What is Beauty?

You may have seen the ads for Dove's campaignforrealbeauty with real women showing off their non-model bodies--illicit curves, bold wrinkles, and plains as God so created them.

What is real beauty? And who gets to decide?

Damn. What a good ad campaign. I wonder if it will actually sell more Dove products? Who cares?

This video is short (less than a minute) but strikes a nerve.

Here is the video link:

http://www.campaignforrealbeauty.com/home_films_evolution_v2.swf

Wien

A weekend in Vienna:

espresso with orange liquor and cream,
boiled rump with apple horseradish, knee-high boots,
brunch everyday,streets crowded with shoppers,
Klimt, apple strudel, the symphony at 11 am, schnitzel,
Freud's House, organ concerts,
blood sausage strudel,
Beneton, Mozart, Genomics,
Mozart torte, dobos torte, The Couch, melange,
important scarves, Secession, Mango,
too much wine at dinner,
whipped cream,
Oberlaa, MQ, Demel, einhahn street,
Budapest but more, wiener,
soft-boiled eggs in egg cups and tiny spoons,
Bauhaus, bicycles, Hermann Nitsch,
bread and butter.

White Noise by Don Delillo

The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence. The writer is the man or woman who automatically takes a stance against his or her government. There are so many temptations for American writers to become part of the system and part of the structure that now, more than ever, we have to resist. American writers ought to stand and live in the margins, and be more dangerous.
Writers in repressive societies are considered dangerous.
That's why so many of them are in jail.

Don DeLillo, from the 1988 interview with Ann Arensberg

I decided to read my first Don Delillo work after I heard Curtis Sittenfeld, author of Prep and The Man of My Dreams (see May 23rd blog entry) mention "White Noise" as her top pick of novels from recent literary history. I believe the New York Times had just published a list of the top novels selected by a list of current authors. The top choice was Beloved by Toni Morrison, which Sittenfeld candidly admitted that she had never read. When she mentioned White Noiseas her top choice, I made a mental note to include it on my reading list.

The first person narrator, Jack Gladney, tells his story with relentless honesty. The world is too much with him, indeed. Technology's comforting white noise is always present. His children have jaded vulnerabilities that make you ache and cringe. His youngest child, Wilder, is too young to speak at all, yet brings the most comfort to the family (and the reader) by simply existing. His needs--food, water, sleep--give human life a simple purpose.

As I read through the increasingly bizarre events, which take place in an all-too-familiar traditional college town, I found myself admitting to my own fleeting (yet real) fixation on my own death and the death of my loved ones. Do you indulge in detailed visions of what-if cancer strikes? What-if the drunk driver hits my car? What-if it is my bag of spinach that carries my deadly calling number? Admit it.

The characters in White Noise often wander the supermarket and ponder its contents and displays for meaning. Delillo's choice to have them observe the supermarketplace was a clever choice as shiny tinfoil packages of snacks can tell an eloquent tale about the America of this era.

My father worked in the grocery industry and so I grew up knowing that there were stories behind how the bananas got to the produce section. I learned that bananas start off as vegetables and end up as fruit. I saw the climate-controlled rooms where bananas are held--frozen in time--until they are deemed ready to ripen for the stores. I used to think this destroyed the poetry behind the apples and oranges. Of course now I realize that seeing behind the display cases was seeing the poetry of the process. As mechanical and ugly as the process may be in comparison to the finished fruit.

Jack and his wife Babette go about their daily lives and deal with an airborne toxic event causing them to evacuate their town beneath a comforting blanket of white noise. Beneath the noise, however, is the ever present fear of death. A fear that drives them to confront or avoid their existence with a fierce determination to escape the fear, even if they can't escape death itself.

While I have not had a chance to discuss White Noise with fellow readers, I have read a few reviews and visited other useful sites:

Crowding Out Death
by Jayne Anne Philips (originally appeared in the New York Times, January 13, 1985.)

New York Times Featured Author: Don DeLillo
This site contains reviews of DeLillo's books and an audio reading and interview.

The Don DeLillo Society
This site contains a bibliography, events, links, and more.

White Noise on White Noise
This site is a fun creation about White Noise.

Here are a few DeLillo quotes about writing:

I became a writer by living in New York and seeing and hearing and feeling all the great, amazing and dangerous things the city endlessly assembles. And I also became a writer by avoiding serious commitment to anything else.

DeLillo to Jonathan Bing, 1997

I write to find out how much I know. The act of writing for me is a concentrated form of thought. If I don't enter that particular level of concentration, the chances are that certain ideas never reach any level of fruition.
DeLillo in an article by William Leith in 1991

Literary News

Murakami Wins Short Story Prize

by Lawrence Van Gelder
Published September 27, 2006 in the New York Times

Haruki Murakami of Japan has won the second Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award, a $44,700 prize billed as the world's richest for short stories, The Guardian of London reported. Mr. Murakami is to share his prize for "Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman: Twenty-Four Stories" (Knopf) with his translators, Philip Gabriel and Jay Rubin. When the announcement of the winner was made in Cork, Ireland, the hometown of O'Connor (1903- 1966), the jury hailed Mr. Murakami as "a master of prose fiction," saying he "writes with great integrity, unafraid of dealing with tough and difficult situations between people who constantly misunderstand each other."

