Schlink: The Reader

Tonight we will discuss Berhard Schlink’s The Readerfor novel writing class. I admit: I read it twice. I will help lead the discussion and wanted to get a firm grasp on what has been called a “moral maze.” (I also had time due to a cancelled class.) The novel’s central love story involves a fifteen-year-old Michael and a much older woman, Hanna.

In the later parts of the novel Michael, a young law student, watches her trial for war crimes committed during the Holocaust. Michael realizes during the trial that Hanna is illiterate and unable to read the charges against her or set up a defense. She admits to her crimes readily. But because she is busy trying to hide her illiteracy, she appears more guilty than her fellow female guards. She is sentenced to life in prison.

Hanna spends eighteen years in jail, where she learns to read and write with the aid of books Michael reads on cassette and sends to her. The rest you will have to read for yourself. It is a post World War II tale that asks its readers to consider life in the aftermath of terrific violence.

Useful Links

Oprah Winfrey Show: discussion excerpts

Reading Discussion Questions

"Reader's Guide To Moral Maze"

Memorable Lines

"When rescue came, it was almost an assault." (4)

"I didn't reveal anything that I should have kept to myself. I kept something to myself that I should have revealed." (74)

"When I think about it now, I think that our eagerness to assimilate the horrors and our desire to make everyone else aware of them was in fact repulsive." (93)

"All survivor literature talks about this numbness, in which life's functions are reduced to a minimum, behavior becomes completely selfish and indifferent to others, and gassing and burning everyday occurrences." (103)

"Should we only fall silent in revulsion, shame, and guilt?" (104)

"If felt the numbness with which I had followed the horrors of the trial settling over the emotions and thoughts of the past few weeks. . . . But I felt it was right. It allowed me to return to and continue to live my everyday life." (160)

"Pointing at the guilty parties did not free us from shame, but at least it overcome the suffering we went through on account of it." (170)

"You can chase someone away by setting them in a niche." (199)

"The tectonic layers of our lives rest so tightly one on top of the other that we always come up against earlier events in later ones, not as matter that has been fully formed and pushed aside, but absolutely present and alive." (217)

Whirlwind

March 30 – April 7

The weeks have been a blur. Life lived one event at a time with no room to think about tomorrow. It was quite a change from my writer’s life of pajamas till noon and books as my companions.

We had three guests, one birthday, two parties, late-night girl talk, seafood and pasta, dress shopping and the philosophy of wedding dress shopping, and a tired visit to the Garden of Eden for macaroni and cheese.

After my guests were safely aboard planes and trains, I set off for Kansas and a whirlwind of florists, caterers, and a priest. Pancakes were involved. I was supposed to fly back to Boston late Tuesday, then fly out early to DC.

But the flight was delayed. . . so I had them reroute me directly to DC. I headed for a round of Capital Hill lobbying in my torn jeans. Luckily Ann Taylor at Union Station had just the navy suit and faux pearls (a double strand) that I never knew I always wanted. The shoes were cute, but evil. (Note: wedding shoes –which haven’t yet been purchased—may be less cute.)

Luckily my brother pointed out a Starbucks that morning and praised-be they gave me an embarrassingly huge venti latte by mistake. That tanker of milk and caffeine lasted me until our calorie break at 4:30—an apple thrown into my bag at the last minute way back in the Wichita airport.

We met with every single Indiana congress person and senator. Well, we met with their very young aides. We gave a spiel about the Writing Project. We were intelligent and dynamic and our (my) feet hurt like the dickens. That night wine and cheese at the postal museum reception and then pizza and wine with my brother at the Matchbox.

The next day it was sessions and digital story telling and blogs and the achievement gap. I took the train to Baltimore. I saw the house and the wedding album. I ate a pound of chips and salsa before the enchiladas. Then onboard the flight back to Boston, another delay. My seatmate was something like a soul mate, but we never even exchanged names. Then metro home. Then hugs and kisses. Then bed. Then no dreams, bliss.

Saturday in New York

L., D, and I drove into New York City Saturday morning. First thing: a new york bagel and coffee. Thus sustained we headed into the American Museum of Natural History to see the Darwin exihibit. The exhibit tells the story of Darwin's life and scientific discoveries. There is a nice balance of "live" exhibits and artifacts (such as letters) to keep all ages engaged. We hit the dinosaur halls next. I wanted to see the butterfly exhibit, but we were running out of time and calories.

