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Evening in Paradise: More Stories
A collection of previously uncompiled stories from the short-story master and literary sensation Lucia Berlin.
In 2015, FSG published A Manual for Cleaning Women, a posthumous story collection by a relatively unknown writer, to wild, widespread acclaim. It was a New York Times bestseller; the paper's Book Review named it one of the Ten Best Books of 2015; and NPR, Time, Entertainment Weekly, The Guardian, The Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, and other outlets gave the book rave reviews.
Evening in Paradise is a careful selection from the remaining Berlin stories--a jewel box follow-up for Lucia Berlin's hungry fans.
Foreword: The story is the thing / by Mark Berlin --
The musical vanity boxes --
Sometimes in summer --
Andado: a Gothic romance --
Dust to dust --
Itinerary --
Lead Street, Albuquerque --
NoeÌ⁸l. Texas. 1956 --
The adobe house with a tin roof --
A foggy day --
Cherry blossom time --
Evening in Paradise --
La Barca de la Ilusion --
My life is an open book --
The wives --
NoeÌ⁸l, 1974 --
The pony bar, Oakland --
Daughters --
Rainy day --
Our brother's keeper --
Lost in the Louvre --
Sombra --
Luna nueva --
A note on Lucia Berlin
In 2015, FSG published A Manual for Cleaning Women, a posthumous story collection by a relatively unknown writer, to wild, widespread acclaim. It was a New York Times bestseller; the paper's Book Review named it one of the Ten Best Books of 2015; and NPR, Time, Entertainment Weekly, The Guardian, The Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, and other outlets gave the book rave reviews.
Evening in Paradise is a careful selection from the remaining Berlin stories--a jewel box follow-up for Lucia Berlin's hungry fans.
Foreword: The story is the thing / by Mark Berlin --
The musical vanity boxes --
Sometimes in summer --
Andado: a Gothic romance --
Dust to dust --
Itinerary --
Lead Street, Albuquerque --
NoeÌ⁸l. Texas. 1956 --
The adobe house with a tin roof --
A foggy day --
Cherry blossom time --
Evening in Paradise --
La Barca de la Ilusion --
My life is an open book --
The wives --
NoeÌ⁸l, 1974 --
The pony bar, Oakland --
Daughters --
Rainy day --
Our brother's keeper --
Lost in the Louvre --
Sombra --
Luna nueva --
A note on Lucia Berlin
244 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1981
About the author
Lucia Berlin
35 books782 followersBerlin began publishing relatively late in life, under the encouragement and sometimes tutelage of poet Ed Dorn. Her first small collection, Angels Laundromat was published in 1981, but her published stories were written as early as 1960. Several of her stories appeared in magazines such as The Atlantic and Saul Bellow’s little magazine The Noble Savage.
Berlin published six collections of short stories, but most of her work can be found in three later volumes from Black Sparrow Books: Homesick: New and Selected Stories, So Long: Stories 1987-92 and Where I Live Now: Stories 1993-98.
Berlin was never a bestseller, but was widely influential within the literary community. She aspired to Chekhov's objectivity and refusal to judge. She has also been widely compared to Raymond Carver and Richard Yates. One of her most memorable achievements was the stunning one-page story "My Jockey," which captured a world, a moment and a panoramic movement in five quick paragraphs. It won the Jack London Short Prize for 1985. Berlin also won an American Book Award in 1991 for Homesick, and was awarded a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.
Berlin published six collections of short stories, but most of her work can be found in three later volumes from Black Sparrow Books: Homesick: New and Selected Stories, So Long: Stories 1987-92 and Where I Live Now: Stories 1993-98.
Berlin was never a bestseller, but was widely influential within the literary community. She aspired to Chekhov's objectivity and refusal to judge. She has also been widely compared to Raymond Carver and Richard Yates. One of her most memorable achievements was the stunning one-page story "My Jockey," which captured a world, a moment and a panoramic movement in five quick paragraphs. It won the Jack London Short Prize for 1985. Berlin also won an American Book Award in 1991 for Homesick, and was awarded a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.
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June 29, 2021
BREATHLESS
Lucha, Luchaha, Lucia di “I carillon”.
Mamma scriveva storie vere; non necessariamente autobiografiche, ma neanche troppo distanti. Le storie e i ricordi della nostra famiglia sono stati via via rimodellati, abbelliti e adattati al punto che non sono sicuro di cosa sia realmente successo in tutto quel tempo. Lucia diceva che non aveva importanza: quello che conta è la storia.
Yelapa, sulla costa pacifica del Messico, dove è ambientato uno dei racconti più belli, “La barca de la Ilusión.
Manca la sorpresa, e quella piacevole sensazione di scoperta della prima volta, l’altra volta con quel manuale per donne delle pulizie, ma anche per donne che puliscono, magari iniziando a ripulire dalla propria vita, quel manuale scritto dalla donna che scriveva racconti.
I primi due racconti sembrano un po’ ferrosi, composti di tessere che non sempre compongono un mosaico: schizzi, più che storie. Ma anche l’altra volta la partenza era stata in salita.
Poi dal terzo riprende l’incanto.
Lucia col suo primogenito, Mark, nato nel 1956 e morto nel 2005. La famiglia comprendeva quattro figli maschi, tre mariti e innumerevoli fidanzati.
Perché il talento c’è. In quantità. E l’incanto che regalano questi racconti è squisito.
Proprio come dice il figlio nella citazione iniziale, l’impressione più forte è che si tratti di un unico racconto, un romanzo diviso in racconti, dove gli interpreti sono più o meno sempre gli stessi, ragazzine e ragazzi, adolescenti, giovani, donne e uomini, divisi tra Stati Uniti e America Latina, intrisi di un meticciato anglolatino che sprigiona grazia prodigio e curiosità.
Lucia Berlin in Albuquerque in 1956.
Avendo vissuto la maggior parte della sia vita spostandosi da un posto all’altro, cambiando casa e città, partendo dall’Alaska dove nacque, figlia di un ingegnere minerario, attraverso vari stati degli US, su tutti nei racconti si ritrovano più spesso il New Mexico e la California, per approdare in Cile dove trascorse la maggior parte dell’infanzia, senza tralasciare il Messico, per forza di cose i posti, i luoghi sono molto importanti nella sua narrativa.
Ma lo sono gli odori, i sapori, le luci, i fiori e gli alberi, gli uccelli e gli insetti, tanto quanto la gente che popola queste breve narrazioni (la più lunga raggiunge al massimo le trenta pagine).
Le madri sono spesso poco lucide, depresse o sull’orlo della malattia mentale, col rischio di essere violente, così come pare sia stata la mamma di Lucia. Ci sono uomini affascinanti, seducenti, dalla conversazione brillante, che si smarriscono nella droga. In tanti, uomini e donne, a età diverse, invece preferiscono l’alcol.
Lucia Berlin e mamie.
Lucia procede spesso a salti, con ellissi che metterebbero in crisi perfino gli autori cinematografici francesi. Introduce personaggi dal nome, senza presentarli, costringendomi a raccapezzarmi su chi è chi. Poi, ritrovato il filo, procedo in quest’atmosfera morbida e sensuale, sia se la storia è ambientata sotto il sole, all’alba o al tramonto, al crepuscolo o di notte, col sole o con la pioggia.
I racconti che ho preferito sono: su tutti Lead Street, Albuquerque e La barca de la Ilusión; a seguire Andado. Romanzo gotico, Una casa di argilla con il tetto di lamiera, Una sera in paradiso e Perdersi al Louvre.
Riunione della famiglia Berlin a El Paso nel 1952: Lucia è in basso a dx.
Non so perché Lucia Berlin mi ricorda molto Marilyn Monroe: bellezza e sensualità, sorriso, curiosità, slancio vitale, e incurabile male di vivere.
Breathless, senza fiato, senza respiro, è quello che Lucia avrebbe voluto scritto sulla sua tomba.
Ed è quello che mi ha lasciato quando ho chiuso questo sua raccolta.
Lucia Berlin a Oakland nel 1975.
Il giorno in cui Hope e io rincasammo da “Nel mar dei Caraibi”, mio padre era tornato a casa sano e salvo dalla guerra. Poco dopo andammo a vivere in Arizona, quindi non so dire cosa successe in Texas l’estate dopo di quella.
Juneau, in Alaska, dove nacque Lucia Berlin il 12 novembre del 1936.
Ero triste per Bruno e i miei genitori. Non triste perché mi mancavano, ma perché in realtà non mi mancavano affatto. Morire è come spargere mercurio. In un attimo torna tutto di nuovo insieme nel tremulo ammasso della vita. Restai seduta lì a guardare la mia vita passata, una vita che in effetti era piena di bellezza e amore. Mi sembrava di averla attraversata come avevo fatto con il Louvre, da osservatrice, invisibile… Mi ritrovai in una sala nuova. Un’ala che mi era del tutto sconosciuta. Come la morte, questa sezione non era straordinaria. Era del tutto inaspettata.
A Manual for Cleaning Women - Manuale per donne delle pulizie.
Lucha, Luchaha, Lucia di “I carillon”.