Read my January 4, 2006 blog entry about reading Murakami's book, "Kafka on the Shore."

Updating My Bookshelf

A not too smallish box arrived from Amazon today. This means it is time to update my not so current "current" bookshelf. I'd like to make separate entries about the following titles, but time may not allow.

Recently read:

White Noise by Don DeLillo

Three Junes by Julia Glass

The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe

The Road from Coorain by Jill Ker Conway

Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

It is an eclectic collection.--literary fiction, autobiography, and young adult fiction. I would be happy to tell you more about any of these titles if you would like a preview before you buy.

I've updated my "Current Bookshelf" in the sidebar to reflect my newest obsessions.

YWCA and Ten Thousand Villages

support the
YWCA of St. Joseph County

by shopping at
Ten Thousand Villages
919 W. McKinley, Mishawaka
20% of the day's sales will go to the YWCA
10 am-6 pm Friday, Sept. 22

For more information:
Joann Phillips
Resource Development Director
YWCA of St. Joseph County
1102 S. Fellows St., South Bend, IN 46601
PH (574) 233-9491, ext. 316; FAX (574) 233-9616 jphillips@ywcasjc.org

mark your calendars!

spread the word!

Club Noma, Downtown South Bend

I had heard the owner of the new Club Noma speak about his plans for the hip new bar and restaurant for several years. Those well laid plans have finally been realized.

Last night we headed downtown South Bend to find some dinner and catch a bit of the Ohio v. Texas football game. The regular haunts were packed and so we gave up on the game and enjoyed the delicious soups at the Chocolate Cafe. Heading home, we noticed the Now Open sign in front of Club Noma. Despite our grungy dress, we couldn’t resist the opportunity to peak inside.

We were greeted with hors d'oeuvre of duck, salmon caviar, and chicken--all tasty Asian fusion morsels, a promise of what the dinner menu holds. The bar is a work of art. The owner's eye for detail is truly extraordinary. The bar attendants are stylish and classy (not to mention hot). The live DJ is turning the tables, backlit by smooth water lights. The music is right on for the hip vibe pulsing through the miniature jellyfish orbs over the bar, the bare brick walls (waiting for their soon-to-arrive neon logo), and blood red leather couchettes. Hot, hot, hot.

And soon the center stage will be taken by an enormous free standing jellyfish aquarium. We all know how mystically gorgeous those creatures are. They captivate with their sensuous arms and transparent bodies. Hot music, throbbing jellyfish, and did I mention the martinis?

I am a classic vodka martini girl, a little dirty, with blue cheese olives. None of those fancy sweet concoctions for me. But you would be surprised how difficult it is to find a good plain old martini--and I am not just talking about our bendy city.

Martini Report Card for Club Noma: A+

While I am a straight up martini kind of girl, Club Noma has a tempting list of martini cocktails. I might have to go for the one with pear in its description. Sounds healthy. I need to balance my olives with a daily fruit serving, per the suggestion of my good doctor.

Congratulations to the owner and staff at Club Noma. Well done.

Applause. Applause. Applause.

The official grand opening will be Thursday, September 14th.

Club Noma description
http://www.opentable.com/rest_profile.aspx?rid=4936

Club Noma
119 North Michigan Street
South Bend, IN 46601
Their website:
http://www.clubnoma.com/

South Bend Tribune Review
September 20, 2006
"New South Bend fusion restaurant reflects a vision"
by Heidi Prescott

Art Beat 2006, Downtown South Bend

http://www.artbeatsouthbend.org/

Russian Tea Time

My parents emailed us with the announcement: They had planned a tour of their six children to celebrate their 45^th wedding anniversary. This trip would take them a few miles across town, hundreds of miles across the prairie, to Northern Indiana, the East Coast, and the Rocky Mountains within a week. They asked us to pick out a nice restaurant for each night of their weekly weddinganniversarypalooza.

I met them in Chicago and took them to a little place I had discovered a few years ago. It is a Russian restaurant, Russian Tea Time, with old world red velvet drapings, samovars, and nesting dolls. Lots of mirrors and attentive waiters. When I was sixteen, I convinced my parents to let me become a People to People Ambassador. I flew to Moscow and studied biology in Sochi along the Black Sea Coast. I viewed Stalin’s mummified body in great solemnity. I visited a tea plantation and ate fresh raspberries atop a mountain.

