Robert Jacoby's Blog, page 11
April 25, 2014
April 13, 2014
What Matters
In a poem, every word matters.
In a short story, every sentence matters.
In a novel, every paragraph matters.
Years ago when I first started writing seriously I read something like that, and it's stuck with me to this day. I'd only been writing short stories and poems, then. I had a thought for a novel (which turned out to be my first novel, There are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes ) but I'll admit that even the *idea* of writing a novel was scary to me. At that time I think I'd written maybe 4 or 5 solid short stories, the set that got me accepted to 2 different MFA writing programs. (I ended up not going to either for personal reasons; that's another story altogether.) So, I was confident in my fiction-writing abilities--maybe too cocky, looking back on it--but, still, the thought of writing a novel. Man. I didn't know if I could pull it off.
Now, I've been writing my second novel, Dusk and Ember in earnest since the beginning of this year. That's after a few fits and false starts over 2013. And that's after it had been lying fallow for a number of years. I think I started D&E soon after I thought I'd finished Noah, somewhere around 2005 or 2006. Then things started getting in the way. My second book Escaping from Reality Without Really Trying ; digging back into writing and publishing poetry, which took up much of 2008 onward; getting my masters degree in information management (from 2009 to 2012); being a dad; being a partner/boyfriend. Neither of those least.
So what matters?
Plowing ahead. One thing at a time. One word at a time, if it's a new or the reworking of a poem. One paragraph at a time, if it's my novel. One paragraph at a time. I keep plowing it, pushing it.
In the current version I have about 140 pages. Maybe the first 40 or so are semi-solid; they won't move around too much, I think, at this point. But I don't really know. Past page 40 there's lots of material. I know where it's going. Sort of. The grey wax figures, the characters in my head when I'm writing, know about as much or more than I do. I watch for what they're doing; where they want it to go, too. I have another 200+ pages of Extra Material I call it, which may or may not ever be in the novel, ever see the light of day. That's alright. It matters to me. It matters to me when I work through it, picking through it, sifting out things I might re-use, re-purpose, or just lift out entirely.
So many lines are lost. So many words are lost.
Plow ahead. Plow ahead.
In a short story, every sentence matters.
In a novel, every paragraph matters.
Years ago when I first started writing seriously I read something like that, and it's stuck with me to this day. I'd only been writing short stories and poems, then. I had a thought for a novel (which turned out to be my first novel, There are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes ) but I'll admit that even the *idea* of writing a novel was scary to me. At that time I think I'd written maybe 4 or 5 solid short stories, the set that got me accepted to 2 different MFA writing programs. (I ended up not going to either for personal reasons; that's another story altogether.) So, I was confident in my fiction-writing abilities--maybe too cocky, looking back on it--but, still, the thought of writing a novel. Man. I didn't know if I could pull it off.
Now, I've been writing my second novel, Dusk and Ember in earnest since the beginning of this year. That's after a few fits and false starts over 2013. And that's after it had been lying fallow for a number of years. I think I started D&E soon after I thought I'd finished Noah, somewhere around 2005 or 2006. Then things started getting in the way. My second book Escaping from Reality Without Really Trying ; digging back into writing and publishing poetry, which took up much of 2008 onward; getting my masters degree in information management (from 2009 to 2012); being a dad; being a partner/boyfriend. Neither of those least.
So what matters?
Plowing ahead. One thing at a time. One word at a time, if it's a new or the reworking of a poem. One paragraph at a time, if it's my novel. One paragraph at a time. I keep plowing it, pushing it.
In the current version I have about 140 pages. Maybe the first 40 or so are semi-solid; they won't move around too much, I think, at this point. But I don't really know. Past page 40 there's lots of material. I know where it's going. Sort of. The grey wax figures, the characters in my head when I'm writing, know about as much or more than I do. I watch for what they're doing; where they want it to go, too. I have another 200+ pages of Extra Material I call it, which may or may not ever be in the novel, ever see the light of day. That's alright. It matters to me. It matters to me when I work through it, picking through it, sifting out things I might re-use, re-purpose, or just lift out entirely.
So many lines are lost. So many words are lost.