Mamma scriveva storie vere; non necessariamente autobiografiche, ma neanche troppo distanti. Le storie e i ricordi della nostra famiglia sono stati via via rimodellati, abbelliti e adattati al punto che non sono sicuro di cosa sia realmente successo in tutto quel tempo. Lucia diceva che non aveva importanza: quello che conta è la storia.
Yelapa, sulla costa pacifica del Messico, dove è ambientato uno dei racconti più belli, “La barca de la Ilusión.
Manca la sorpresa, e quella piacevole sensazione di scoperta della prima volta, l’altra volta con quel manuale per donne delle pulizie, ma anche per donne che puliscono, magari iniziando a ripulire dalla propria vita, quel manuale scritto dalla donna che scriveva racconti.
I primi due racconti sembrano un po’ ferrosi, composti di tessere che non sempre compongono un mosaico: schizzi, più che storie. Ma anche l’altra volta la partenza era stata in salita.
Poi dal terzo riprende l’incanto.
Lucia col suo primogenito, Mark, nato nel 1956 e morto nel 2005. La famiglia comprendeva quattro figli maschi, tre mariti e innumerevoli fidanzati.
Perché il talento c’è. In quantità. E l’incanto che regalano questi racconti è squisito.
Proprio come dice il figlio nella citazione iniziale, l’impressione più forte è che si tratti di un unico racconto, un romanzo diviso in racconti, dove gli interpreti sono più o meno sempre gli stessi, ragazzine e ragazzi, adolescenti, giovani, donne e uomini, divisi tra Stati Uniti e America Latina, intrisi di un meticciato anglolatino che sprigiona grazia prodigio e curiosità.
Lucia Berlin in Albuquerque in 1956.
Avendo vissuto la maggior parte della sia vita spostandosi da un posto all’altro, cambiando casa e città, partendo dall’Alaska dove nacque, figlia di un ingegnere minerario, attraverso vari stati degli US, su tutti nei racconti si ritrovano più spesso il New Mexico e la California, per approdare in Cile dove trascorse la maggior parte dell’infanzia, senza tralasciare il Messico, per forza di cose i posti, i luoghi sono molto importanti nella sua narrativa.
Ma lo sono gli odori, i sapori, le luci, i fiori e gli alberi, gli uccelli e gli insetti, tanto quanto la gente che popola queste breve narrazioni (la più lunga raggiunge al massimo le trenta pagine).
Le madri sono spesso poco lucide, depresse o sull’orlo della malattia mentale, col rischio di essere violente, così come pare sia stata la mamma di Lucia. Ci sono uomini affascinanti, seducenti, dalla conversazione brillante, che si smarriscono nella droga. In tanti, uomini e donne, a età diverse, invece preferiscono l’alcol.
Lucia Berlin e mamie.
Lucia procede spesso a salti, con ellissi che metterebbero in crisi perfino gli autori cinematografici francesi. Introduce personaggi dal nome, senza presentarli, costringendomi a raccapezzarmi su chi è chi. Poi, ritrovato il filo, procedo in quest’atmosfera morbida e sensuale, sia se la storia è ambientata sotto il sole, all’alba o al tramonto, al crepuscolo o di notte, col sole o con la pioggia.
I racconti che ho preferito sono: su tutti Lead Street, Albuquerque e La barca de la Ilusión; a seguire Andado. Romanzo gotico, Una casa di argilla con il tetto di lamiera, Una sera in paradiso e Perdersi al Louvre.
Riunione della famiglia Berlin a El Paso nel 1952: Lucia è in basso a dx.
Non so perché Lucia Berlin mi ricorda molto Marilyn Monroe: bellezza e sensualità, sorriso, curiosità, slancio vitale, e incurabile male di vivere.
Breathless, senza fiato, senza respiro, è quello che Lucia avrebbe voluto scritto sulla sua tomba.
Ed è quello che mi ha lasciato quando ho chiuso questo sua raccolta.
Lucia Berlin a Oakland nel 1975.
Il giorno in cui Hope e io rincasammo da “Nel mar dei Caraibi”, mio padre era tornato a casa sano e salvo dalla guerra. Poco dopo andammo a vivere in Arizona, quindi non so dire cosa successe in Texas l’estate dopo di quella.
Juneau, in Alaska, dove nacque Lucia Berlin il 12 novembre del 1936.
Ero triste per Bruno e i miei genitori. Non triste perché mi mancavano, ma perché in realtà non mi mancavano affatto. Morire è come spargere mercurio. In un attimo torna tutto di nuovo insieme nel tremulo ammasso della vita. Restai seduta lì a guardare la mia vita passata, una vita che in effetti era piena di bellezza e amore. Mi sembrava di averla attraversata come avevo fatto con il Louvre, da osservatrice, invisibile… Mi ritrovai in una sala nuova. Un’ala che mi era del tutto sconosciuta. Come la morte, questa sezione non era straordinaria. Era del tutto inaspettata.
A Manual for Cleaning Women - Manuale per donne delle pulizie.
February 19, 2019
this is one of those times i feel lousy for having accepted a free copy of a book. not only for taking a month to read it and then an additional two months to actually sit down and review it, but (and this is tied in to why it has taken me so long to actually sit down and review it) because i’m not sure i have anything useful/interesting to say about it.
no, i mean more than usual, meanie.
there was a lot of excitement around lucia berlin when A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories was published a few years back - i remember being curious because the raves were coming from a lot of different kinds of readers, and that always makes my RA-spidey-senses tingle. “is this one of those elusive ‘sure bets?’” i wondered.
i never ended up reading it - i’ve become better-disposed towards, but still reluctant to pick up short story collections, even when it comes to authors i’ve read and loved, never mind a complete stranger-danger author.
but, to continue the rhymes, for free is for me, and when i was offered a copy of this, i said “sure!” figuring i’d finally catch up on 2015’s hype.
and maybe this is a poor introduction to a deceased author’s work - instead of reading the “best of” posthumous collection, to begin with the “unpublished scraps we found lying around to sell more books by an author unable to provide new material.”
but that’s what i did. and i found it, as a collection, to be somewhat unremarkable. and i’m sure it’s because i did this ass-backwards, but, having done it this way, i must report back accordingly.
there’s some fine writing here; she has a good narrative flow and the stories are oftentimes accessible and engaging, but i’m not sure how or if they’re meant to connect; characters recur, but their details don’t always add up, and it doesn’t read like a progression or a story cycle - sometimes it just feels like “these are names the author likes to use.” i understand berlin tended towards the autobiographical in her fiction, and there’s a lot here about addiction, restlessness, family, motherhood, all spread across variety of locations in which berlin lived over the course of her life, but there’s no clear thematic throughline tying everything together. which, obviously there wouldn’t be in a collection cobbled-together, unpolished by the author before publication.
and that’s all i got this time. i think i’d like A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories more than this and i also think if you’ve already read A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories, you’d be more into this one than i was, able to see the flesh around the filaments.
here is a part i did like, in which two dudes talk about clouds:
so i guess i can't cross "catch up on 2015s hype" off my to-do list just yet. but i'll get there!!!
come to my blog!
no, i mean more than usual, meanie.
there was a lot of excitement around lucia berlin when A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories was published a few years back - i remember being curious because the raves were coming from a lot of different kinds of readers, and that always makes my RA-spidey-senses tingle. “is this one of those elusive ‘sure bets?’” i wondered.
i never ended up reading it - i’ve become better-disposed towards, but still reluctant to pick up short story collections, even when it comes to authors i’ve read and loved, never mind a complete stranger-danger author.
but, to continue the rhymes, for free is for me, and when i was offered a copy of this, i said “sure!” figuring i’d finally catch up on 2015’s hype.
and maybe this is a poor introduction to a deceased author’s work - instead of reading the “best of” posthumous collection, to begin with the “unpublished scraps we found lying around to sell more books by an author unable to provide new material.”
but that’s what i did. and i found it, as a collection, to be somewhat unremarkable. and i’m sure it’s because i did this ass-backwards, but, having done it this way, i must report back accordingly.
there’s some fine writing here; she has a good narrative flow and the stories are oftentimes accessible and engaging, but i’m not sure how or if they’re meant to connect; characters recur, but their details don’t always add up, and it doesn’t read like a progression or a story cycle - sometimes it just feels like “these are names the author likes to use.” i understand berlin tended towards the autobiographical in her fiction, and there’s a lot here about addiction, restlessness, family, motherhood, all spread across variety of locations in which berlin lived over the course of her life, but there’s no clear thematic throughline tying everything together. which, obviously there wouldn’t be in a collection cobbled-together, unpolished by the author before publication.
and that’s all i got this time. i think i’d like A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories more than this and i also think if you’ve already read A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories, you’d be more into this one than i was, able to see the flesh around the filaments.
here is a part i did like, in which two dudes talk about clouds:
What galls me the most is how they talk together, out in the shop, for hours and hours. I mean to say this has nagged me to death. What in Sam Hill are those old farts talking about out there?
Well, now I know.
Rex: You know,Ty, this is a damn good whiskey.
Tyler: Yep. Damn good.
Rex: Goes down like mother’s milk.
Tyler: Smooth as silk.