I was a sixteen-year-old Kansas girl serving as Ambassador of Peace. It was 1991 and political upheaval was the rule, little did I fully realize as I went about selecting the perfect black-lacquered box as a memento for my treasure chest back home.

So the selection of Russian restaurant to honor my parents’ 45^th anniversary was no accident. They gave me Russia, and I thought it would be nice to share a Russian meal with them.

We started with a flight of vodkas—bilberry, cranberry, and plain. These vodkas, served with dark rye bread chunks and pickles, go down like velvet. A fine way to start any long, long lunch.

We decided to share a sampler meal because we couldn’t decide between all the delicious options. Borscht (served hot, the traditional way), beet caviar, stuffed mushrooms. Followed by stuffed cabbage, Moldavian chicken meatballs, a breaded chicken delight, beef stroganoff, kashi and rice.

The finish must be handled with care. We managed it properly by drinking endless cups of deep amber Russian tea (available for sale on their website) and a selection of strudels, cookies, and cakes.

A hearty almost three-hour celebration.

The restaurant is located a few steps from the Art Institute, but the day was too mild to ruin by going indoors. So we headed to the Millennium Park to watch kids and adults splash in the Crown Fountain, a public art fountain. If you haven’t visited this park, go now. It is really one of my favorite parks in the world. Very well done. Especially worth it on a mild, sunny, and breezy day.

It was a brief world wind visit. I hope they do the same for their 46^th anniversary!

About Marcel Duchamp

Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968)

In the later years of Marcel Duchamp’s life, he liked to say that he was simply a “respirateur,” a “breather.” After a lifetime of pursuing art and perfecting his game of chess, Duchamp had evolved into a work of art himself. He did not have to justify or explain his art or way of life, that was up to his interviewer and posterity. His main responsibility in life: to breathe, long and deep, taking in this world’s oxygen just the same as any other mortal man.

While the name Duchamp may not ring a bell, you have surely seen or heard about one or two of his works. For example, he is the artist that painted a jaunty mustache on a postcard reproduction of the Mona Lisa (1919). He also submitted, under the same R. Mutt, an inverted urinal to an art show (1917). Although the urinal was rejected from the show, it has become a legendary anti-sculpture.

I came to admire Duchamp’s self-described title as “respirateur” after reading Duchamp: A Biography by Calvine Tomkins. He was a man who lived his life by his own rules, unafraid to fly in the face of a conventional life and all its creature comforts. He breathed and he created things. In a world suffused with material objects, he transformed the mundane into art by making his “readymades.” He took a regular snow shovel, inscribed a cryptic title, signed it and it was art. Or was it? His art went beyond the visual and material elements associated with art and made his audience think and ask the question: what is art? (What would Duchamp have said about the CowParade?)

Duchamp inspired young artists to think freely, think boldly about both art and life. Some criticized Duchamp for all the bad art that sallied forth in the late twentieth century. And there has been some regrettable artwork. And yet I have to say that Duchamp has inspired me in a positive way. It is my job to be a “respirateur.” For too long I have been enslaved by doctrinal dictates and good-girl standards that compel me to observe and serve the world. Being a good-girl perfectionist, the observe-and-serve mandate dictates when it should merely guide.

First, one must breathe and then one can observe and just observe. Only then can I witness to what I see. Witness by my writing. By my art. And finally by my actions.

Duchamp taught me that it is okay to merely observe the world. In fact, it may be the finest act of humility there is. Of course, to accurately observe the world—to see truthfully what there is and what there should be—is enough for a lifetime. Practically, his life and art have also given me permission to write my novel by my own rules.

Making Sense of Marcel Duchamp
Timeline and pictures of his art.

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After Beef

I think my cow diversion has nearly runs its course.

The cows that decorate the world's major cities as part of the global public art movement, CowParade, are oddly fascinating. (See earlier blog: Car Parade: Budapest and Boston.)

I have spent too much time thinking about why people love these dressed up plaster bovines. But delight they do. Maybe it's the shared common form--your basic cow--transformed. You don't see a cow, you see how the cow was interpreted and that gives a jolt of pleasure as you impress yourself with your ability to understand the visual pun or message of the artist. People "get" this art. (In a way they don't get modern art?) This gives pleasure. Hence the cow parade goes on.

I can't help but think that in one hundred years, art historians will write books about early twenty-first century public art. Perhaps with the following title: "The Bovine Consciousness Emergent in Metropolitan Byways: A study." Or how about: "Heifers Rising: The Rise of Bovine Beauty in Early Twenty-first Century Urban Pastures."

But didn't I just say that my cow diversion was in its final throes of passion? Ready for the slaughter.

Let there be cows.

(Yet, it is so much more satisfying to write about parading cows than to attempt to write about the cow in the middle of my life, which is related to the elephant in the room, if you know what I mean.)

Vow to self: less caffeine, more tennis, less chatter, more keyboard clatter, and so forth.

Cow Parade: Budapest and Boston

And so I decided to instead write about cows.