Plow ahead. Plow ahead.
April 1, 2014
Review of The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers
It’s hard to say exactly why I’m so disappointed with this novel. It may be because there was so much build-up around it, so I came in with very high (too high) hopes. It won high praise from many critics, and it won several awards. I’ll admit that’s partly why I read the book. I do pay attention to what people are saying. (Heck, it was a National Book Award finalist!) So I came in really wanting to like and enjoy this book.
It started nicely, poetically, a bit oddly muted and muddled. Less than a quarter of the way through I was beginning to feel like there was a bait and switch going on. The characters, the story, the scenes, the writing… I wasn’t connecting. And I really wanted to. Like Mr. Powers, I’m a poet and a novelist, so I know the skills he’s bringing to bear here. I get his writing, his writing style, and I can appreciate it for what he was trying to do.
First, I didn’t connect to the characters (and there are only *three* of them). They read undeveloped to me. I wasn’t feeling who they are, so I wasn’t caring for them very much as they were going through their “story.”
Which brings us to problem number 2: there’s not much story here. We have 11 chapters, alternating in time and space, over 226 pages. It is a short novel. Told in a first person point of view, the narrator wedges in bits of his memories from the fields and odd encounters with the enemy in Iraq and then back to his return and trying to “fit in” in his home town in Virginia. But he feels out of place. And I do, too, as a reader.
Another problem for me was the scenes in the book. The scenes the narrator was describing did not make me feel as if I were there with him experiencing the events in his story. Mr. Powers’ gift with language was his weakness, too, because it felt sometimes like Mr. Powers, the writer, was getting in the way of Private Bartle, the storyteller.
There was some nice writing, sure. But there was a lot of writing that just rambled, for no apparent reason. And sometimes at the strangest moments, so much so that it felt like Powers had to reel himself back in from his own tangents. I have no problem with stream-of-consciousness writing, but the stream should lead somewhere. At other times the language (similes, metaphors, ramblings) Powers uses just gets in the way because of its strangeness. I mean, there was writing I stumbled over--that, really, just stopped the book for me. For example: “Clouds spread out over the Atlantic like soiled linens on an unmade bed” (p. 99). My first thought when I read this was: Huh? I had to re-read it. And not for pleasure. Because my next thought was: Ewww. And using Vonnegut’s “So it goes” (p. 135). I almost set the book aside when I read that because I thought: He really just re-used *that* line? And: “We trickled out into the city like water rung from a mop” (p. 194). What? “from a mop”? Writing should draw me into the novel and make me experience what the characters are experiencing, not make me look up and think: “What the hell?”
There are also some bits that seem really disjointed (as other reviewers have pointed out), as if the text was in need of a good editor: birds flying out of an orchard that’s just been shelled to pieces; a woman standing motionless for hours—hours!—upon hearing of her son’s death; dark night suddenly becoming the dawn.
Finally, for me, the story felt strangely heartless, oddly soulless. I was hoping (intending) to finish the book with a better understanding—a better feeling—of war. A character spent a page describing his experience of war (like the moment suspended before a car accident), but I felt none of that while reading this book. Instead, the book felt rushed and undone, incoherent and incomplete. I wanted to know more because, at the end of it all, at the reveal of the “big, traumatic event,” I felt robbed of knowing. I felt the author owed me more. And I felt cheated out of what should have been a good novel, if not a great novel, about the *experience* of our most modern war.
“Did not like it”
2 stars Amazon
1 star Goodreads
It started nicely, poetically, a bit oddly muted and muddled. Less than a quarter of the way through I was beginning to feel like there was a bait and switch going on. The characters, the story, the scenes, the writing… I wasn’t connecting. And I really wanted to. Like Mr. Powers, I’m a poet and a novelist, so I know the skills he’s bringing to bear here. I get his writing, his writing style, and I can appreciate it for what he was trying to do.
First, I didn’t connect to the characters (and there are only *three* of them). They read undeveloped to me. I wasn’t feeling who they are, so I wasn’t caring for them very much as they were going through their “story.”