(They’ve only been swilling that rotgut for forty-some years.)
Rex: Look at them old clouds… billowing and tumbling.
Tyler: Yep.
Rex: I expect that’s my favorite kind of cloud. Cumulus. Full of rain for my cattle and just as pretty as can be.
Tyler: Not me. Not my favorite.
Rex: How come?
Tyler: Too much commotion.
Rex: That’s what’s fine,Ty, the commotion. It’s majestic as all git out.
Tyler: God damn, this is a nice mellow hooch.
Rex: That is just one hell of a beautiful sky.
(Long silence.)
Tyler: My kind of sky is a cirrus sky.
Rex: What? Them wispy no-count little clouds?
Tyler: Yep. Now up in Ruidoso, that sky is blue. With those light cirrus clouds skipping along so light and easy.
Rex: I know that very sky you’re talking about. Day I shot me two buck antelope.
(That’s it. The entire conversation…)
so i guess i can't cross "catch up on 2015s hype" off my to-do list just yet. but i'll get there!!!
come to my blog!
January 13, 2022
This is the worst Lucia Berlin book, but it also has the best cover. This is probably a lesson to me, specifically, from the universe, about being vain, or about how every rose has its thorns, or something like that.
But I wouldn't know, because I refuse to hear it.
Anyway. Enough about me. It is all about Lucia Berlin, both because I am reviewing a book of hers currently and because all of her stories have one subject: herself.
Truly, the #1 thing you learn if you, like me, read every story Lucia Berlin ever published within the span of a few months is that 95% of her work is self-insert short stories about how hot she is.
And while that is something you have to respect, and in fact sounds like something I would do, it does grate after a while.
This, when it was first published in 1981 (and, presumably, today), was a collection of the previously uncompiled Berlin stories, which is a nice way of saying "the worse stuff."
And it shows.
It's still the same brilliant and sharp writer, but all of the times when she wasn't at her best.
Bottom line: Still worth the read, if only to say you're a completionist and to have a pretty book on the shelf.
------------------
currently-reading updates
well, it's wintertime, we're a week away from the holidays, and i'm sharing a bedroom only a generous and kindhearted person would describe as "average-sized" with my two sisters.
in other words, i could use an evening in paradise.
clear ur sh*t book 48
quest 22: free space
But I wouldn't know, because I refuse to hear it.
Anyway. Enough about me. It is all about Lucia Berlin, both because I am reviewing a book of hers currently and because all of her stories have one subject: herself.
Truly, the #1 thing you learn if you, like me, read every story Lucia Berlin ever published within the span of a few months is that 95% of her work is self-insert short stories about how hot she is.
And while that is something you have to respect, and in fact sounds like something I would do, it does grate after a while.
This, when it was first published in 1981 (and, presumably, today), was a collection of the previously uncompiled Berlin stories, which is a nice way of saying "the worse stuff."
And it shows.
It's still the same brilliant and sharp writer, but all of the times when she wasn't at her best.
Bottom line: Still worth the read, if only to say you're a completionist and to have a pretty book on the shelf.
------------------
currently-reading updates
well, it's wintertime, we're a week away from the holidays, and i'm sharing a bedroom only a generous and kindhearted person would describe as "average-sized" with my two sisters.
in other words, i could use an evening in paradise.
clear ur sh*t book 48
quest 22: free space
September 29, 2020
I will need to take a break from short stories for a while after reading this extraordinary collection. In comparison, short stories by other writers seem contrived, worked, crafted. Berlin writes in a conversational, natural way with language that jumps out and zaps the reader. I don't usually underline but my book is filled with markings. The pages are studded with insights, pure jewels that stopped me in my tracks - over and over and over.
Her stories are about lost, strong, hopeful women, often scraping by, whose lives are laid bare in just a few pages. I was not sure if I should rate this 5 stars because I didn't love a few of the stories towards the end. I re-read those stories this morning and changed my mind. She slays me.
Her stories are about lost, strong, hopeful women, often scraping by, whose lives are laid bare in just a few pages. I was not sure if I should rate this 5 stars because I didn't love a few of the stories towards the end. I re-read those stories this morning and changed my mind. She slays me.
November 17, 2019
3.5 stars. Lucia Berlin's first set of literary short stories, A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories, was posthumously published in 2015 to great critical acclaim. Hence this second set of twenty mostly slice-of-life tales by Berlin, who wrote mostly in the 1960's-80's.
With colorful characters and typically bleak stories, Evening in Paradise is a walk on the seedier side of life. Berlin wrote well, in a spare style that reminded me of Ernest Hemingway's work, though her attention is mostly on female characters and the trials and emotional solitude life brings. "Andado, A Gothic Romance" is one of the more memorable and distressing stories, about Laura, a 14 year old American girl living in Chile with her troubled mother and busy engineer father. A weekend away with family friends leads to and Laura quietly accepts, going on with her life as best she can.
Most of the stories aren't quite this disturbing, and they're often humorous, but there's almost always an underlying bleakness. Young girls get involved in a money-making scheme (con) in "The Musical Vanity Boxes"; a motorcycle race leads to tragedy in "Dust to Dust"; a young wife watches the troubled marriage of her neighbors in "Lead Street, Albuquerque." There's so much loneliness and troubled relationships, and Berlin examines it all with a clear, unflinching eye.
The title story, "Evening in Paradise," is somewhat more lighthearted, about an evening in a bar in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico in 1963, during the filming of The Night of the Iguana. Movie stars like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton drop by the bar, Ava Gardner has drunken sex with a guy or two, and I just really want to know if the incidents in this story are true!
This collection definitely isn't for everyone, but if you enjoy darker-themed literary short stories, I recommend it.
Many thanks to the publisher, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, for the review copy.
Content notes: Some language and sexual content. A soft R.
Initial comments: The publisher sent me a nice hardback copy of this short story collection a few months ago and it got lost in my shelf of TBR reads, oops. I'm rectifying that oversight now!
It's literary fiction, which I usually enjoy when it's well done, so I'm hopeful about this. The first few stories have been pretty good.
With colorful characters and typically bleak stories, Evening in Paradise is a walk on the seedier side of life. Berlin wrote well, in a spare style that reminded me of Ernest Hemingway's work, though her attention is mostly on female characters and the trials and emotional solitude life brings. "Andado, A Gothic Romance" is one of the more memorable and distressing stories, about Laura, a 14 year old American girl living in Chile with her troubled mother and busy engineer father. A weekend away with family friends leads to and Laura quietly accepts, going on with her life as best she can.
Most of the stories aren't quite this disturbing, and they're often humorous, but there's almost always an underlying bleakness. Young girls get involved in a money-making scheme (con) in "The Musical Vanity Boxes"; a motorcycle race leads to tragedy in "Dust to Dust"; a young wife watches the troubled marriage of her neighbors in "Lead Street, Albuquerque." There's so much loneliness and troubled relationships, and Berlin examines it all with a clear, unflinching eye.
The title story, "Evening in Paradise," is somewhat more lighthearted, about an evening in a bar in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico in 1963, during the filming of The Night of the Iguana. Movie stars like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton drop by the bar, Ava Gardner has drunken sex with a guy or two, and I just really want to know if the incidents in this story are true!
This collection definitely isn't for everyone, but if you enjoy darker-themed literary short stories, I recommend it.
Many thanks to the publisher, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, for the review copy.
Content notes: Some language and sexual content. A soft R.
Initial comments: The publisher sent me a nice hardback copy of this short story collection a few months ago and it got lost in my shelf of TBR reads, oops. I'm rectifying that oversight now!
It's literary fiction, which I usually enjoy when it's well done, so I'm hopeful about this. The first few stories have been pretty good.
October 26, 2020
At the fringes of different worlds...
These stories are reports by an inquisitive & magnificently profound voice, from and about PLACES this reviewer himself holds dear, as actual memories. (El Paso, Juarez, Puerto Vallarta, Albuquerque, Mexico D.F., Paris.) Berlin writers about place like no other short story writer (Faulkner, yes)...
Hers is the life of a roving traveler; she is a part of a troupe of artistes. Tales of wives that stand firmly by their eccentric/lost husband-artists are prevalent. Berlin writes from a place of privilege, albeit torture. But history nods at her place in it: she graces us with captivating times of adult enjoyment. Oh, does she write! Also: cleaning homes as an activity that's as frantic & significant as, say, searching frantically for a lost child. Also: parenting as a theme with no parameters, as ambiguous and miraculous an activity (taking care of progeny and/or neighbor) as life itself.
The reader is insistent in figuring out who Lucia Berlin really was. We try to sift through an enigma: for pieces of her underneath each and every beautiful anecdote.
"When you travel you step back from your own days, from the fragmented imperfect linearity of your time. As when reading a novel, the events and people become allegorical and eternal." (232)
These stories are reports by an inquisitive & magnificently profound voice, from and about PLACES this reviewer himself holds dear, as actual memories. (El Paso, Juarez, Puerto Vallarta, Albuquerque, Mexico D.F., Paris.) Berlin writers about place like no other short story writer (Faulkner, yes)...