That is correct, cows.

The CowParade is a phenomenal public art success by most measures. If you have not yet experienced the parade of cows in a major metropolis, it is a public art moo-vement (forgive me) intended to make art accessible for the masses. Cows are safe. Have you met a person who did not like cows? We all love ‘em, and most of us happily eat them. (Pause and consider what that says about human nature.)

And then someone got the bright idea to use cows as a blank canvas. Artists in each city transform the same basic cow model into fantastic flights of imagination (or sadly, mere advertisements for the companies who sponsor them). Peter Hanig, the even coordinator explains:

Art is about breaking down barriers. It gets people to feel, to think, to react. So when you come across life-sized cow sculptures that have been covered in mirrors or gumdrops, cows that have been painted with elaborate themes or transformed into something else entirely, you can’t help but stop and think about what it means. All your preconceived ideas go out the window. Suddenly people see that art can be fun and that art can be interesting to everyone, not just people who frequent museums.

Art can be fun. Indeed. I am not sure what artists have to say about that, but I can imagine that some agree and some are not amoosed (sorry, I can’t help it, really.)

Peruse the CowParade website. It is a hoot. People love these cows. And the cows raise a huge amount of money for charity. It looks like a win-win game: artists get public exposure, charities get cash, and the art is temporary (so no one has to actually LIVE with it for longer than a summer).

The cows do reflect a city’s culture. Boston’s cows were upright, dignified chaps. Budapest’s cows—yes, they are hosting the parade this summer—are not of the Boston Breed. Strangely, however, the official CowParade website does not list Budapest as a participant. Odd. Is Budapest a renegade cow stampede? Two striking examples of cows in Budapest:

Handicap Cow: his two back legs were amputated and replaced by old-fashioned wheelchair wheels. Not exactly whimsical. Especially when a beggar with a similar impediment worked the subway stairs within sight.

And my personal favorite: The Ice-Cream Cow. The cow is located just near the traditional café for distinguished ladies and gents, the Gerbaund. (Update: I recently learned that this is its new location. It was moved here after much controversy. Read this article from Budapest's English weekly newspaper, Budapest Sun.) It is blue cow ice cream melting into the hot summer pavement. If you imagined a cow as ice-cream, where would you have to insert the wooden stick? Exactly. On the stick it says: Don’t Lick.

I love Budapest and its cows. Whimsical without the sentiment.

Another Update: I found the official Hungarian site for the CowParade. Check it out and dust off your Hungarian language skills! http://www.cowparade.hu/index2.html

(Photo credits go to my Dad and his first digital camera.)

One Hour to Madness and Joy

One Hour to Madness and Joy

by Walt Whitman

One hour to madness and joy! O furious! O confine me not!
(What is this that frees me so in storms?
What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)

O to drink the mystic deliria deeper than any other man!
O savage and tender achings! (I bequeath them to you my children,
I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)

O to be yielded to you whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me
in defiance of the world!
O to return to Paradise! O bashful and feminine!
O to draw you to me, to plant on you for the first time the lips of
a determin'd man.

O the puzzle, the thrice-tied knot, the deep and dark pool, all
untied and illumin'd!
O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!

To be absolv'd from previous ties and conventions, I from mine and
you from yours!
To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!
To have the gag remov'd from one's mouth!
To have the feeling to-day or any day I am sufficient as I am.

O something unprov'd! something in a trance!
To escape utterly from others' anchors and holds!
To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!
To court destruction with taunts, with invitations!
To ascend, to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate soul!
To be lost if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy.

Poem: August Morning

Summer travels are finished. We are back in the Bend for the school year. Our trip home from Budapest was smooth--no delays or lost luggage to complain of.

Settling into the house will take time after such a long time on the road. I do not look forward to the unpacking. In fact I am a notorious non-unpacker. I live out of my suitcase for weeks rather than face the laundry I should do sooner rather than later. Of course L. unpacks first thing.

To kick things up a notch, here is a lovely poem to savor:

American Life in Poetry: Column 071 BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

William Carlos Williams, one of our country's most influential poets and a New Jersey physician, taught us to celebrate daily life. Here Albert Garcia offers us the simple pleasures and modest mysteries of a single summer day.

August Morning

It's ripe, the melon
by our sink. Yellow,
bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes
the house too sweetly.
At five I wake, the air
mournful in its quiet.
My wife's eyes swim calmly
under their lids, her mouth and jaw
relaxed, different.
What is happening in the silence
of this house? Curtains
hang heavily from their rods.
Ficus leaves tremble
at my footsteps. Yet
the colors outside are perfect--
orange geranium, blue lobelia.
I wander from room to room
like a man in a museum:
wife, children, books, flowers,
melon. Such still air. Soon
the mid-morning breeze will float in
like tepid water, then hot.
How do I start this day,
I who am unsure
of how my life has happened
or how to proceed
amid this warm and steady sweetness?

