of the Sea, an account of the Athenian navy, and Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. In fact, I can't wait to get back to them this evening!

 

2010 Book List (latest first)

Helen, Euripides

"You have your sorrows, I know it well. But it were best
  to bear your life's constraints as lightly as you may."

Mary's Wedding, Stephen Massicotte (play)

The Shadow of the Sun, Rysard Kapuscinski

*The Museum of Innocence, Orhan Pamuk

*All Souls', Javier Marias

!*The Blind Contessa's New Machine, Carey Wallace

Ivon Hitchens (his art and life), Peter Khoroche

The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner

*Light in August, William Faulkner

A Writer's Diary, Virginia Woolf 

**The year of the death of Ricardo Reis, José Saramago

Absalom, Absalom! William Faulkner 

The bastard of Istanbul, Elif Shafak

South of the Border, West of the Sun, Haruki Murakami

The Secret Agent, Joseph Conrad

**Champlain's Dream (a biography of Samuel de Champlain) David Hackett Fischer

Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres

**A Mind at Peace, Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar

!**Open City (advance copy), Teju Cole

Birds Without Wings, Louis de Bernieres

Non-Adhesive Binding, Books Without Paste or Glue, Volume I, Keith A. Smith

*English, August: An Indian Story, Upamanyu Chatterjee

Brücke: The Birth of Expressionism in Dresden and Berlin, 1905-1913

*The Thing Around Your Neck, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Anthills of the Savannah, Chinua Achebe

Purple Hibiscus, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Henry V, William Shakespeare

The White Tiger, Aravind Adiga

*The Gargoyle, Andrew Davidson

Sea of Poppies, Amitav Ghosh

Can't Buy Me Love: The Beatles, Britain, and America, Jonathan Gould

Find earlier years' lists here.

Embracing the Insanity

Siona loves Christmas, and I love what she's written about it.

Or perhaps, above all, it’s just that I just love love the way it stands as a schism in the everyday–this beast of a holiday that blunders like some white-furred Yeti through the country, rattling up the ordinary and driving everyone indoors to huddle with their families to wait until normalcy descends again.

Do read the whole thing.

My Peaceable Kingdom

My friend Clive Hicks-Jenkins, currently snowed-in at his house in Wales, recently posted some pictures of favorite Christmas ornaments he and his partner have made, collected, or been given over the years. I loved seeing them and told him so, and he asked if I'd post some of ours too.

For most of my life, I've had an animal-and-bird theme going on my Christmas trees. There are lots of  snowflakes, crocheted by my grandmother and by me, and a few large red balls, some glass bead chains, and various baubles and decorations made of paper, glass, cloth. We have half a dozen clothespin dolls, some representing Figi islanders in native sarongs, made by a close friend during her Peace Corps stay there in the late 1970s, and some representing other people, made by me around the same time. The rest are animals and birds, some that I made and some collected.  Except for the Chinese feather-birds like the rooster above, of which I have quite a lot, I haven't added anything much in recent years, but maybe I'll get around to making some new creatures: a beaver, bien sur, and maybe a moose, and a Canada goose! I'd love to make an owl, and a snow goose, and an arctic tern...

The pig at the top of the post is one of three felt creatures I sewed in the mid-1970s: there's also a lion, and a bright green fish.

A frog, in painted wood, from southeast Asia or Indonesia - my mother found this one and several others like it in the 1980s.

A Chinese cardinal surveys a pink papier-maché giraffe, circa 1965.

A sequined polar bear, found in a shop somewhere.

A dear little chipmunk, also from my mother, whittled out of wood. When I was young I tamed a wild chipmunk. For several years it would sit under my window and call me to come out and feed it; it would also come out of its hole when I whistled to it; it ate out of my hand and liked gingersnaps better than anything else.

There are ten or so of these little painted Indian horses,  all in different colors. They're tiny - about 2 inches long.

And a personal favorite, this papier-maché zebra-of-a-different-color, also from the psychedelic mid-60s, when I was maybe fourteen. He's making me want to try out some papier-maché again, and add a few creatures to this peaceable boreal menagerie!

Merry Christmas!