Hers is the life of a roving traveler; she is a part of a troupe of artistes. Tales of wives that stand firmly by their eccentric/lost husband-artists are prevalent. Berlin writes from a place of privilege, albeit torture. But history nods at her place in it: she graces us with captivating times of adult enjoyment. Oh, does she write! Also: cleaning homes as an activity that's as frantic & significant as, say, searching frantically for a lost child. Also: parenting as a theme with no parameters, as ambiguous and miraculous an activity (taking care of progeny and/or neighbor) as life itself.
The reader is insistent in figuring out who Lucia Berlin really was. We try to sift through an enigma: for pieces of her underneath each and every beautiful anecdote.
"When you travel you step back from your own days, from the fragmented imperfect linearity of your time. As when reading a novel, the events and people become allegorical and eternal." (232)
August 1, 2020
Lucia Berlin’s short story collection A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories, published posthumously in 2015, caused quite a stir and turned the author into a worldwide literary sensation. “Evening in Paradise” is the follow-up and offers 22 more stories that often refer to Berlin’s real life: We meet literary doppelgängers of her, her parents, her four kids and her three ex-husbands, and among the recurring themes are alcohol and heroin addiction, relationships gone sour, poverty and death. While this might not sound like particularly funny material, it nevertheless is – Berlin’s weapon against life’s hardships is her sense of humor, so we read sentences like:
”It would have been in poor taste for me to tell the girls at school just how many unbelievably handsome men had been at that funeral. I did anyway.” or
”Acceptance is faith, Henry Miller said. I could strangle him, too.”
It is this outlook on life, the particular way the characters in the stories deal with their obstacles that makes reading Lucia Berlin so special: The author’s humor and keen ability to capture the essence of a situation let the texts vibrate and flicker, and the effect is sometimes cathartic and sometimes shocking.
The stories are put together in roughly chronological order when you consider the themes discussed and how they relate to Berlin’s real life: She was born in 1936, her father worked in the mining industry and the family moved around a lot. When he went to war in 1941, the rest of the family stayed in El Paso with the grandparents – which is where the first story of the collection takes place. Then we follow Berlin’s fictional self to Chile, where she lived as a teenager, we encounter her alcoholic mother and later her artist husbands, one of them a heroin addict. Some names are changing, some do remain the same, but the main themes are present throughout the whole book.
Not all of the stories did convince me entirely, but I thoroughly enjoyed reading this collection and I wish the author would have been able to enjoy this degree of success during her lifetime.
If you want to learn more about Lucia Berlin and the book, you can listen to our podcast episode (in German).
”It would have been in poor taste for me to tell the girls at school just how many unbelievably handsome men had been at that funeral. I did anyway.” or
”Acceptance is faith, Henry Miller said. I could strangle him, too.”
It is this outlook on life, the particular way the characters in the stories deal with their obstacles that makes reading Lucia Berlin so special: The author’s humor and keen ability to capture the essence of a situation let the texts vibrate and flicker, and the effect is sometimes cathartic and sometimes shocking.
The stories are put together in roughly chronological order when you consider the themes discussed and how they relate to Berlin’s real life: She was born in 1936, her father worked in the mining industry and the family moved around a lot. When he went to war in 1941, the rest of the family stayed in El Paso with the grandparents – which is where the first story of the collection takes place. Then we follow Berlin’s fictional self to Chile, where she lived as a teenager, we encounter her alcoholic mother and later her artist husbands, one of them a heroin addict. Some names are changing, some do remain the same, but the main themes are present throughout the whole book.
Not all of the stories did convince me entirely, but I thoroughly enjoyed reading this collection and I wish the author would have been able to enjoy this degree of success during her lifetime.
If you want to learn more about Lucia Berlin and the book, you can listen to our podcast episode (in German).
September 12, 2020
Egy darab (különben remek) írás van a kötetben, ahol nem lehet egyértelműen azonosítani, kicsoda is benne Lucia Berlin. A többiben mind ott van, többnyire a dolgok közepén. A kötet a „Bejárónők kézikönyvé”-hez képest is világosabban egyetlen élet dokumentálása. Már a novellák is szinte szigorú lineáris íven futnak, a gyerekkorból indulva vezetnek minket keresztül a felnőttkor stációin, a könyvet koronázó „Isten hozott idehaza” és a „Válogatott levelek” pedig megerősítenek minket abban, hogy Berlin csak magáról, a saját közegéről tud írni. És ez jól van így – hajlok rá, ez az, amiből minden írónak ki kellene indulnia: hogy képes legyen pontosan, érzékenyen ábrázolni azt, amit tényleg lát és tényleg érez. Csak utána próbálkozzon azzal (már ha egyáltalán igénye van rá – nem muszáj), amit a képzelete diktál. Hozzá kell tennem, Berlin nem mindig ugyanabból az énpozícióból taglalja ezt a sémát, akad olyan történet, ahol egy külső elbeszélőn keresztül írja meg önmagát – tehát a vizsgált közeget (saját lényegét) képes bentről és kintről is megragadni, értelmezni, szöveggé formálni. És szerintem lehet, ez a titka. Ettől tudja olyan tökéletesre csiszolni a prózáit, ezért tud olyan magától értetődően, olyan melegen személyes lenni. Ezért mire a kötet végére érek, már el is felejtem, hogy Lucia Berlin író. Sokkal inkább olyan, mint egy nagyon közeli barát, akinek nem a prózájával ismerkedtem meg – hanem vele.
December 18, 2018
Kind of Blue
Capsule del tempo, questo sono i racconti di Lucia Berlin, come quelle lettere che la protagonista del racconto Itinerario e le sue amiche si consegnano a vicenda con l’intento di aprirle e rileggerle dopo trent’anni, per ricordare a se stesse quello che erano e scoprire se sono diventate quello che immaginavano; momenti di vita sigillati e incastonati nel presente, per essere ritrovati altrove, in un altro tempo e in un altro vissuto, inalterati. Sono momenti cristallizzati di vita, poesia, jazz, arte, e morte.
Avevo iniziato a leggere i primi racconti in un momento in cui ero distratta da altro, e in quella distrazione mi erano sembrati meno belli, forse meno stupefacenti di quelli di La donna che scriveva racconti. Ma la pausa fatta, l’averli ripresi in silenzioso pomeriggio di quiete, mi ha restituito la rifulgente bellezza di Lucia Berlin e della sua scrittura cristallina, esotica, abbagliante. Il cielo azzurrissimo del New Mexico e quello color malva di fronte alle spiagge messicane al tramonto, i fringuelli di Java e Jack Daniels, Drambuie, Gin Tonic e Daiquiri, e poi fragranza di eucalipto, pioppi svettanti, crisantemi bianchi e American beauty profumatissime, caprifogli estivi e succiacapre, la polvere di Yelapa e i granchi che corrono sulla sabbia bianchissima. I colori e i profumi, la vita, la morte, tutto vissuto, come scrive la casa editrice nella bandella, con l’imprevedibilità della musica jazz, perché la vita è improvvisazione, perché la vita è anche accogliere quello che c'è.
O a ritmo di bossanova, dietro a una cortina di fumo. Albuquerque, Santa Fe, e poi New York, case grandi, case piccolissime, case sperdute nel nulla, case in cui campeggia, quasi sempre, un grande tappeto Navaho.
Cambiano nome le donne dei racconti di Lucia Berlin - Maya, Laura, Claire, Maggie - ma dopo averli letti, dopo aver letto nuovamente le poche note biografiche a fine volume, dopo aver letto ancora una volta dei suoi tre mariti, dei quattro figli, della dipendenza dall’alcol e dei luoghi in cui ha vissuto e dei tanti mestieri che ha fatto, è impossibile non ritrovarla e non riconoscerla, come nel dispiegarsi di una mappa geografica o in una mappa delle stelle, perché in ciascuno di essi c'è Lucia, con il suo magnetismo e il suo "prenderla così", la vita, prenderla come viene.
Chissà, mi sono chiesta all'improvviso, quando la lettura volgeva quasi al termine, se Lucia Berlin e Joan Didion si sono mai incontrate, perché Lucia, così libera e così bella, così anticonvenzionale e aristocratica, così disponibile e affabile, ma inquieta e destinata quasi sempre a rimanere sola, avrebbe potuta essere lei stessa la protagonista di un romanzo della Didion, e alcuni dei suoi racconti me l'hanno fatto pensare, così come immaginarla in Messico negli anni Settanta, nei giorni in cui il cinema incontra la vita e la politica, e la vita e la morte si fronteggiano come nei suoi racconti, mi ha fatto subito sostituirla nelle sembianze alla moglie e madre del film Roma (visto mentre finivo di leggere gli ultimi racconti), dove in una casa piena di figli, di libri, di arte, di musica, due donne imparano molto presto a saper contare solo su se stesse e a guardare avanti: proprio come Lucia Berlin.