Poem copyright (c) by Albert Garcia from his latest book "Skunk Talk" (Bear Starr Press, 2005) and originally published in "Poetry East," No. 44. Reprinted by permission of the author. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Back in Budapest

My parents arrived in Transylvania on Friday morning and I have hardly had time to check my email never mind think about blogging.

It is a long, long trip from Kansas to the land of pine trees, mineral water, and kurtos kalach. They have been troopers, however. This morning we arrived back in Budapest via overnight train. In the couchette to our right was a film crew from England (including Jeremy Daniels--whose passport was confused with one of ours at the border), who had just finished shooting a film in Romania. On our right, a group of folk singers/story tellers from Hungary. My family took up an entire couchette.

Saturday and Sunday were spent on the pot-holed roads between villages and bigger cities in Transylvania. We visited a region famous for its salt mines, partially because my hometown in Kansas also has salt mines. We thought it would make for an interesting parallel view of the two cultures. We took a bus down into the mines for a few hours tour.

The mines we visited were huge caverns used here for health and recreation. It is considered therapeutic for those with respiratory problems to spend hours down inside the mines breathing the air which is certainly pollen free. None of us noticed an air ventilation system. No fire escapes. After the 1.5 kilometer bus ride down into the mine, we descended about 200 wooden steps. The experience was eerie. The mine is now equipped with picnic tables, swings, ping pong tables, and room for badminton. There is a church and a museum. And, of course, a coffee bar. (Other parts of the mine are still in working condition.)

After leaving the mines we spent the afternoon in nearby Szovata, a resort town with a salty-water lake. The lake is filled with bobbing heads due to the buoyancy of the water. We didn't float ourselves; instead we enjoyed a long, long lunch on a patio near the lake.

We fed my parents all the local foods we love: cheeses, cakes, fresh fruits and vegetables, mushrooms taken down from the mountains, micc (a kind of grilled meat), kurtos kalach, etc.

We took them up into the mountains around Csik to look at land we might want to buy. We drank Csiki beer on the main street and people watched. (We kept the gypsies at arm's length.)

We played with grandma's new puppy, Bodza.

On Monday we visited the church at Csiksomlyo, famous for its miraculous Virgin Mary statue.

We ate Grandma’s lunch at 1 pm everyday—roka mushrooms paprikas or chicken paprikas, puliszka, or potatoes, or perhaps sheep’s milk cheese and always enough perfectly ripe watermelon to feed an army.

Thanks be to God, the heat wave broke before we arrived in Budapest today. We are all happily ensconced in our castle district residences, most of us sleeping off lunch and rich servings of cake.

Things observed during this trip to Transylvania:

1. Roads in Transylvania are not just for cars--expect hay-loaded horse carts, motorcycles, bikes, old ladies walking, hitchhikers, train crossings operated by hand, hand-picked berries or mushrooms for sale, trucks, and the occasional grazing cow.

2. Kansas and Transylvania have more in common than you might expect.

3. Poverty does not equal danger or violence.

4. Language barriers can be overcome by walking a puppy on the street.

5. Poverty does not equal lack of education.

6. "Decarbonated" does not mean no carbonation when looking for water with no gas.

7. If you are willing to give your last piece of pizza to a beggar woman, do not feel shocked or offended when she walks two steps away and shares it with her son right before your eyes.

8. Transylvania and Budapest--not handicap accessible.

9. Puppies are worth it.

Updates from Csikszereda

We played mad tennis this morning. We made a ferocious team versus an eleven-year-old and our spritely seventy-something-year-old couch. We manage to win a few games here and there.

I finally finished my biography of Marcel Duchamp, for which I am to be one day rewarded with a trip to Philadelphia where his major works are on display. His life and work, his life as his art work, his anti-art as art, etc. fascinate me. I once turned up my nose in the Picasso museum in Paris. Now I salivate at the thought of making a special trip to Philadelphia to see Duchamp's Glass. Life is like that.

Duchamp's demise (as all biography's must end) opened a floodgate for me. Within 24 hours I had read Julia Glass's first novel, Three Junes (highly recommended, especially if you need good literary fiction as a post-Duchampian salve). I am in the middle of The Road to Coorain, a work of autobiography. Next I plan to read Uglies, a young adult novel. Fast. Furious. And strangely ecclectic.

Tomorrow at 6 am my parents arrive on the Korona train from Budapest. They have traveled from Kansas to Transylvania in one long shot. I expect them to drop dead from exhaustion when they arrive. I am sure while they are here they will absorb sights and the local flavors, and offer little commentary on their impressions. Yet I look forward to their reactions to life here in the Carpathian valley.

Writerly Quote for the Day

"In your writing, be strong, defiant, forbearing. Have a point to make and write to it. Dare to say what you want most to say, and say it as plainly as you can.
Whether or not you write well, write bravely."