We left the museum and headed down to see a friend of L.'s for lunch. We ate in a cozy-funky place called Bar 6 in the West Village. Then L's friend took us to see Slava's Snowshow. The entire show is a set of sketches performed by one main clown "Yellow" and a troupe of four "Green" clowns. The Russian clown who started the show has created a piece that transcends political boundaries as well as age differences. There is something for everyone here. Here is one description: If a stray spore of Cirque du Soleil had taken root in one of Dostoevsky's Russian winters, this deeply imaginative act of theatre might have been the result. Slava, a Russian clown of the old school - the really old pre-vaudeville school, surrounds himself with dreamlike scenery and fantastic situations in a show that has won critical approval worldwide. (http://www.entertainment-link.com)

I will refrain from a larger discussion of the existential clowning, but if you wish to know more I would be happy to discuss. Here is one review "Clowns on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown" that might be helpful. After the show, our friend took us backstage. The cast was relaxing and eating pizza between shows. We learned more about the history of the show and got to see inside the lives that bring the show to life for the audience. We even got to eat pizza with them.

Our final stop in the city was Veniero's Italian cake shop. We had a taste test. We ordered three kinds of cheesecake. Our first pick: Sicilian. Second: New York Style. Third: Italian cheesecake. All three were wonderful, but the Sicilian was over the top.

Poem: The Persistent Accent

I have taken today's poem from The Writer's Almanac by Garrison Keillor. Visit the webpage to listen to the program.

"The Persistent Accent" by Patricia Dobler from Collected Poems. © Autumn House Press. Reprinted with permission.

The Persistent Accent

Until the grave covers me, on foreign soil
I shall remain Hungarian
Hungarian folk song

Because this fat old lady
has exactly the voice
of my dead grandma,
I find myself
trailing her through the supermarket
as she complains to her friend
about the Blacks, the kids, the prices,
age, disease, and certain death,
and I'm seduced
by that Hungarian accent
decades in this country can't diminish,
and I see the smoky fires
of the harvesters, a golden-braided girl
fetching their dinners of peppers and lamb,
and I follow her
through the aisles,
wanting to lay my face
between her hands,
to ask her for a song.

Fnuny Stfuf

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht
I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid!
Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy,
it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a
wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat
ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses
and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae
the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef,
but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas
tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!

Weekend of Mystery

I spent the past weekend clustered around a conference table with twelve other aspiring mystery writers. Actually I have never aspired to write mystery. In fact, except for a brief affair with Mary Higgins Clark in high school, I have rarely picked mysteries to read (plane rides being exceptions, but even for planes I prefer thrillers).

Yet I have known some teachers who teach mystery reading and writing. High school students love it. I thought: never me. I was just too uncomfortable as a nonreader of mystery. Following an old adage to do the thing that most scares me: I signed up for the weekend seminar at Grub Street to learn all I could about the genre as a teacher, not to mention pick up tips for fiction writing for my own novel-ever-in-progress and short stories.

Here is the class description:

Instructor: Hallie Ephron
2 days, 9AM - 4PM, includes hour for lunch
Fasten your seatbelts for this two-day crash course in mystery writing. Mystery author and Boston Globe crime fiction critic Hallie Ephron will step you through the process of turning a kernel of an idea into an intriguing mystery novel. You'll learn to capitalize on your writing strengths and shore up your weaknesses. The class will address:
* planning, twisting the plot, and constructing a credible surprise ending
* creating a compelling sleuth and a worthy villain
* deceiving and revealing with red herrings and clues
* writing investigation, spine-tingling suspense, and dramatic action
* revising-from sharpening characters, to optimizing pace, to smithing words
* making the reader care
Cost of registration includes a copy of Writing and Selling Your Mystery Novel: How to Knock'em Dead with Style.

Ms. Ephron, author of several mysteries (see below), proved to be a dynamic teacher who is both a master of her material and an excellent presenter. We sat there and just absorbed the "bones" of a good mystery. We were given gems of practical tips for writing in the genre (and writing fiction in general), and how to establish oneself in the community.

One of her messages was: writing is not a miracle. It is hard work (massive amounts thereof) coupled with persistence that get published. She encouraged us to believe in our writing. If it is good, it will get published (after much rejection, of course). All in all, she was very positive without being falsely enthusiastic.

I had worried about dedicating an entire weekend to mystery writing. Now I can say that it has given me new ways to see my own novel (for example, how to build good dialogue and suspense). I may also teach mysteries next year armed with my new knowledge and my copy of Ms. Ephron's wonderful craft text: Writing and Selling Your Mystery Novel.