This funny Santa is part of the current tableau on top of my desk, a changing collection of memories and new things I want to look at and live with; it is, for me, a place of stillness and meditation. This drawing shows just one side -- a pot of pencils, pens and brushes and a pheasant feather my mother sent me years ago; a carved sandlewood box holding incense; a little brass dish for the incense burner and some dried seed pods, stones, and pine cones; a wooden box and chain carved for me by G. in the 1970s from a single piece of wood; this year's Christmas card from our friends in Iceland; a blue fan from Y. in Beijing; a Persian miniature on ivory that was my father-in-law's.

The Santa only comes out at Christmastime, and he is almost an antique. He's actually a candy dish that comes apart at the belt, and made of heavy flocked paper with an artificial "tree" and a fluffy white beard; his head is attached by a spiral spring so it bobs around when he's jostled. He's silly and I've always liked him, ever since he arrived in my grandmother's house one Christmas when I was a little girl. She took him out every year until she died, along with a trunkful of other decorations, and somehow I acquired him afterwards. After almost two decades at our house, Christmas wouldn't be the same without him.

After rehearsing and singing at yesterday's two services, and getting to bed at about 2:00 am, this has been a slow, quiet day, and that's been just fine. A few friends are coming over for dinner, so I'm heading to the kitchen soon to start a dish of scalloped potatoes, but I didn't want the day to go by without wishing every one of you a very happy day if you're celebrating it, and telling you that Christmas wouldn't be the same without you, either.

My world has enlarged so much since those simple days of childhood in a small rural town, when the arrival of a mail order package was the most exciting event of a whole month. Looking out this morning at kids heading to the park with sleds or ice skates, or even littler ones being pulled along by their parents, I couldn't help but remember how carefree and uncomplicated life seemed then, and as sometimes happens, I had a choked moment of acknowledging, "I will never, ever feel like that again." In fact, I realize how fortunate any child is who has a majority of moments that actually are carefree, happy, and healthy. But for those of us who have stepped (or been pushed) out of the garden; out of the fantasy that someday everything will seem simple and happy again, this season can of course be an emotional and psychological minefield. I do enjoy seeing the old ornaments and keeping a few traditions, but I find nostalgia doesn't really help my state of mind as I'm forced to adapt to the fragmentation of families and societies, the loss of people dear to me, and the gradual effects of getting older. It's better to be here now, in the present moment, grateful for the technology that allows me to be in touch with people today in places as distant as Palmyra and Beijing, and to feel connected to all of you.

If Christmas means anything anymore, surely it's that: remembering and acknowledging that we're all part of the same family, and that it's still better to give than to receive. I'm willing to trade the naivete of childhood for the ability to see those truths and act on them, with all the pains and joys that come with living with open eyes and an open heart.

On the Solstice

The Choir Singer's Life

You know, it feels normal to me, but to most people -- even most musicians -- the life of a church choir singer would seem strange indeed. For one thing, we work in the early morning. For most of the Sundays of my entire life, even as a kid, I've gotten out of bed early, made a quick breakfast, and gone off to rehearsal by 9:00 am, for a "performance" (might as well call it what it is) at 10:00 am. OK, you might say, it's just like a regular day. Yes, but that means no croissants or doughnuts or French toast with coffee, no New York Times, no Sunday morning lazing around. And what's more -- on weekdays I'm a reluctant and slow riser, but on Sundays I almost always get up without complaint, no matter how late I've been up the night before or how tired I feel.

Another anomaly is that singing first thing in the morning is hard. There's a reason concerts happen in the evening! Most singers need plenty of time to warm up both body and voice, but choir singers don't get that luxury. It's not just the vocal chords that need it, but the entire breathing apparatus; the diaphragm has to get moving properly, the soft palette lifted, the voice resonating in the head and fully supported below. We do vocal exercises in the car on the way to church...I've been known to do them on my bike...or warm up on the hymns at the beginning of practice. That's never enough for me, and if the hymn has a descant - a high soprano line in counterpoint to the main melody - getting up to high Gs and As first thing in the morning is a real stretch. I'm sure singers on every part feel the same way at the top and bottom ends of their range, until we're half an hour into rehearsal, unless they've managed a good warmup beforehand, which few of us probably do. The whole choir tends to sing a bit flat at the beginning of the morning, and likewise if we're tired at the end of a day. People are sluggish...tempos tend to drag...attention isn't what t shoud be. But what a pleasure it is when we actually are fully awake and warmed up and everything starts to come together. Fortunately that usually happens right around 10:00 am!