--Bill Stout

News about Teachers

Education Week (July 12, 2006)

College Board Calls for ‘Drastic Improvements‘ In Teacher Salaries and Working Conditions
By Vaishali Honawar

The College Board, calling for “drastic improvements” in teacher quality and the conditions of teaching, released a set of recommendations today that includes an immediate increase of 15 percent to 20 percent in teacher salaries as well as a 50 percent pay hike within the “foreseeable future.”

The report, which was prepared by the New York City-based organization’s Center for Innovative Thought, a group of academic and business leaders, makes six recommendations, including the creation of a public-private trust to help pay for the reforms.

For More Info
Read the report, "Teachers and the Uncertain American Future," posted by The College Board.

“This is about globalization, about innovation, and about the future of our children,” said Gaston Caperton, the president of the College Board, which sponsors the SAT college-admissions tests and Advanced Placement courses. “We have to get better and better in the education we offer; we have to provide educational opportunities for all students. And that demands better and better teaching, and attracting the best people into the teaching profession.”

He said the goal of a 50 percent salary increase was “very realistic” and achievable through a partnership among federal, state and, local branches of governments. “It is how we finance the interstate-highway systems, how we finance health care,” he said, adding that education deserves to be a top priority for the nation.

Citing the scale of the “crisis” facing the teaching profession, the report says school districts nationally will have to hire 2 million new teachers in the next decade to account for student enrollment increases, teacher retirement, turnover, and career changes. Meanwhile, nearly half the new teachers who enter schools will leave the profession within five years, it says.

Among other recommendations, the report calls for recruiting more minority teachers; improving working conditions in schools; establishing merit-based scholarships in math, science, and engineering to attract new teachers; and encouraging multiple pathways into teaching.

To pay for those reforms, it calls for setting up a national fund with contributions from the federal government, matched by state and local revenues. The fund would also receive contributions from the corporate sector. The trust would hold funds for a general salary increase and to support teachers in shortage areas.

“This is an investment, not an expense,” the report says. “It is a fantasy to believe we can attain educational excellence while teachers are among the poorest paid college graduates in the country.”

Csiki Tales

We arrived to Csikszereda, Transylvania a few days ago with a puppy hidden in our luggage. (Technically he is too young to be exported from Hungary to Romania.) He is a six-weeks-old very adorable King Charles Spaniel recently dubbed Bodza (which is a kind of tree with a flower used to make our favorite summer soft drink). I was in charge of him throughout the overnight train ride from Budapest. He only piddled once on my sheets. Since we were tucked up in the third tier couchette bed, I had to make a fence with my body to prevent him from jumping to his death. Needless to say, I didn't sleep much as all my latent maternal instincts surged in good will toward his warm little body.

Per usual, grandma fed us all our favorites the first day and my stomach couldn't handle the gastronomical love. I have recovered and re-learned the importance of pacing. We have a few more weeks in her kitchen's care and plenty of time to indulge.

I must have mentioned it before, but in Hungarian the word for tomato can also mean heaven. Need I say more? Heaven on my plate in plump red flesh. Cheese brought down daily from the moutains. Stuffed peppers. Thick white bed fresh from the corner bakery. Grandma's cakes. Bodza to drink. And rivers of dense black coffee--the kind that penetrates deep into my DNA and calls forth endorphins.

We started our summer tennis lessons this morning. Our teacher is an over-sixty years old sprite of a man with dashing good looks and bountiful energy. It is shameful to be outplayed by a man three times my age. But the more tennis I play here, the more yummy food I need to eat. See the logic? Logic with a serious caloric impact.

I am still reading the O. Henry short stories and in awe with a few of them, but I am also reading the biography of Duchamp. I started to memorize some Hungarian poetry. We all took a stanza from a famous poem and will "perform" dada style--all shouting our stanzas at the same time while wearing important black turtlenecks--for grandma. At least that's my plan. Grandma may not be amused.

Yes, I am deeply in love with Bodza, the puppy. I admit it.

In a few weeks my parents will make their first trip to Transylvania--it is a long, long trip from Kansas. We plan to show them as much as possible of life here in the short time they will visit.

Reading, eating, deep-mountain-air sleeping, walking in the city, etc. are the stuff of summer. This summer I will add to my agenda: work on my novel. I wrote an epilogue, which means, I guess, that I have finished a first draft. I can hardly believe that given that fact that I know how much work needs to be done. I printed off the second half and brought it here so that I can revise with my cruel red pen.

Summer in Csikzereda is good, very good.

En Route

Today begins my summer travels to Hungary and Transylvania. My 6 am alarm buzzed me into a frenzy of last-minute packing and by the time I arrive in Budapest my internal clock will have done several cartwheels and backflips. As soon as I board my O'Hare flight, I will refrain from all temptations to monitor a clock. I submit to the jet lag gauntlet.