Hallie Ephron Mysteries
(writing as G.H.Ephron)

Amnesia
Addiction
Delusion
Obsessed
Guilt

Visit her website at http://hallieephron.com/

Yo-Yo Ma (and me)

L. and I made the short walk to the symphony tonight for an 8 pm concert. It was our second trip this year, our first time to hear Yo-Yo Ma. We were fortunate to see James Levine conduct our first visit (he is currently undergoing surgery for an arm injury suffered during on on-stage tumble a few weeks ago). Yo-Yo Ma was the superstar draw and he did give an impressive performance wailing away at this cello. Both L. and I, however, preferred the Ligeti piece. He is one crazy Transylvanian composer, excuse or bias.

Symphony hall is impressive with its wall of organ, ornate gilding, mythological statues, and eclectic crowd. It is worth going just to eavesdrop on the rich array of strange, strange conversations. There are some serious orchestra fans out there.

It is amazing to live within walking distance to the hall, and so many other art venues (not to mention independent book stores, boutiques, etc.--and, of course, a Dunkin Donut on every corner.)

This year in Boston reminds me of the riches of living in Rome, where I studied during college. Indeed, it does feel like I am "living abroad" here in Boston for the year. Only this time I have the cash to go to concerts and eat in restaurants. Truthfully, the free concerts in Roman churches still rival any ticketed event here. The romantic memories of a college year in bella italia are hard to top.

While Yo-Yo Ma was making his cello sing, my mind drifted here and there. I thought of my first cello solo experience back in college. It was a fall night at Notre Dame, waiting in line to buy football tickets. Matt came by (I don't remember his last name! roommate of B.) and played a simple piece (was it by Bach?). I was entranced by that impromptu cello under the stars. In my book, his performance beats Yo-Yo. So, wherever you are Matt, I am sending you my thanks!

Here is a link to the program notes for the concert we heard this evening:

David Robertson, conductor
Yo-Yo Ma, cello
Ligeti, Shumann, Strauss

And an excerpt from Shumann's Cello Conerto

Writerly Quote of the Day

"A thing I have always loved about writing, or even simply intending to write, is that it makes attentiveness a habit of mind."--Marilynne Robinson

Eve is Coming! Eve is Coming!

Eve Ensler is coming to Boston March 21 - 26 to perform her newest play "The Good Body." I bought myself a nearly-front row ticket the better to see her expressive face by. I won't rave about Eve here and now, but I could (and should) in a later entry, perhaps. I do want to encourage local Bostonites to check out the show. I can't vouch for the play yet; but I do support her activism to end violence.

In honor of Eve, here is a poem that I have been working on. I am still not "finished" with it. Or perhaps it is not yet finished with me!

The Scent of Belief
for Eve Ensler

My vagina speaks two words from the pulpit of her: "I believe!"

Hallelujah! Praise be to the Living God
on High from High,
I have found the scent smack between my warm white thighs.

Pink-folding rose purpled red, brown-bleeding,
ocean depths of deep-crystalloid wet,
torn fire-breathing,
ripped from cry of laughter
that stinks up,
wretched river of sweat,
civilizations gone into your wide-mouthed face,
deep into the proteins of your rusty-forgotten red soul until

you cannot stand hushed before such truth—

Wash over me! You on my skin gentle, skilled. Deep down water. Yes, yes.

That smell, my smell,

you can name it now.

Alluring-repulsive invitation with waxy seal, always there, unspoken.

We believe you will beg,

lament on hard—blistered fists pounding and kneeling—sore knees aching,
for sugar blackened incense.

Agitated, never right, no peace. Only impressed upon.

Waiting

until you too find your voice,
find your words stolen, and then

speak softly

through folds of bruised flesh collapsing in praise:

amen.

Gladwell on Freakonomics

Those who know me, know that I am a Tipping Point/Gladwell fan. I also enjoyed Freakonomics by Levitt and Dubner.

Now Gladwell (on his very own BLOG) has commented on Freakonomics, a book he loves but yet has criticisms for as well.

Of course, this is fascinating stuff if you have read Malcolm and Freakonomics (plugging here).

But, even if you have not yet moved Jane Austen to the back burner in favor of a little modern cultural/pyschological/economical analysis. . . .this is still a worthy read.

Malcolm Gladwell's Blog Entry on Freakonomics

Plus, you will get to see a picture of Malcolm.