Which brings us to problem number 2: there’s not much story here. We have 11 chapters, alternating in time and space, over 226 pages. It is a short novel. Told in a first person point of view, the narrator wedges in bits of his memories from the fields and odd encounters with the enemy in Iraq and then back to his return and trying to “fit in” in his home town in Virginia. But he feels out of place. And I do, too, as a reader.
Another problem for me was the scenes in the book. The scenes the narrator was describing did not make me feel as if I were there with him experiencing the events in his story. Mr. Powers’ gift with language was his weakness, too, because it felt sometimes like Mr. Powers, the writer, was getting in the way of Private Bartle, the storyteller.
There was some nice writing, sure. But there was a lot of writing that just rambled, for no apparent reason. And sometimes at the strangest moments, so much so that it felt like Powers had to reel himself back in from his own tangents. I have no problem with stream-of-consciousness writing, but the stream should lead somewhere. At other times the language (similes, metaphors, ramblings) Powers uses just gets in the way because of its strangeness. I mean, there was writing I stumbled over--that, really, just stopped the book for me. For example: “Clouds spread out over the Atlantic like soiled linens on an unmade bed” (p. 99). My first thought when I read this was: Huh? I had to re-read it. And not for pleasure. Because my next thought was: Ewww. And using Vonnegut’s “So it goes” (p. 135). I almost set the book aside when I read that because I thought: He really just re-used *that* line? And: “We trickled out into the city like water rung from a mop” (p. 194). What? “from a mop”? Writing should draw me into the novel and make me experience what the characters are experiencing, not make me look up and think: “What the hell?”
There are also some bits that seem really disjointed (as other reviewers have pointed out), as if the text was in need of a good editor: birds flying out of an orchard that’s just been shelled to pieces; a woman standing motionless for hours—hours!—upon hearing of her son’s death; dark night suddenly becoming the dawn.
Finally, for me, the story felt strangely heartless, oddly soulless. I was hoping (intending) to finish the book with a better understanding—a better feeling—of war. A character spent a page describing his experience of war (like the moment suspended before a car accident), but I felt none of that while reading this book. Instead, the book felt rushed and undone, incoherent and incomplete. I wanted to know more because, at the end of it all, at the reveal of the “big, traumatic event,” I felt robbed of knowing. I felt the author owed me more. And I felt cheated out of what should have been a good novel, if not a great novel, about the *experience* of our most modern war.
“Did not like it”
2 stars Amazon
1 star Goodreads
March 24, 2014
Review of Staring into Chaos by B.G. Brander
This book will be of interest to concerned and curious citizens alike. It's an exhaustive review of the three greatest minds to write comprehensively about man's history, researching meticulously how civilizations rise and fall, with a focus on the decline of the West. The author, B.G. Brander, is a generalist who shows his own great intellect in the subject matter, particularly his thorough evaluations of the major works of the three greatest historians of the 20th century, Oswald Spengler, Arnold J. Toynbee, and Pitirim A. Sorokin.
I first read this book right after 9-11. For many years before that event, though, I had a deep and abiding sense that things were going sideways in the world. While all around me people and the media were proclaiming the ever-advancing notions of our civilization, it seemed to me that something was wrong. Quite wrong. My interests then, and still do now, range widely across such fields of study as religion, science, technology, philosophy, economics, history, archeology, architecture, the fine arts (literature, music, painting), social relations, psychology, government, politics, warfare, and law and ethics. I read widely, looking for some answers to how civilization "might go" but could find no single book that provided the vast overview coupled with the in-depth information I was seeking. Until I found Staring into Chaos by B.G. Brander. From the summary and the few reviews I read at the time, it seemed spot on. I had never read (let alone heard of) the subjects of his book: Spengler, Toynbee, and Sorokin. (I picked up a used copy on Amazon just recently because I'd loaned my copy out to a friend, only to never see it again. I wanted to re-read the book, given the passage of 10 years.)
What a revelation.
The book is presented in four parts, and a lengthy epilogue. The notes and bibliography should satisfy most autodidacts.
In Part I, titled The Problem of the West, Brander introduces us to the notions of doubt seeded among all the progress that the West has enjoyed over the last 500 years. After World War II, in particular, he notes that "Perceptive observers saw civilization thinned to a mere veneer, with barbarism surging just beneath the surface, straining for release" (p. 15).