“Mangiai in un ristorante greco nei pressi del mio albergo, poi presi un caffè e un pasticcino, due caffè e due pasticcini. Fumai e guardai la gente di passaggio, e fu allora che mi chiesi per la prima volta se avrei mai potuto acciuffare la morte come avevo fatto con il sonno. Quando le persone muoiono se ne rendono conto, nel momento in cui va a prenderle? Mentre stava morendo, Stephen Crane aveva detto all'amico Robert Barr: «Non è male. Sei assonnato, e non ti importa. Solo un filo di ansia trasognata nel non sapere in che mondo ti trovi realmente, tutto qui."
Segue l’ultimo racconto un ricordo delicato e struggente di Mark, uno dei figli.
Il fatto è che, se mai raccontassi la storia di Lucia - scrive - anche dal mio punto di vista (obiettivo o meno), sarebbe etichettata come realismo magico.
I miei preferiti, ma così a memoria probabilmente ne dimentico qualcuno (così com'è altrettanto vero che di almeno due o tre non ne ho capito il senso):
Itinerario
Lead Street, Albuquerque
La casa di argilla con il tetto di lamiera
La mia vita è un libro aperto
Perdersi al Louvre
Capsule del tempo, questo sono i racconti di Lucia Berlin, come quelle lettere che la protagonista del racconto Itinerario e le sue amiche si consegnano a vicenda con l’intento di aprirle e rileggerle dopo trent’anni, per ricordare a se stesse quello che erano e scoprire se sono diventate quello che immaginavano; momenti di vita sigillati e incastonati nel presente, per essere ritrovati altrove, in un altro tempo e in un altro vissuto, inalterati. Sono momenti cristallizzati di vita, poesia, jazz, arte, e morte.
Avevo iniziato a leggere i primi racconti in un momento in cui ero distratta da altro, e in quella distrazione mi erano sembrati meno belli, forse meno stupefacenti di quelli di La donna che scriveva racconti. Ma la pausa fatta, l’averli ripresi in silenzioso pomeriggio di quiete, mi ha restituito la rifulgente bellezza di Lucia Berlin e della sua scrittura cristallina, esotica, abbagliante. Il cielo azzurrissimo del New Mexico e quello color malva di fronte alle spiagge messicane al tramonto, i fringuelli di Java e Jack Daniels, Drambuie, Gin Tonic e Daiquiri, e poi fragranza di eucalipto, pioppi svettanti, crisantemi bianchi e American beauty profumatissime, caprifogli estivi e succiacapre, la polvere di Yelapa e i granchi che corrono sulla sabbia bianchissima. I colori e i profumi, la vita, la morte, tutto vissuto, come scrive la casa editrice nella bandella, con l’imprevedibilità della musica jazz, perché la vita è improvvisazione, perché la vita è anche accogliere quello che c'è.
O a ritmo di bossanova, dietro a una cortina di fumo. Albuquerque, Santa Fe, e poi New York, case grandi, case piccolissime, case sperdute nel nulla, case in cui campeggia, quasi sempre, un grande tappeto Navaho.
Cambiano nome le donne dei racconti di Lucia Berlin - Maya, Laura, Claire, Maggie - ma dopo averli letti, dopo aver letto nuovamente le poche note biografiche a fine volume, dopo aver letto ancora una volta dei suoi tre mariti, dei quattro figli, della dipendenza dall’alcol e dei luoghi in cui ha vissuto e dei tanti mestieri che ha fatto, è impossibile non ritrovarla e non riconoscerla, come nel dispiegarsi di una mappa geografica o in una mappa delle stelle, perché in ciascuno di essi c'è Lucia, con il suo magnetismo e il suo "prenderla così", la vita, prenderla come viene.
Chissà, mi sono chiesta all'improvviso, quando la lettura volgeva quasi al termine, se Lucia Berlin e Joan Didion si sono mai incontrate, perché Lucia, così libera e così bella, così anticonvenzionale e aristocratica, così disponibile e affabile, ma inquieta e destinata quasi sempre a rimanere sola, avrebbe potuta essere lei stessa la protagonista di un romanzo della Didion, e alcuni dei suoi racconti me l'hanno fatto pensare, così come immaginarla in Messico negli anni Settanta, nei giorni in cui il cinema incontra la vita e la politica, e la vita e la morte si fronteggiano come nei suoi racconti, mi ha fatto subito sostituirla nelle sembianze alla moglie e madre del film Roma (visto mentre finivo di leggere gli ultimi racconti), dove in una casa piena di figli, di libri, di arte, di musica, due donne imparano molto presto a saper contare solo su se stesse e a guardare avanti: proprio come Lucia Berlin.
“Mangiai in un ristorante greco nei pressi del mio albergo, poi presi un caffè e un pasticcino, due caffè e due pasticcini. Fumai e guardai la gente di passaggio, e fu allora che mi chiesi per la prima volta se avrei mai potuto acciuffare la morte come avevo fatto con il sonno. Quando le persone muoiono se ne rendono conto, nel momento in cui va a prenderle? Mentre stava morendo, Stephen Crane aveva detto all'amico Robert Barr: «Non è male. Sei assonnato, e non ti importa. Solo un filo di ansia trasognata nel non sapere in che mondo ti trovi realmente, tutto qui."
Segue l’ultimo racconto un ricordo delicato e struggente di Mark, uno dei figli.
Il fatto è che, se mai raccontassi la storia di Lucia - scrive - anche dal mio punto di vista (obiettivo o meno), sarebbe etichettata come realismo magico.
I miei preferiti, ma così a memoria probabilmente ne dimentico qualcuno (così com'è altrettanto vero che di almeno due o tre non ne ho capito il senso):
Itinerario
Lead Street, Albuquerque
La casa di argilla con il tetto di lamiera
La mia vita è un libro aperto
Perdersi al Louvre
September 4, 2020
Yet more masterful stories, and most of these, as was the case with A Manual For Cleaning Women, sing with a rare and luminous brilliance. The term 'born storyteller' might be a little hackneyed but nothing else seems to fit quite as well -- a life lived and relived on the page, boiled down and polished to its immaculate essence second time around, and deserving an inevitable place in the American canon.
--
'We had breakfast in both houses. Mamie made biscuits and gravy; at Hope’s house we had kibbe and Syrian bread. Her grandma braided our hair into tight French braids so that the rest of the morning our eyes slanted back as if we were Asian. We spent the morning spinning around in the rain and then shivering drying off and going back out. Both of our grandmothers came to watch as their gardens washed completely away, down the walls, out into the street. Red caliche clay water quickly rose above the sidewalks and up to the fifth step of the concrete stairways of our houses. We jumped into the water, which was warm and thick like cocoa and carried us along for blocks, fast, our pigtails floating. We’d get out, run back in the cold rain, back past our houses all the way up the block and then jump back into the river of the street and become swept away some more, over and over.
The silence gave this flood a particularly eerie magic. The trolleys couldn’t run and for days there were no cars. Hope and I were the only children on the block. She had six brothers and sisters, but they were bigger, either had to help in the furniture store or were just gone somewhere always. Upson Avenue was mostly retired smelter workers or Mexican widows who spoke little English, went to Mass at Holy Family in the morning and the evening.
Hope and I had the street all to ourselves. For skating and hopscotch and jacks. Early in the morning or in the evening the old women would water their plants but the rest of the time they all stayed inside with the windows and blinds shut tight to keep out the terrible Texan heat, but most of all the caliche red dust and the smoke from the smelter.
Every night they burned at the smelter. We would sit outside where the stars would be shining and then the flames would shoot out of the stack, followed by massive sick convulsions of black smoke that darkened the sky and veiled everything around us. It was quite lovely really, the billows and undulations in the sky, but it would sting our eyes and the smell of sulfur was so strong we would even gag. Hope always did but she was just pretending. To give you an idea of how scary it was every night, when the newsreel of the first atom bomb was shown at the Plaza Theater some Mexican joker hollered, “Mira, the esmelter!”
--
'Thanksgiving. Rex was coming home. God, I couldn’t imagine what she was feeling. I was a nervous wreck. I helped her get the house back into pristine condition, lent her some Miltown to get her back off cigarettes. She said she’d rather not be alone with Rex at first, so planned a welcome-back dinner. She put a WELCOME HOME! sign up on the front door but figured he’d think it was corny and took it down. Several other couples from the department. The apartment looked great. White chrysanthemums in a black Santo Domingo pot. Maria was deeply tanned, wore white linen, a flash of turquoise. Her hair was long, straight, and jet black.
He burst into the room. Dirty and lean and alive, boxes and art folios sliding onto the floor. I had never seen him kiss her before. I ached for them to be okay.
It was a celebration. She had made curry from scratch, there was tons of wine. But it was Rex, really, that brought news and jokes and an eddy of excitement that lit us all. Little Ben careened around the room in his rubber walker, drooling and laughing. Rex held him, swooped him up, gazed at him.
Over coffee, Rex showed us slides of work that he had done that summer, mostly the sculptures of the pregnant woman, but countless other things, drawings, pottery, marble carvings. He crackled with excitement, possibility.
“Now for the news. You’ll never believe this. I still can’t believe it. I have a patron. Patroness. A rich old lady from Detroit. She is paying me to go to Italy for at least a year. To a villa outside of Florence. But forget the villa. There is a foundry. A foundry for bronze! I’ll leave next month!”
“Ben and me too?” Maria whispered.