These past two weeks in South Bend, IN were spent unpacking from the move and then packing for the trip. Somehow the house is still filled with boxes despite all opened boxes left out for the recycling truck. Boxes will wait.

A highlight of the week was Book Club, which I hosted at my house. We discussed Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides. It is an epic tale with elements of magical realism, as pointed out by one reader. It is long. And filled with lyrical passages laced with metaphor. I must go to the Carolinas. I plan to return to the book after our summer trip to glean some of its colorful vocabulary and memorable phrases.

For the plane ride read: the current New Yorker, the 2006 O'Henry Prize Collection (short stories), The Road from Coorain, and the current Harper's.

In my suitcase: approx. 10 pounds of books, including the biography of Duchamp (his second round trip to Transylvania) and my Hungarian language textbooks; our tennis rackets; and a Gwen Stefani CD requested as a gift from a young fan in Csikszereda. Did you know that Shakira will tour Romania this summer? It is a smallish world made smaller by pop stars doing their thing.

World eBook Fair Up and Running

I have had several readers peruse my site looking for information about Project Gutenburg. I blogged about the non-profit last month after I read an article in the Boston Globe about their upcoming free eBooks event. (See first entry at Write Now: Free Books! Gutenberg Project.)

They have successfully launched a month-long program called the World ebook Fair allowing readers to download books at http://worldebookfair.com/. The extended list of free ebooks will be available until August 4th.

Volunteers have scanned the books, many of which are classic titles, and you can access them as pdf files or html files. Some texts are also available in mp3 format. There are amazing titles available, including some children's books, that you can easily download and print (a color printer would be nice for the illustrations).

The site offers you free ebooks, so I hate to complain about its user-friendliness. It takes patience to navigate through the heavy text and various databases. The effort, however, is well worth the reward.

Video: Joss Whedon and Strong Female Characters

Ms. J. sent me a link to this video ages ago. Just this morning I found a mere eight minutes of free time (while I sipped my morning coffee) to view it. It was well worth my time! Thanks Ms J.!

Before I saw this clip, I didn't know Joss Whedon, but many of you may recognize him as the writer of Buffy the Vampire Slayer--a cult hit to say the least.

In this May, 2006 clip Meryl Streep presents him with an award on behalf of Equality Now to honor his creation of many strong female characters.

In case the video doesn't work, here is the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYaczoJMRhs

Bookshelf Update

I created the bookshelf on my sidebar a few weeks ago as a way to prioritize my reading. I wanted to complete my virtual bookshelf before I allowed myself to be enticed by other titles. Alas. I have not managed to trick myself as effectively as I had hoped. I am a sucker for suggestions--especially impassioned ones. I am also a sucker for a good cover and pithy summary on the book jacket.

I have finished several of the books on my bookshelf and intended to create a blog entry for each one. This is not going to happen. Not enough time, mostly. Also some of the books were good, but didn't inspire me to go further or deeper this time around.

I will post the titles I have already read here as a way to store them in my virtual memory in case I revisit them one day.

If you have read any of these, feel free to comment! Or if you are curious about a title, let me know and I can give you my impressions...

Strangers to Ourselves: Discovering the Adaptive Unconscious by Timothy D. Wilson

Parable of the Talents by Octavia E. Butler

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See

The Dog of the Marriage by Amy Hempel (short stories)

One Thousand White Women: The Journals of May Dodd by Jim Fergus

Before You Know Kindness by Chris Bohhalian

Lula's Cafe in South Bend

The two-day drive home from Boston was relaxed and delicious.

We stopped in Buffalo, NY where we ate buffalo wings at the restaurant that invented them, the Anchor Bar. I am not a fan usually, but these wings were meaty, crispy, and just-right spicy. Next time, we have to remember that hot is too hot for us. We are medium wings people.

The next day we decided to detour into Cleveland, OH to visit the pastry shop that had baked our wedding dobos cake. A perhaps little known fact: Cleveland is the largest (or was, at least) Hungarian city outside of Hungary. The shop has been located in the same spot since the 1950’s on a street that used to be lined with pastry shops, but I believe Lucy’s Sweet Surrender is a last holdout now. The baker is an American married to a Hungarian from Romania and he very generously gave us a tour of the shop, showing us where they make the strudel and all the other baking machinery.

I highly recommend ordering a dobos torte online. He will deep freeze it and then overnight it--very tasty and very authentic. (It is better to do this in the winter to avoid summer temperatures melting your torte en route.)

I spent one night back in South Bend before I headed out for a quick trip to St. Louis. I drove the six hour trip straight down Illinois in perfectly clouded skies. A long drive to be sure, but stops in Odell for pie at the Wishing Well Cafe and Towanda at the diner make that jaunt satisfying.

St. Louis always manages to surprise and delight. This time I got a tour of the botanical gardens to see the Chihuly blown-glass exhibit. More importantly I spent lots of time on the couch making googly-goo faces at baby Henry.