In subsection 3 of Part I, titled Visions of Decline, he provides specific background to the topic in the form of various social thinkers from the 19th century that sounded warning bells. Around this time he notes there were many writers who "disclaimed notions of continual upward progress, accepting instead that societies and civilizations undergo organic processes, with periods of youth, maturity, and old age, of expansion and decay" (p. 66).
Part I ends ominously when he writes that "an oddly apocalyptic atmosphere leaves the three works [the major works of Spengler, Toynbee, and Sorokin that Brander will cover] more pertinent than ever as the largest, most complete, and penetrating studies of an ailing culture and its sick society" (p. 84).
Parts II, III, and IV are devoted each to Brander's summary and analysis of the massive and monumental works of Oswald Spengler, Arnold J. Toynbee, and Pitirim A. Sorokin, respectively. No detail provided here can do justice to what Brander has done. He's basically summarized the three greatest achievements in historical documentation ever attempted by men. He does so in accessible language and division of thought. Each of the three main parts has its sections, and further subsections. Brander provides an introduction in each Part for each author he assesses. This provides a wonderful introduction not only to that author's work but also the times leading up to the production of that work. Each Part contains, to me, an exhaustive summary of original thought by the three writers.
I'll just provide a couple of the many quotations from the book that caught my eye: "The producers of an important sensate pleasure, musicians earned fame and riches as idols of half-hysterical audiences and fans" (p. 289). Is he writing about late 20th-century America? No. Fifth century BC Greece! Or this: "[E]laborate technique often takes the place of creative genius--a trait, Sorokin noted, that signals decadence in any field" (p. 294). Just step into any modern art gallery to view what's being pushed as "art" in the past 10 years, and you'll agree.
Brander concludes his book with a lengthy epilogue, titled Civilization and the Future. In it he provides a summary of thought that encompasses even more writers on the decline of civilizations and a deeper analysis of the three great writers from Parts II to IV. A reviewer here has noted that Brander does not provide specifics, or lessons learned, for living through a declining civilization. This reviewer must have skipped this epilogue entirely! In it Brander provides exactly that: guidance from the three master historians. (And no, I'm not going to give it away!)
On my first read many years ago, the book altered the way I viewed the world and man's place in it. It was an extremely satisfying read. It did not necessarily "change" my view of the future of the West, though, because I already sensed it was in decline. What Brander's book did was confirm for me what I was seeing around me, and it provided a wealth of thought and study. As I read through this book a second time it suddenly occurred to me how short-lived and short-sighted humanity is:
The arc of history does not bend toward justice. The arc of history bends toward the recycling of civilizations.
I first read this book right after 9-11. For many years before that event, though, I had a deep and abiding sense that things were going sideways in the world. While all around me people and the media were proclaiming the ever-advancing notions of our civilization, it seemed to me that something was wrong. Quite wrong. My interests then, and still do now, range widely across such fields of study as religion, science, technology, philosophy, economics, history, archeology, architecture, the fine arts (literature, music, painting), social relations, psychology, government, politics, warfare, and law and ethics. I read widely, looking for some answers to how civilization "might go" but could find no single book that provided the vast overview coupled with the in-depth information I was seeking. Until I found Staring into Chaos by B.G. Brander. From the summary and the few reviews I read at the time, it seemed spot on. I had never read (let alone heard of) the subjects of his book: Spengler, Toynbee, and Sorokin. (I picked up a used copy on Amazon just recently because I'd loaned my copy out to a friend, only to never see it again. I wanted to re-read the book, given the passage of 10 years.)
What a revelation.
The book is presented in four parts, and a lengthy epilogue. The notes and bibliography should satisfy most autodidacts.
In Part I, titled The Problem of the West, Brander introduces us to the notions of doubt seeded among all the progress that the West has enjoyed over the last 500 years. After World War II, in particular, he notes that "Perceptive observers saw civilization thinned to a mere veneer, with barbarism surging just beneath the surface, straining for release" (p. 15).