“Ben and I. Sure. Although I’ll go first and get things together.”
Everybody was clapping and hugging until Rex stood up and said, “Wait, that’s not all. Get this! I also got a Guggenheim!”
My first thought was for Bernie. I knew he’d be glad for Rex but could understand him being jealous. He was thirty, Rex only twenty-three and his future was there already, on a silver platter. But Bernie meant it when he shook Rex’s hand. “No one deserves it more.”
Everyone left but Bernie and me. Bernie went home and brought back a bottle of Drambuie. The men drank and talked about Cranbrook, looked through the slides again. Maria and I washed dishes and threw out garbage.
“About time we went home,” I said to Bernie and gathered up Andrea. Maria and Rex had gone in to check on Ben. We waited to say good-bye, heard them whispering in the bedroom.
She must have told him she was pregnant again. Rex came out of the bedroom, pale. “Good night,” he said.
He left the next morning, before she or Ben woke up. He took the paintings and sculptures and pottery, the radio and the Acoma pot. None of us ever saw him again.'
--
'We had breakfast in both houses. Mamie made biscuits and gravy; at Hope’s house we had kibbe and Syrian bread. Her grandma braided our hair into tight French braids so that the rest of the morning our eyes slanted back as if we were Asian. We spent the morning spinning around in the rain and then shivering drying off and going back out. Both of our grandmothers came to watch as their gardens washed completely away, down the walls, out into the street. Red caliche clay water quickly rose above the sidewalks and up to the fifth step of the concrete stairways of our houses. We jumped into the water, which was warm and thick like cocoa and carried us along for blocks, fast, our pigtails floating. We’d get out, run back in the cold rain, back past our houses all the way up the block and then jump back into the river of the street and become swept away some more, over and over.
The silence gave this flood a particularly eerie magic. The trolleys couldn’t run and for days there were no cars. Hope and I were the only children on the block. She had six brothers and sisters, but they were bigger, either had to help in the furniture store or were just gone somewhere always. Upson Avenue was mostly retired smelter workers or Mexican widows who spoke little English, went to Mass at Holy Family in the morning and the evening.
Hope and I had the street all to ourselves. For skating and hopscotch and jacks. Early in the morning or in the evening the old women would water their plants but the rest of the time they all stayed inside with the windows and blinds shut tight to keep out the terrible Texan heat, but most of all the caliche red dust and the smoke from the smelter.
Every night they burned at the smelter. We would sit outside where the stars would be shining and then the flames would shoot out of the stack, followed by massive sick convulsions of black smoke that darkened the sky and veiled everything around us. It was quite lovely really, the billows and undulations in the sky, but it would sting our eyes and the smell of sulfur was so strong we would even gag. Hope always did but she was just pretending. To give you an idea of how scary it was every night, when the newsreel of the first atom bomb was shown at the Plaza Theater some Mexican joker hollered, “Mira, the esmelter!”
--
'Thanksgiving. Rex was coming home. God, I couldn’t imagine what she was feeling. I was a nervous wreck. I helped her get the house back into pristine condition, lent her some Miltown to get her back off cigarettes. She said she’d rather not be alone with Rex at first, so planned a welcome-back dinner. She put a WELCOME HOME! sign up on the front door but figured he’d think it was corny and took it down. Several other couples from the department. The apartment looked great. White chrysanthemums in a black Santo Domingo pot. Maria was deeply tanned, wore white linen, a flash of turquoise. Her hair was long, straight, and jet black.
He burst into the room. Dirty and lean and alive, boxes and art folios sliding onto the floor. I had never seen him kiss her before. I ached for them to be okay.
It was a celebration. She had made curry from scratch, there was tons of wine. But it was Rex, really, that brought news and jokes and an eddy of excitement that lit us all. Little Ben careened around the room in his rubber walker, drooling and laughing. Rex held him, swooped him up, gazed at him.
Over coffee, Rex showed us slides of work that he had done that summer, mostly the sculptures of the pregnant woman, but countless other things, drawings, pottery, marble carvings. He crackled with excitement, possibility.
“Now for the news. You’ll never believe this. I still can’t believe it. I have a patron. Patroness. A rich old lady from Detroit. She is paying me to go to Italy for at least a year. To a villa outside of Florence. But forget the villa. There is a foundry. A foundry for bronze! I’ll leave next month!”
“Ben and me too?” Maria whispered.
“Ben and I. Sure. Although I’ll go first and get things together.”
Everybody was clapping and hugging until Rex stood up and said, “Wait, that’s not all. Get this! I also got a Guggenheim!”
My first thought was for Bernie. I knew he’d be glad for Rex but could understand him being jealous. He was thirty, Rex only twenty-three and his future was there already, on a silver platter. But Bernie meant it when he shook Rex’s hand. “No one deserves it more.”
Everyone left but Bernie and me. Bernie went home and brought back a bottle of Drambuie. The men drank and talked about Cranbrook, looked through the slides again. Maria and I washed dishes and threw out garbage.
“About time we went home,” I said to Bernie and gathered up Andrea. Maria and Rex had gone in to check on Ben. We waited to say good-bye, heard them whispering in the bedroom.
She must have told him she was pregnant again. Rex came out of the bedroom, pale. “Good night,” he said.
He left the next morning, before she or Ben woke up. He took the paintings and sculptures and pottery, the radio and the Acoma pot. None of us ever saw him again.'
January 24, 2019
An apt follow-up to Lucia Berlin's masterful collection of short stories, "A Manual for Cleaning Women." Even the stilted audiobook performance, mispronunciations included, of audiobook reader Kyla Garcia (sing-song flat and slow, it helped slightly to listen with the audio track sped up) can't dull its shine.
August 13, 2020
A lo largo de su emocionante vida la estadounidense Lucia Berlin escribió en distintas revistas unos ochenta relatos que se recopilaron en varios libros publicados en los años 80 y 90. Una década después de su muerte sus editores seleccionaron unos 35 de sus relatos de autoficción en los que, protagonizados por distintas mujeres que la representaban a ella misma, se contaban cronológicamente escenas de los principales periodos y eventos (matrimonios, oficios, mudanzas...) de su vida. Ese libro se llamó “Manual para mujeres de la limpieza” y es una obra maestra de la literatura. Este título de obra maestra es, indiscutiblemente, de la autora... pero los editores que seleccionaron y ordenaron los relatos que en él aparecían también tuvieron algo que ver.
Una obra maestra de la literatura. Casi nada. Solo uno de sus libros es una obra maestra de la literatura, pero ¿cuántos autores pueden decir eso?
Aquel libro de relatos se convirtió en un aplastante éxito mundial y eso hizo que el interés sobre esta semiolvidada cuentista explotara... y que, lógicamente, se tratara de capitalizar por parte de la industria. Con sus documentos personales (hilados sin demasiado contexto y, según mi opinión, sin demasiado interés) se editó ‘Bienvenida a casa’, un libro que considero que solo es realmente interesante para estudiosos de su figura o para amantes de las cartas personales. Y, ahora viene lo bueno, los relatos que no estaban a la altura y que quedaron fuera del ‘Manual...’ se juntaron en forma de libro y se sacaron a la venta con el nombre de ‘Una noche en el paraiso’.
En este libro de relatos hay varios capítulos estupendos, sí. Pero, en mi humilde opinión de fan de la autora, la mayoría de ellos están muy por detrás del nivel medio de su obra más famosa. Es más, creo que algunos son casi borradores o ensayos antes de llegar a la versión buena que ya habíamos leído antes. Por supuesto que sigue siendo Lucia: que sus imágenes son gloriosas, que su fino sentido del humor está presente y que tiene mucho interés social y narrativo... pero no es nada en comparación con su obra maestra. Muchos no son interesantes, otros son repetitivos y, además, aquel experimento de cubrir su vida, de su infancia a su muerte, a través de sus propios relatos... no sale bien esta vez.
Lucia Berlin escribió una obra maestra de la literatura. ‘Sólo’ una, sí, pero tan grande que ni siquiera sus otros libros están a su altura.
Una obra maestra de la literatura. Casi nada. Solo uno de sus libros es una obra maestra de la literatura, pero ¿cuántos autores pueden decir eso?
Aquel libro de relatos se convirtió en un aplastante éxito mundial y eso hizo que el interés sobre esta semiolvidada cuentista explotara... y que, lógicamente, se tratara de capitalizar por parte de la industria. Con sus documentos personales (hilados sin demasiado contexto y, según mi opinión, sin demasiado interés) se editó ‘Bienvenida a casa’, un libro que considero que solo es realmente interesante para estudiosos de su figura o para amantes de las cartas personales. Y, ahora viene lo bueno, los relatos que no estaban a la altura y que quedaron fuera del ‘Manual...’ se juntaron en forma de libro y se sacaron a la venta con el nombre de ‘Una noche en el paraiso’.
