Wendy Bourgeois is a poet, a teacher, and a staff writer at Propeller, where “Reading Lines,” her popular column on poetry and life, has run for the past several years.
This collection reveals that in addition to the humor, intelligence, and insight Bourgeois offers in her responses to poetry and philosophy, she also has the ability to craft, in just a few words, indelible sketches of children and parents, lovers and friends.
Together the pieces acquire the character of a subtle memoir, both intimate and cultural, from a fiercely intelligent woman assessing the power and predicaments we discover not only in literature, but in life itself.
"I have been meditating for over a year now, spurred as I was by soul unraveling anxiety, both from regular and irregular circumstances. For one, I was born into chaos, which marked me forever as the kind of person who can hear a change in tone or a change in the weather like a dog whistle. If there's trouble coming, I usually know, even if mostly I can't do anything about it. Two, I raised kids alone, at times unbearably so, and somewhere along the trajectory of those years, my mind and my body agreed we would just have to fall apart later. I doubt my fragile state during those years was a mystery to anyone but myself. I drank too much, ate fistfuls of candy, smoked, worked very hard, kept a reasonably clean house, and a full fridge. No car, two jobs, no spouse. Ordinary American working class accomplishments, but difficult enough for me that it frayed my cords until they shot sparks. It's a miracle I never caught fire."
Wry and poetic observations on life, art, parenthood, and gender, Wendy Bourgeois’ collection manages to marry the personal essay with literary criticism in sharp, lovely, 2-3 page bursts. The precision and economy of these little gems is surprising, sharp. Tonally, the pieces are impressive—managing to be funny, philosophical, tender, and poetic all in a single breath. Like the sonnets or doll house furniture Bourgeois describes in “Asylum Envy,” these essays are, themselves, tiny things of great beauty.
I think I would have like this even more if I had a book club to discuss it with. The (very) short essays touch on some compelling ideas while referencing poetry, but there's not enough space to fully develop a thesis in any given one. And some veer more into diary entries than anything else, which can be charming and off-putting by turns. I come out having found it interesting, but also like I'm missing something.