In subsection 3 of Part I, titled Visions of Decline, he provides specific background to the topic in the form of various social thinkers from the 19th century that sounded warning bells. Around this time he notes there were many writers who "disclaimed notions of continual upward progress, accepting instead that societies and civilizations undergo organic processes, with periods of youth, maturity, and old age, of expansion and decay" (p. 66).
Part I ends ominously when he writes that "an oddly apocalyptic atmosphere leaves the three works [the major works of Spengler, Toynbee, and Sorokin that Brander will cover] more pertinent than ever as the largest, most complete, and penetrating studies of an ailing culture and its sick society" (p. 84).
Parts II, III, and IV are devoted each to Brander's summary and analysis of the massive and monumental works of Oswald Spengler, Arnold J. Toynbee, and Pitirim A. Sorokin, respectively. No detail provided here can do justice to what Brander has done. He's basically summarized the three greatest achievements in historical documentation ever attempted by men. He does so in accessible language and division of thought. Each of the three main parts has its sections, and further subsections. Brander provides an introduction in each Part for each author he assesses. This provides a wonderful introduction not only to that author's work but also the times leading up to the production of that work. Each Part contains, to me, an exhaustive summary of original thought by the three writers.
I'll just provide a couple of the many quotations from the book that caught my eye: "The producers of an important sensate pleasure, musicians earned fame and riches as idols of half-hysterical audiences and fans" (p. 289). Is he writing about late 20th-century America? No. Fifth century BC Greece! Or this: "[E]laborate technique often takes the place of creative genius--a trait, Sorokin noted, that signals decadence in any field" (p. 294). Just step into any modern art gallery to view what's being pushed as "art" in the past 10 years, and you'll agree.
Brander concludes his book with a lengthy epilogue, titled Civilization and the Future. In it he provides a summary of thought that encompasses even more writers on the decline of civilizations and a deeper analysis of the three great writers from Parts II to IV. A reviewer here has noted that Brander does not provide specifics, or lessons learned, for living through a declining civilization. This reviewer must have skipped this epilogue entirely! In it Brander provides exactly that: guidance from the three master historians. (And no, I'm not going to give it away!)
On my first read many years ago, the book altered the way I viewed the world and man's place in it. It was an extremely satisfying read. It did not necessarily "change" my view of the future of the West, though, because I already sensed it was in decline. What Brander's book did was confirm for me what I was seeing around me, and it provided a wealth of thought and study. As I read through this book a second time it suddenly occurred to me how short-lived and short-sighted humanity is:
The arc of history does not bend toward justice. The arc of history bends toward the recycling of civilizations.
March 16, 2014
Review of The Family by David Plante
Many years ago a writing professor recommended David Plante's book "The Family". He said, "Have you read Plante?" I shook my head no. He said, "Your writing reminds me of Plante; you should read him." I read the book. I was stunned. Not only because my professor was right (that I did write like Plante) but also (and more) that he would pay me that compliment.
Published in 1978, this book was a finalist for the National Book Award in 1979. It is the story of the large Francoeur family (father, mother, and seven sons), French-Canadians living in Providence, Rhode Island. It takes place in the 1950s and focuses on Daniel, the second youngest son, in 8th grade in Part One of the book, then college-age in Part Two. (Plante, too, was the second youngest son of seven siblings, all brothers). Writers write what they know, and parts of The Family must be autobiography. This book is the first part of what is known as the Francoeur Trilogy: The Family (1978), The Country (1980), and The Woods (1982).
The story in The Family concerns relationships, and tension builds slowly as Plante shows family members interacting at various points in their lives: an older son returning home for a short stay from the military (after he is told to take some time off), another older son losing his small business, the father losing his job at a local factory, the lingering death of the father's mother, the older brothers going in together to purchase a lake house for their parents, the fallout when one son decides to marry a non-Catholic. There is little narrative "arc" here; modern readers may become bored by page 50 when nothing really "happens". The tension is everywhere within the family, though, and this is what drives the story.
The first 50 pages are a slow, purposeful study; the middle of the novel explores all the relationships within the family unit, father, mother, and seven sons; the last 50 pages are revelatory. The writing is subtle and usually lean; the tone is somber. It is sensual, evocative, spiritual writing that is a real pleasure to experience.