After the morning service ends (11:30 or so) we have a break, and then return for a second rehearsal at 2:30 or 2:45, for the 4:00 pm vespers service that's broadcast on the radio. For most of the winter, by the time I leave to go home, it's dark, and Evensong feels even more aptly named: the service is supposed to begin while there's still light, and end after sunset.

Yesterday was a real marathon, because that wasn't the end of it: from 6 to 9 pm we had another rehearsal for tonight's performance of Handel's Messiah. That's a lot of standing, a lot of concentration, a lot of stress on the body even though it's not the sort of athletics that involves moving around. Several of us rode home on the metro together, all a bit dazed and wishing for full-body massages! But it was a really good day too. I'm surprised how rested I feel this morning, and am grateful I got a good night's sleep; now I can look forward to tonight's concert.

I did these little (2 1/2" x 5" and 4" x 5") fast drawings during the break last night, and added the "watercolor" washes in Photoshop this morning. (Musicians who were there might recognize a few faces, though the likeness of our own music director is only in his typical stance and color of his shirt - he moved and I didn't have time to fix the head after that!)

Christmas Baking

Another very fast drawing, this time with a thick-nib fountain pen washed over with a water-pen. Can you tell that my favorite object in the scene above is the brass spice grinder at the far left?

There's plenty that's clunky and of dubious merit in this drawing, but that's not important. What I'm learning, in this re-start after years of careful draftsmanship, is that drawing quickly with attention to the "life" of the scene in front of me as well as the vitality of my own aliveness is what creates a vigorous drawing.  It's best to just draw, not thinking too much, and then study the drawing afterwards. A teacher once told me, "make yourself some cropping corners and find the best parts. cut the drawings up into pieces..." In other words, dont' get all precious about it: this is about process, about learning to see and feel as well as to make "art." What is my eye drawn to? What stands out? Where are the best lines? What has strength? What makes me smile?

Often, the things I had/have a particular emotional response to (like the school of biscotti on the perforated baking sheet, or that little brass spice grinder) communicate their particularity through my mind and hand without much rational "thought" -- but I can see it later. Freeing myself from the need to make it all perfect - not worrying about keeping the ovals of each round object in proper perspective, or keeping everythign in proper scale, for instance - allows a vitality and even some humor to come through. The biscotti did remind me of little fish, and they make me smile when I see them on the page.

It's the same in writing. Yes, sometimes we need to work and rework, striving for perfection. But we also need to sketch, to write quickly and judge later, to keep the connections between mind and heart and ear and the written words limber, free, and unlabored. I love the near-daily practice of blogging for just that reason, and I know for sure that it's made me a much much better writer.

----

And to that, I want to add congratulations to my friend and fellow traveler Dave Bonta today, on his seventh blogday. Wish I could send over a plate of cookies, Dave, or better yet, sit down with you over a few bottles of St. Ambroise. Virtual clinking-of-glass, and thanks for being there!

Hot Lunch, Cold Day

Yesterday I did some Christmas shopping and also bought supplies like tissue paper at the dollar store...it was around noon and I stopped at a restaurant and had lunch by myself, taking the opportunity to make a fast sketch of my Hunan dumplings and sweet-and-sour soup on the back of the placemat, before hunger erased them. It was very cold outside but gorgeous, and I couldn't help but take a few photographs of the beautiful old houses along rue Rachel, and of the fresh snow in Parc Lafontaine.

In the late evenings I've been reading two books: Orhan Pamuk's The Museum of Innocence, which I've enjoyed and found maddening, both, (I think that was sort of his point, in writing about a love-obsessed Turkish man) and  Rysard Kapuściński's The Shadow of the Sun. The latter is a book the great Polish journalist wrote about his experiences in Africa between 1957 and the 1990s. It begins with his very first trip, and includes stories like waking up in an abandoned hut to realize there was a huge cobra underneath his bed, or the onset of cerebral malaria, which almost killed him. These are the archetypal African terrors of the white person, and then I think of my friend Teju writing once, "Africa is normal," or my friend Marie speaking about the continent's lyrical beauty and the generosity and warmth of its people; this is an enormous continent filled with contradiction and complexity. I've been reading more about Africa in the past year or two, mostly African literature in translation but also books by westerners, from Conrad to Kapuściński, hoping to piece together a fuller impression of a continent that, in Kapuściński's estimation, defies definition or generalities. I realize that, in spite of this, I know almost nothing.