En este libro de relatos hay varios capítulos estupendos, sí. Pero, en mi humilde opinión de fan de la autora, la mayoría de ellos están muy por detrás del nivel medio de su obra más famosa. Es más, creo que algunos son casi borradores o ensayos antes de llegar a la versión buena que ya habíamos leído antes. Por supuesto que sigue siendo Lucia: que sus imágenes son gloriosas, que su fino sentido del humor está presente y que tiene mucho interés social y narrativo... pero no es nada en comparación con su obra maestra. Muchos no son interesantes, otros son repetitivos y, además, aquel experimento de cubrir su vida, de su infancia a su muerte, a través de sus propios relatos... no sale bien esta vez.
Lucia Berlin escribió una obra maestra de la literatura. ‘Sólo’ una, sí, pero tan grande que ni siquiera sus otros libros están a su altura.
August 13, 2018
Three years ago, I was blown away by A Manual for Cleaning Women, a compilation of stories by Lucia Berlin, gathered by her publishers and friends ten years after her death. I mentioned at the time that I felt a short story collection in which every story is good presents a challenge to a reader that novels do not. Each immersive piece requires more of an effort, whereas once under the spell of a novel, a reader can have a smoother experience.
Thus, I was thrilled to be offered an early copy of these additional stories, and found them to be every bit as compelling as those in the first collection. In addition, given the skeletal outline of Berlin's life, it is possible to see these as forming a very loose autobiography. There are no dates at least on the galleys, but no matter in which order they were written, as printed, they seem to advance more or less chronologically. Each features a central female figure who becomes a student in Chile, a young woman on her way to University of New Mexico, young wife and mother and the three husbands, then later as a single parent to her sons, and beyond. Many are told in first person, but some are in third, and in at least one case, multiple first person in the same story. The names of these protagonists are all different, but male characters sometimes carry the same name from story to story. When "Cleaning Women" came out, her publisher said he felt that "her time had finally come," that she hadn't received the recognition she deserved while alive because she was ahead of her time. That gives me pause -- good writing has always been acknowledged, and it's a shame she wasn't here to enjoy the accolades she deservedly if belatedly is receiving.
Thanks to FSG for this early chance to read and review this outstanding collection.
Thus, I was thrilled to be offered an early copy of these additional stories, and found them to be every bit as compelling as those in the first collection. In addition, given the skeletal outline of Berlin's life, it is possible to see these as forming a very loose autobiography. There are no dates at least on the galleys, but no matter in which order they were written, as printed, they seem to advance more or less chronologically. Each features a central female figure who becomes a student in Chile, a young woman on her way to University of New Mexico, young wife and mother and the three husbands, then later as a single parent to her sons, and beyond. Many are told in first person, but some are in third, and in at least one case, multiple first person in the same story. The names of these protagonists are all different, but male characters sometimes carry the same name from story to story. When "Cleaning Women" came out, her publisher said he felt that "her time had finally come," that she hadn't received the recognition she deserved while alive because she was ahead of her time. That gives me pause -- good writing has always been acknowledged, and it's a shame she wasn't here to enjoy the accolades she deservedly if belatedly is receiving.
Thanks to FSG for this early chance to read and review this outstanding collection.
February 10, 2019
No es Manual... pero es que me fascina la escritura de Berlin, quiero más
October 18, 2021
Há pessoas que, quando morrem, simplesmente se desvanecem, como pedrinhas num charco. O dia-a-dia continua tal como antes. Há outras que morrem mas permanecem durante muito tempo (…) por o seu espírito, simplesmente, não querer partir (…)
Lucia Berlin (1936-2004) publicou 76 contos durante a sua vida.
Li 43 no Manual para mulheres de limpeza, e agora mais 22 neste Anoitecer no Paraíso.
Ficam a faltar 11 contos, tenho que descobrir quais são!
Assim como em Manual para mulheres de limpeza, não há em Anoitecer no Paraíso um único conto que não seja bonito.
É um livro cheio de histórias comoventes sobre vidas à margem, em locais tão diferentes como Texas, Chile, Novo México, Nova Iorque, Califórnia e Colorado.
Há descrições maravilhosas, como em Por Vezes, no Verão
Abrimos os olhos para o límpido céu do Texas. Estrelas. O céu estava cheio de estrelas, e era como se houvesse tantas que algumas saltavam da berma, transbordando para a noite. Dúzias, centenas, milhões de estrelas cadentes, até finalmente um farrapo de nuvem as ocultar e, suavemente, outras nuvens cobrirem o céu sobre nós.
momentos de humor, como em Noël, Texas, 1956
Já sei que o Tyler anda a dormir com aquela secretariazinha foleira que ele tem, a Kate. Bom, N.Q.N.S. O que significa: não quero nem saber. Assim, ao menos deixa de vir saltar e bufar para cima de mim.
Lucia Berlim tinha uma linguagem exuberante e viva, as histórias são alternadamente cómicas e trágicas, sendo a única coisa em comum o imenso amor de Berlim pelas suas personagens, mesmo aquelas que não são simpáticas. Tal como em Manual para Mulheres de Limpeza várias histórias têm referências literárias – Turgenev, Walt Whitman, Thomas Hardy -, e musicais - Coltrane, Davis, e Parker.
Gostei muito!
Lucia Berlin (1936-2004) publicou 76 contos durante a sua vida.
Li 43 no Manual para mulheres de limpeza, e agora mais 22 neste Anoitecer no Paraíso.
Ficam a faltar 11 contos, tenho que descobrir quais são!
Assim como em Manual para mulheres de limpeza, não há em Anoitecer no Paraíso um único conto que não seja bonito.
É um livro cheio de histórias comoventes sobre vidas à margem, em locais tão diferentes como Texas, Chile, Novo México, Nova Iorque, Califórnia e Colorado.
Há descrições maravilhosas, como em Por Vezes, no Verão
Abrimos os olhos para o límpido céu do Texas. Estrelas. O céu estava cheio de estrelas, e era como se houvesse tantas que algumas saltavam da berma, transbordando para a noite. Dúzias, centenas, milhões de estrelas cadentes, até finalmente um farrapo de nuvem as ocultar e, suavemente, outras nuvens cobrirem o céu sobre nós.
momentos de humor, como em Noël, Texas, 1956
Já sei que o Tyler anda a dormir com aquela secretariazinha foleira que ele tem, a Kate. Bom, N.Q.N.S. O que significa: não quero nem saber. Assim, ao menos deixa de vir saltar e bufar para cima de mim.
Lucia Berlim tinha uma linguagem exuberante e viva, as histórias são alternadamente cómicas e trágicas, sendo a única coisa em comum o imenso amor de Berlim pelas suas personagens, mesmo aquelas que não são simpáticas. Tal como em Manual para Mulheres de Limpeza várias histórias têm referências literárias – Turgenev, Walt Whitman, Thomas Hardy -, e musicais - Coltrane, Davis, e Parker.
Gostei muito!
January 27, 2019
Reading Lucia Berlin is like listening to a really good storyteller. The narrators' voices ring real--especially women who, like her, live in New Mexico, Albuquerque, or San Francisco/Oakland and are mothers and, often, alcoholics (similar to Berlin's own personal and life). I loved those stories the most.
The stories are not as uniformly magnificent as I found those in A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories but all are good and several are wonderful. A mother trying to make a fresh start for her children and provide them with a "normal" life has an affair with a 19 year old boy that scandalizes the neighbors; a retired teacher goes to a bullfight in Mexico; a widow (or perhaps divorcee) goes swimming in a pool at dusk. Each one is a small jewel. Often without much in the way of plot, these stories capture feelings, characters, a moment in a person's life.
This was a lovely collection. And there are more, posthumous, works available that I can't wait to read.
The stories are not as uniformly magnificent as I found those in A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories but all are good and several are wonderful. A mother trying to make a fresh start for her children and provide them with a "normal" life has an affair with a 19 year old boy that scandalizes the neighbors; a retired teacher goes to a bullfight in Mexico; a widow (or perhaps divorcee) goes swimming in a pool at dusk. Each one is a small jewel. Often without much in the way of plot, these stories capture feelings, characters, a moment in a person's life.
This was a lovely collection. And there are more, posthumous, works available that I can't wait to read.
March 18, 2019
Después de Manual para mujeres de la limpieza estuve esperando este libro mucho tiempo (quizá demasiado, porque ya se me había olvidado por dónde iba y por qué me había gustado tanto). Éste me gustó mucho, hay cuentos muy impresionantes, como "Andado, un romance gótico" o "Mi vida es un libro abierto", pero a la vez empieza a ser obvio que Berlin tiene un estilo muy marcado, no muy versátil, y un tono del que le es difícil desprenderse, por lo que hay algunas narraciones (especialmente las que no son anecdóticamente tan interesantes) que resultan monótonas.
April 26, 2019
Berlín es una gran cuentista. La vara quedó muy alta con “Manual para mujeres de la limpieza” y este libro tiene algunos cuentos que están un escalón por debajo.
Sin dudas me gustó y lo disfruté pero no llegué a deslumbrarme.
Destaco tres cuentos: “Andado”, “Lead street, Albuquerque” y “ La barca de la ilusion”. Son verdaderas joyas de la literatura. El resto, acompaña.
Sin dudas me gustó y lo disfruté pero no llegué a deslumbrarme.
Destaco tres cuentos: “Andado”, “Lead street, Albuquerque” y “ La barca de la ilusion”. Son verdaderas joyas de la literatura. El resto, acompaña.