4.5/5 stars
Published in 1978, this book was a finalist for the National Book Award in 1979. It is the story of the large Francoeur family (father, mother, and seven sons), French-Canadians living in Providence, Rhode Island. It takes place in the 1950s and focuses on Daniel, the second youngest son, in 8th grade in Part One of the book, then college-age in Part Two. (Plante, too, was the second youngest son of seven siblings, all brothers). Writers write what they know, and parts of The Family must be autobiography. This book is the first part of what is known as the Francoeur Trilogy: The Family (1978), The Country (1980), and The Woods (1982).
The story in The Family concerns relationships, and tension builds slowly as Plante shows family members interacting at various points in their lives: an older son returning home for a short stay from the military (after he is told to take some time off), another older son losing his small business, the father losing his job at a local factory, the lingering death of the father's mother, the older brothers going in together to purchase a lake house for their parents, the fallout when one son decides to marry a non-Catholic. There is little narrative "arc" here; modern readers may become bored by page 50 when nothing really "happens". The tension is everywhere within the family, though, and this is what drives the story.
The first 50 pages are a slow, purposeful study; the middle of the novel explores all the relationships within the family unit, father, mother, and seven sons; the last 50 pages are revelatory. The writing is subtle and usually lean; the tone is somber. It is sensual, evocative, spiritual writing that is a real pleasure to experience.
4.5/5 stars
March 10, 2014
Review of Cormac McMcarthy's Blood Meridian
Blood Meridian is among the finest works of literature I have ever read. In the backdrop of the 1850s Southwest, and using highly stylized and epic prose, Cormac McCarthy explores man's place in the universe and the depths of depravity in man's soul. For those are the two great themes of this novel: the heart of man and his place in the universe. "For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false witness, slander." And it's all here, McCarthy putting everything on display in magnificent language. From page one he let's us in on what's ahead and what it's about as he describes the kid: "...and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence. All history present in that visage, the child the father of the man." So it's a tale of violence and man's history, the likes of which may never be written again.
The characters McCarthy places on his stage are individual yet emblematic: the kid, the judge, the fool, the expriest. Along with Delaware indian scouts, some half-witted killers from Missouri and elsewhere, and Toadvine (a fellow with no ears and the letters HFT burned into his forehead), they make up a gang of scalphunters led by John Joel Glanton. Based on historical events, the novel follows the Glanton Gang as they run riot through America's southwest, going after anyone and anything in their path to claim their prized bounty: scalps.
As a poet, I greatly admire McCarthy's skills with words and language. When he gets going, his placement of 20 words in a row top some of the finest poetry I have ever read. It's like reading Dylan Thomas on steroids. As a novelist, I greatly admire his storytelling skills. A storyteller's aim is to put the reader in the story, alive and breathing in it, making it real for you, making it your experience. McCarthy is a superb storyteller in these pages. You've heard the cliche "A picture is worth a thousand words." McCarthy's masterful pen creates a picture in 10 words, 5 words. As an avid reader I enjoyed wallowing in his intricate and beautiful prose. (Have a good dictionary or computer nearby to look up words.)
To the reviewers and critics who say McCarthy "tried too hard" to be "literary" I reply (as another reviewer has already): Do you think Milton "tried too hard" in Paradise Lost? Or Virgil "tried too hard" in The Aeneid? Or Shakespeare "tried too hard", at anything? Nope. Didn't think so. (Truths are there to be discovered, like a distant galaxy, or a new species here on earth, or new mathematical equations or scientifific principles; that they remained undiscovered up to that time didn't make them any less real, true, or profound; it just meant they remained undiscoverered to us.) Often the things in this world that are not easily comprehended are those of highest worth and lasting value. They remain. This book reads as if it were written in 1885. Or 1955. Or 1985 (which it was). It is timeless.
But I don't claim to "get it" all. The first time I finished it I was simply floored. I remember finishing it (on vacation on a beach) and setting it aside and standing up to look out onto the open sea with two thoughts as I wandered around: What did I just read? And: What just happened to me? A couple years later I picked it up to read through a second time to understand both questions.