I read this week that only 3% of the literature that's read in America is literature in translation. That astounds me, but perhaps it's not surprising. Sometimes I think I read 3% in English, and the rest in translation -- an exaggeration, of course, but it's true that a large percentage of the books I do read didn't originate in my native language. The next best thing to traveling in person must be to sit in a northern apartment, swathed in sweaters and wool shawls and surrounded by snow, and be transported to a ferry on the Bosphorus, or a hotel in Dar es Salaam.

 

 

Phoenicia sets sail into 2011: new website & exciting news!

 

I'm proud and delighted to announce a new website for my small independent press, Phoenicia Publishing. Please take a look!

And we have lots of exciting news!

• The latest qarrtsiluni print edition, Words of Power, will be available for order in a matter of days.

• In early January, we'll be releasing 70 Faces: Torah Poems, a full-length collection of poems engaging the five books of Moses, by Rachel Barenblat -- known to many of you as the Velveteen Rabbi, and soon to be ordained as a real rabbi: an event this publication celebrates. More on this wonderful book very soon!

• In late February or early March, we'll be publishing Mercy Island, new and collected poems by Ren Powell, whose finely-crafted, extremely beautiful writing has been published in two translated books in Norway, where she lives and works, but never before in an English edition for North American readers.

• And Phoenicia is thrilled to be planning the publication, later in 2011, of Marly Youmans' astonishing book-length epic poem of apocalypse and hope, Thaliad.

So it's going to be a very full and exciting New Year at Phoenicia, and we welcome you to sail with us, discovering the worlds revealed by these remarkable authors with whom we're so proud and happy to be working.

 

 

Advice for Wise Virgins

Pretend-sunshine: flats of tomatoes at Mayrand

It always astounds me how quickly and completely winter settles upon us, once it's decided to stay. We got almost a foot of snow, the city had its usual several days of chaos as the crews began the arduous task of snow removal from narrow streets clogged with parked cars, and people's moods plummeted with the temperature. After a couple of brighter days, cold but blue, I managed to remember why I supposedly love winter, but like everyone else I'm a bit demoralized at the sense of confinement, the cumbersomeness of heavy coats and scarves and boots (which I can't lace when the damn scarf falls down in front making it impossible to see the eyelets!); the unreliability of public transit when traffic is backed up; the difficulty of walking places that were so close and easy by bike just a couple of weeks ago. And the light - or lack of it! Thankfully we're only a week away from the shortest day of the year.

So, all of this, combined with my annual physical and blood tests (not my favorite thing); more dental problems (hopefully not major); holiday stresses and not enough sleep have added up to a low mood and low energy, resulting in less-frequent posting here. It's time to take matters in hand. Last night's choir rehearsal was fun and productive: two hours of concentrated work on the Christmas and Advent music. Next week we'll have a rehearsal for the annual performance of the Messiah with the McGill Chamber Orchestra on December 20th -- and though I've sung it many times, I still love it.Today I'm hoping to find some restorative time to spend at the keyboard with Beethoven and Bach.

This morning we did a big shopping trip to Mayrand, an Italian-focussed warehouse in the north eastern part of the city, where I bought fruitcake ingredients as well as a lot of other things, and stopped at the SAQ bulk depot on the way home to fill our bottles with wine for holiday entertaining.

We just finished a couple of big professional design jobs, Phoenicia has several new books coming out soon, and I've got a couple of manuscripts to read, so there's no dearth of work to do. I love the holiday connecting and re-connecting, both in person and in the sending of gifts and cards to faraway friends; I also worry about disappointing people I love. So rather than allow myself to get in over my head, as I've done many Christmases in the past, it's time to step back, take stock, and make sure I take care of myself. As my dear Icelandic friend Elsa (who must be living with far less light than we are right now!) is fond of saying, "Remember to put on your own oxygen mask first!" Good advice for all of us as we enter this precious and demanding season.

"Sleepers wake!" A voice astounds us;

the shout of rampart guards surrounds us;

"Awake, Jerusalem, arise!"

Midnight's peace their cry has broken,

their urgent summons clearly spoken:

"The time has come, o maidens wise!"

Rise up and give us light;

the bridegroom is in sight,

Alleluia!

Your lamps prepare and hasten there,

that you the wedding feast may share!"

"Wachet auf"/"Sleepers, Wake;" text by Philipp Nicolai (1566-1608); melody by Hans Sachs (1494-1576) adapted and harmonized by J.S. Bach (1685-1750). Version for organ and trumpet by J.S. Bach.