So You Want to Live in Park Slope Dept.
Today (Aug. 3) I am interrupted on my final kick of a 7-miler, forced to stop at an intersection in Central Slope. In 85-degree heat a man in a heavy orange vest (sensible shoes, shorts and sandals) is walking ahead of a young woman pushing a cart full of food from the Park Slope Food Co-op http://bit.ly/rfTUOX, both of them blocking a turning Crate & Barrel delivery truck, the target of disapproving glares from some patrons at the outdoor seating area of Connecticut Muffin.
Okay, I read “Moby-Dick,” swallowed hole, word for word. I would like to say in awe of it, to shout from the rooftops to its glory. Rather I am in awe of me for finishing the novel. It is one thing for an angry, embittered writer, fated to near-penniless means to pour forth angst and anxieties in such jumbled paragraphs of darkness and doubt, never knowing in his lifetime that his work, the overwrought perils of life and death aboard the equally glorious and lowly miserable whale ship Pequod, would be regarded a century hence as having written the greatest, the first and foremost, American classic novel. Lo, I would fain submit if I were to be offered to chose only one of two scenarios: the first, a journey aboard a similar vessel, setting sail from some woebegotten harbor on a mission as long and as treacherous and devoid of urbane comforts, the second, a re-reading of this novel, “Moby-Dick,” I hasten to declare that I would prefer the former.
Next on the list (Running for Your Life: Summer Reading List), the novel, “Caribou Island” by David Vann. I suspect I will finish it within the month. So far, I don’t find the unexpected pleasures, the rapt wisdom of his book of collected stories, “Legend of a Suicide.” Could it be that we have all watched too many TV movies? I mean that character, Monique? As to full and complex fictive women, I’m stumped at thinking of American male writers toiling above the Mason Dixon line who can deliver the goods. Faulkner, Reynolds Price and, of course, Tennessee Williams, yes. But sadly they’re all dead. Lo, it is not for this that I did not care for Melville. He certainly didn’t watch TV movies.
It is funny the idea of summer reading. To believe the pop mags, which I read religiously as part of the work I do for a living at the New York Post, then there are books you read in summer – and books you read the rest of year, ie, summer is for mysteries, romance novels, baseball and celeb biographies, graphic novels, chick lit. Light is right.
One of the best books I’ve read in the last year I discovered on a pile in our friends’ house in Dunewood, Fire Island. “Black Swan Green” by David Mitchell. A coming of age novel that makes notice of a monstrously talented author. The mark of this book is that the first time I tried to read it I couldn’t find my way in. That was true the second time, as well. The third time lucky. I was spellbound and scenes play in my mind yet; since I’ve read “Ghostwritten,” his remarkable book of connected stories. Next, after “Caribou Island,” I’m going to read “Cloud Atlas,” a winner of the Booker Prize.
Which is to say I don’t cotton to the idea that some books are to be read in the summer. To me, “summer” is a casual adjective when modifying the noun “reading,” denoting only the time of year not the content itself, sort of like March weather, Monday Monday or winter solstice. It is just the books (hardcover and soft; no, I don’t own a Kindle or a Nook or an iPad, “e” in e-reader stands for emergency, meaning I will look into one if it is a matter of life and death but not for enjoyment or education) I happen to getting around to because I don’t take a vacation like normal people, spending it on the beach or swinging in a mountainside hammock or a Parisian café (well, sometimes here but not like it’s a vacation; it seems that M and I are always working) reading books that I’d set aside for that purpose.
But if I were to be that kind of person, here are some books that I’d recommend:
“Revenge” by Mary Morris: Okay, okay, full disclosure. This is the afore- and oft-mentioned M. A great, suspenseful read. With a devilish twist of an ending.
“Legend of a Suicide” by David Vann: Magic prose. Grim subject. But, hey, contrast is the way I roll, baby.
“Out Stealing Horses” by Per Petterson: Goodness, this is starting to show a trend. Bleak but oh so beautiful.
“The Secret Scripture” by Sebastian Barry: All right, this guy can write. Especially when it comes to the old woman protagonist. (He’s Irish, in case you’re wondering about my earlier comment.) Plot to die for. One and only book that had me weeping (in a good way) at the end.
Anything by David Foster Wallace. That is not a title. Stop and salute when you see someone reading “Infinite Jest” on the beach.
“Kafka on the Shore” by Haruki Murakami. I like “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” but “Kafka” is the bomb. Also beach salute-worthy.
“A Heart So White” by Javier Marias. Slow beginning, but well worth staying with. Great plot twist.
“Death With Interruptions” by Jose Saramago. Love him, this literary comic genuis. RIP. The title wouldn’t suggest “summer reading” in the classic sense. Funny just how redemptive and beautiful this book can be.
Next: Running for Your Life: The Play Is the Thing
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