Few other books have affected me so profoundly after finishing it as this one. I can name the others: The Illiad, The Odyssey, the Bible, Moby Dick, and The Aeneid. McCarthy uses his story, his storytelling skills, and his breathtaking crafting of the English language to pierce into our hearts as in the final scenes of the book where it is asked: "For even if you should have stood your ground, yet what ground was it?" Yes. What ground was it? What ground does any of us stand on?
The characters McCarthy places on his stage are individual yet emblematic: the kid, the judge, the fool, the expriest. Along with Delaware indian scouts, some half-witted killers from Missouri and elsewhere, and Toadvine (a fellow with no ears and the letters HFT burned into his forehead), they make up a gang of scalphunters led by John Joel Glanton. Based on historical events, the novel follows the Glanton Gang as they run riot through America's southwest, going after anyone and anything in their path to claim their prized bounty: scalps.
As a poet, I greatly admire McCarthy's skills with words and language. When he gets going, his placement of 20 words in a row top some of the finest poetry I have ever read. It's like reading Dylan Thomas on steroids. As a novelist, I greatly admire his storytelling skills. A storyteller's aim is to put the reader in the story, alive and breathing in it, making it real for you, making it your experience. McCarthy is a superb storyteller in these pages. You've heard the cliche "A picture is worth a thousand words." McCarthy's masterful pen creates a picture in 10 words, 5 words. As an avid reader I enjoyed wallowing in his intricate and beautiful prose. (Have a good dictionary or computer nearby to look up words.)
To the reviewers and critics who say McCarthy "tried too hard" to be "literary" I reply (as another reviewer has already): Do you think Milton "tried too hard" in Paradise Lost? Or Virgil "tried too hard" in The Aeneid? Or Shakespeare "tried too hard", at anything? Nope. Didn't think so. (Truths are there to be discovered, like a distant galaxy, or a new species here on earth, or new mathematical equations or scientifific principles; that they remained undiscovered up to that time didn't make them any less real, true, or profound; it just meant they remained undiscoverered to us.) Often the things in this world that are not easily comprehended are those of highest worth and lasting value. They remain. This book reads as if it were written in 1885. Or 1955. Or 1985 (which it was). It is timeless.
But I don't claim to "get it" all. The first time I finished it I was simply floored. I remember finishing it (on vacation on a beach) and setting it aside and standing up to look out onto the open sea with two thoughts as I wandered around: What did I just read? And: What just happened to me? A couple years later I picked it up to read through a second time to understand both questions.
Few other books have affected me so profoundly after finishing it as this one. I can name the others: The Illiad, The Odyssey, the Bible, Moby Dick, and The Aeneid. McCarthy uses his story, his storytelling skills, and his breathtaking crafting of the English language to pierce into our hearts as in the final scenes of the book where it is asked: "For even if you should have stood your ground, yet what ground was it?" Yes. What ground was it? What ground does any of us stand on?
March 9, 2014
Notable Books You Should Read
My novel There are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes made the list of Notable Books You Should Read over at ConvoZine. Pretty cool.
Check it out.
Check it out.
March 7, 2014
Reviews Matter
It's pretty simple: book reviews matter.
So if you've read either one of my books....
My novel There are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes
or my nonfiction book Escaping from Reality Without Really Trying: 40 Years of High Seas Travels and Lowbrow Tales
...and have a notion of writing a review, go ahead and do it.
Five sentences; 10 sentences. It doesn't matter much. Just put your thoughts down. Doesn't need to be perfect.
All it needs to show is:
1) you read the book and
2) it moved you enough to write and post a review to Amazon.com, Goodreads.com, BarnesAndNoble.com. Wherever.
Tell a friend.
Tell a book club.
Tell a coworker.
Thanks for spreading the word.
Robert
P.S. Work is ongoing for 3 new books: a poetry collection; a novel (Dusk and Ember); and a nonfiction book, Never Stop Dancing, a memoir (by interview) of a friend who lost his wife in a pedestrian traffic accident in Washington, D.C. in April 2010, and the aftermath and recovery with his two young sons (visit his blog at http://www.hole-in-the-sun.com/).