July 28, 2019
Lucia tenía una sensibilidad tan grande y tan evidente en su forma de escribir que no importa cuál cuento sea, en algún momento siempre se leerá con nostalgia. Me encanta lo que hizo esta mujer y lamento no tener la fortuna de leer no cuentos sino una novela entera. Es realmente inspiradora. 💫
Si quieren dar un buen regalo, háganlo con Lucia Berlín 💛
Si quieren dar un buen regalo, háganlo con Lucia Berlín 💛
April 3, 2019
Siempre quiero hablar de Lucia Berlin. De cómo sus cuentos mezclan la ternura y la resignación, el humor y la melancolía. De la admirable imparcialidad con la que trata a sus personajes, sin el menor atisbo de juicio moral. De sus finales secos y perfectos. Este es el tercer libro que leo de ella y mi admiración no hace más que crecer. Esta vez me encontré con un cuento tan perfecto –“Cherry Blossoms Time”– que tuve que traducirlo. Necesitaba hacer algo con toda esa intensidad inmóvil que sentí después de leerlo; echarla a rodar, pasársela a alguien más (la traducción está acá: bit.ly/2GiJwAO). En cinco páginas, Berlin consigue la representación del tedio más devastadora que haya leído. Lo que la mayoría del resto de los cuentos tienen en común es una protagonista que resiste sin ser mártir. Episodios dolorosos ocurren –una estafa, la partida del amante, la imposibilidad de dejar el alcohol, la muerte de una amiga, el ya no estar enamorada– y, sin embargo, las mujeres se recogen y, sin muchos aspavientos ni reclamos de atención, se sobreponen y permiten que el engrane continúe girando. Habitan el mundo con sus heridas silenciosas, tratando de entender de qué se trata la vida y el amor, pero a través de reflexiones que no tienen la pasividad del filósofo, sino el ritmo incansable de la vida cotidiana. Igualito que en la vida real.
December 22, 2022
Livro que renovou minha paixonite por Lucia Berlin, para mim a maior contista do século 20.
November 21, 2021
Слаб сборник. Разказите в “Наръчник за чистачки” представят най-доброто от Бърлин и за мен беше безсмислено да чета тези посредствени остатъци от творчеството ѝ, очевидно издадени след успеха на първия ѝ сборник “Наръчник за чистачки”, и с добра причина невключени в него.
February 15, 2019
Lucía Berlin enamora con su personalidad, tan patente en sus vivos relatos. La edición de todos ellos en dos tomos aúna las virtudes de los libros de cuentos con la novela, puesto que todos ellos comparten situaciones o personajes, la calidad humana de todas las narraciones te llevan siempre hacia adelante, quieres más... Es una pena que se acaben con este segundo libro, aunque siempre podremos gozar de su relectura porque no me cabe duda de que me van a acompañar toda la vida.
February 16, 2019
Such good writing. More humour and less sadness than in Manual for a Cleaning Woman, this is another gem.
October 1, 2020
neujednačeno... međusobno nepovezane, neke priče izvrsne, druge meni potpuno nejasne i kvrgave.
September 18, 2019
Ligeiramente menos fabuloso que "Manual para mulheres de limpeza", mas brilhante à mesma.
Há algo muito genuíno na maneira como Berlin escrevia. Há honestidade, há a vida de todos os dias no meio de vidas que nada têm de comum, há todo um universo fascinante à volta destas histórias.
Leitura indispensável.
Há algo muito genuíno na maneira como Berlin escrevia. Há honestidade, há a vida de todos os dias no meio de vidas que nada têm de comum, há todo um universo fascinante à volta destas histórias.
Leitura indispensável.
June 16, 2019
Why should you read this book?
I was extremely excited to dive into Lucia Berlin’s work for the first time. Although I have A Manual for Cleaning Women waiting to be read in my shelves, I decided to start with Evening in Paradise. After reading this book and some reviews on Goodreads, I am left wondering if I made a mistake.
Evening in Paradise is a posthumous collection of 22 stories that can be described as raw. They’re funny at times, but they’re always dark. From what I’ve read about Berlin’s life, I gather that many of these stories have an autobiographical dimension. Berlin was married three times (to a sculptor, to a jazz pianist and to a drug addict) and had four children before turning 30.
These tales revolve a lot around difficult and toxic relationships, loss, gender and take into consideration the political and social background of that time. Another aspect I noticed – and loved – in Evening in Paradise is Berlin’s worldliness. Her characters are itinerant.
So, as you can see, I was meant to love this book. But that didn’t happen. I found myself dragging and getting constantly distracted. I started by listening to the audiobook but the narrator’s voice didn’t work for me. So I just gave up on the audiobook and read the physical copy. My experience with this book improved and I was able to finish it but it didn’t leave a mark on me. I could never fully engage with this collection. I am super excited to read A Manual For Cleaning Women because it has been described as very engrossing! I think that’s what Evening in Paradise lacked.
I’d like to thank FSG for sending a review copy.
For more reviews, follow me on Instagram: @booksturnyouon
I was extremely excited to dive into Lucia Berlin’s work for the first time. Although I have A Manual for Cleaning Women waiting to be read in my shelves, I decided to start with Evening in Paradise. After reading this book and some reviews on Goodreads, I am left wondering if I made a mistake.
Evening in Paradise is a posthumous collection of 22 stories that can be described as raw. They’re funny at times, but they’re always dark. From what I’ve read about Berlin’s life, I gather that many of these stories have an autobiographical dimension. Berlin was married three times (to a sculptor, to a jazz pianist and to a drug addict) and had four children before turning 30.
These tales revolve a lot around difficult and toxic relationships, loss, gender and take into consideration the political and social background of that time. Another aspect I noticed – and loved – in Evening in Paradise is Berlin’s worldliness. Her characters are itinerant.
So, as you can see, I was meant to love this book. But that didn’t happen. I found myself dragging and getting constantly distracted. I started by listening to the audiobook but the narrator’s voice didn’t work for me. So I just gave up on the audiobook and read the physical copy. My experience with this book improved and I was able to finish it but it didn’t leave a mark on me. I could never fully engage with this collection. I am super excited to read A Manual For Cleaning Women because it has been described as very engrossing! I think that’s what Evening in Paradise lacked.
I’d like to thank FSG for sending a review copy.
For more reviews, follow me on Instagram: @booksturnyouon
March 25, 2019
Leer a Lucia Berlin es aplicarse un curso intensivo de melancolía. Sus palabras, sus formas, sus elecciones de relatos son variaciones sobre un espejo enfocado en el pasado, por cuya superficie todo parece desfilar imbuido de una dulzura amarga: la belleza de lo extinto, aun cuando antes de extinguirse fuera fuego doliendo en la entraña, rasgadura, fractura, herida. Leer a Berlin es prepararse para el sufrimiento, para ver la belleza en el sufrimiento y sobrevivir, gracias a ella.
Los cuentos de Una noche en el paraíso mantienen el nivel narrativo de los de Manual para mujeres de la limpieza. Aquí y allí estaba ese lenguaje contenido, esa mirada clara entre lo turbio, esa capacidad de humor y cariño en los límites mismos de la desesperación. Aquí vuelven a aparecer el alcoholismo, la infancia, los hijos, los amantes, la pobreza, el juego. Aquí está completa esa fuerza natural de la autora, su capacidad de símbolo, su forma de crear, más allá de la anécdota, un oráculo donde se nos responden preguntas con la vaguedad de la sibila.
Papeles al viento, trazos borrosos, idiomas desconocidos. En Berlin la literatura es misterio. Y eso, lo sabemos los lectores, lo es todo.
*
Reseña de Manual para mujeres de la limpieza: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
Los cuentos de Una noche en el paraíso mantienen el nivel narrativo de los de Manual para mujeres de la limpieza. Aquí y allí estaba ese lenguaje contenido, esa mirada clara entre lo turbio, esa capacidad de humor y cariño en los límites mismos de la desesperación. Aquí vuelven a aparecer el alcoholismo, la infancia, los hijos, los amantes, la pobreza, el juego. Aquí está completa esa fuerza natural de la autora, su capacidad de símbolo, su forma de crear, más allá de la anécdota, un oráculo donde se nos responden preguntas con la vaguedad de la sibila.
Papeles al viento, trazos borrosos, idiomas desconocidos. En Berlin la literatura es misterio. Y eso, lo sabemos los lectores, lo es todo.
*
Reseña de Manual para mujeres de la limpieza: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
December 13, 2018
I never read anything by Berlin before this book. It starts with an into by her son that moved me. I loved all the stories and the vivid view of the places she took me reading it. Remarkable collection. A true treasure.
I won this on Goodreads. So glad I did.
Dawnny -BookGypsy
Novels N Latte Book Blog
Novels & Latte Book Club
Hudson Vallley NY
I won this on Goodreads. So glad I did.
Dawnny -BookGypsy
Novels N Latte Book Blog
Novels & Latte Book Club
Hudson Vallley NY
April 19, 2019
"Un cóctel, la amargura, y el entre líneas hacen de una noche el paraíso."
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