So if you've read either one of my books....
My novel There are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes
or my nonfiction book Escaping from Reality Without Really Trying: 40 Years of High Seas Travels and Lowbrow Tales
...and have a notion of writing a review, go ahead and do it.
Five sentences; 10 sentences. It doesn't matter much. Just put your thoughts down. Doesn't need to be perfect.
All it needs to show is:
1) you read the book and
2) it moved you enough to write and post a review to Amazon.com, Goodreads.com, BarnesAndNoble.com. Wherever.
Tell a friend.
Tell a book club.
Tell a coworker.
Thanks for spreading the word.
Robert
P.S. Work is ongoing for 3 new books: a poetry collection; a novel (Dusk and Ember); and a nonfiction book, Never Stop Dancing, a memoir (by interview) of a friend who lost his wife in a pedestrian traffic accident in Washington, D.C. in April 2010, and the aftermath and recovery with his two young sons (visit his blog at http://www.hole-in-the-sun.com/).
February 17, 2014
Top 5 Regrets From Dying People
A relative sent this on to me a while back. I googled the writer's name, and it turns out she wrote a book called, The Top Five Regrets of the Dying: A Life Transformed by the Dearly Departing. I guess this is a posting she made to the 'net somewhere, some time ago. It moved me. Enough to post it here.
Top 5 Regrets From Dying People
For many years I worked in palliative care. My patients were those who had gone home to die. Some incredibly special times were shared. I was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives.
People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality. I learnt never to underestimate someone’s capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them.
When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five:
1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.
It is very important to try and honour at least some of your dreams along the way. From the moment that you lose your health, it is too late. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it.
2. I wish I didn’t work so hard.
This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence.
By simplifying your lifestyle and making conscious choices along the way, it is possible to not need the income that you think you do. And by creating more space in your life, you become happier and more open to new opportunities, ones more suited to your new lifestyle.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result.
We cannot control the reactions of others. However, although people may initially react when you change the way you are by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
Often they would not truly realize the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying.
It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. But when you are faced with your approaching death, the physical details of life fall away. People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible. But it is not money or status that holds the true importance for them. They want to get things in order more for the benefit of those they love. Usually though, they are too ill and weary to ever manage this task. It is all comes down to love and relationships in the end. That is all that remains in the final weeks, love and relationships.
5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called ‘comfort’ of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content. When deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again.
When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying.
Life is a choice. It is YOUR life. Choose consciously, choose wisely, choose honestly. Choose happiness.
By Bronnie Ware
Top 5 Regrets From Dying People
For many years I worked in palliative care. My patients were those who had gone home to die. Some incredibly special times were shared. I was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives.
People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality. I learnt never to underestimate someone’s capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them.
When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five:
1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.
It is very important to try and honour at least some of your dreams along the way. From the moment that you lose your health, it is too late. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it.
2. I wish I didn’t work so hard.
This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence.
By simplifying your lifestyle and making conscious choices along the way, it is possible to not need the income that you think you do. And by creating more space in your life, you become happier and more open to new opportunities, ones more suited to your new lifestyle.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result.
We cannot control the reactions of others. However, although people may initially react when you change the way you are by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
Often they would not truly realize the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying.
It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. But when you are faced with your approaching death, the physical details of life fall away. People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible. But it is not money or status that holds the true importance for them. They want to get things in order more for the benefit of those they love. Usually though, they are too ill and weary to ever manage this task. It is all comes down to love and relationships in the end. That is all that remains in the final weeks, love and relationships.
5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called ‘comfort’ of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content. When deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again.
When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying.
Life is a choice. It is YOUR life. Choose consciously, choose wisely, choose honestly. Choose happiness.
By Bronnie Ware
January 29, 2014
Two new poems in Poetica Magazine
Two new poems are in the Spring 2014 print-only edition of Poetica Magazine.
The poems are "After the Flood" and "The dead know more than you allow".
Buy the print edition here. Or read both poems now at my website.
Enjoy!
Robert
The poems are "After the Flood" and "The dead know more than you allow".
Buy the print edition here. Or read both poems now at my website.
Enjoy!
Robert