Now I am at Lula’s, THE café still in South Bend, despite several new ones that have arrived over the years. They still do not have wireless, however, which I support. It is always good to isolate myself from the Internet when I want to work on my writing.

We leave in a week for our “vacation” in Transylvania, our usual summer trip. This time my parents will join us for a week—it will be their second trip to Budapest, but their first to the Carpathian mountains and villages of Transylvania. I look forward to showing them life lived in the Székely way.

Day Trip to Concord: Thoreau and Walden Pond

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan- like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion."
from Thoreau's Walden


I learned this, at least, by my experiment;
that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams,
and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined,
he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.
from the "Conclusion" to Walden

It was difficult to tear myself away from the city for the journey to Walden Pond. Today was a perfect first day of summer—76 degrees with clouds enough to make the sky picture perfect. I worked in the morning at the Trident café and then stopped by the Sonsie to say hello to L. who lunched there for business. Back at the apartment I chatted with the gardener and then decided I had to mail a batch of letters this afternoon. Then I was hungry for lunch.

Finally at three o’clock I got myself on the road toward Concord, MA and Walden Pond. Traffic through Cambridge was brutal and slow enough for me to notice that it is exactly two miles from Hereford (our street) to Harvard Square. I would have sworn it was at least five miles.

I found Concord with ease and started my visit at the Concord Museum. I watched a brief video and toured the rooms—some of which where set up to be authentic period rooms from early American history. My favorite things: a temporary exhibit about woman’s handbags spanning many eras and the Thoreau t-shirts in the gift shop. Key new fact: I have been mispronouncing Thoreau. I used to say tho-REAU and now I have learned that the accent is on the first syllable: THO-reau. This makes sense as most two syllable names are accented on the first syllable: KEL-ley, RO-bert, MAT-thew, etc. (A quick check at Merriam-Webster.com gives several acceptable pronunciations. When in Concord, do as the Concordians….)

After having my pronunciation corrected, I headed off to find Walden Pond. I expected a sanctuary where I could walk and ponder my deepest nature in the light of nature and be moved to a life of deliberate simplicity and slow burning fires to warm me after bracing swims across the pond. What I found: lots of people in beach wear, squealing kids, preening teenagers, and even a half-clad adult male who gave me the jeebies when he followed me in the narrowly fenced trail.

I was trying to commune with the trees and gently lapping lake waters. Instead I fingered my car keys and told myself I could use them as a weapon. I also learned at that time that I had a signal at Walden Pond on my cell phone. I slowed down; so did he. Eventually he passed me and I slowed way down to created a safe zone between us.

As I circled the lake, I realized that the area was mostly safe. At least there was no shortage of people enjoying the water and the perfect weather. It was gorgeous and I regretted being fully clothed and without a swimsuit or at least appropriately bathing-suite-ish underwear. Shoot. Note to self: next time you come to Walden, bring the bikini.

About halfway round I found a spot to let my feet drink in the waters. I rolled up my pants and waded into pristine lake waters warm on my skin. I wanted to dive in, but restrained myself. I wanted to call someone to share the moment (I had a signal). I settled for scratching a mosquito bite and contemplating that I may have just gotten bitten by a descendant of a bug that had bitten Thoreau. Sweet. But itchy.

I then hiked around to find the house site where Thoreau’s cabin once stood. After he lived there two years, the cabin was dismantled (the roof was used for pig sty) and the location forgotten. Years later an archeologist dug for three months before he finally located the chimney stones. Now there is a memorial and next to it a large mound of rocks. A placard noted that visitors add a stone to the pile to honor Thoreau. I tossed a pebble and watched it settle deep in a crack.

The lake was beautiful--the color of the water changed from blue to green to crystal clear as I turned each bend. I wound love to return to take a long swim in its depths.

I walked the lake’s perimeter and into woods for about an hour and a half before heading back to my car. I made a stop by the Old North Bridge, site of “the shot heard round the world” where the Americans first defended themselves against the British in 1775. Just nearby was the Old Manse, the house built by William Emerson and where Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathanial Hawthorne penned their works.

The landscapes around Concord are serene. The town quaint. And the cappuccino in this café has a respectable froth. This is a place to return. It was painful to leave the city, but while I walked around Walden’s Pond, I thought to myself: the city is overrated; I could make a life in the woods with a stack of books, a gaggle of kiddoes, and regular trips to modern healthcare facilities. Resolution: a minimum one month per year in the wilds of extra-urban life.

Luckily, Walden Pond and the surrounding woods look a lot like Transylvania, where we are headed next month.

More about Henry David Thoreau

On The Move

This past weekend I spent Saturday night in Chicago for a friend's wedding--the most lavish wedding I have ever helped to celebrate. Best of all, the bride and groom had love-silly grins plastered across their faces the entire time. The bride did the limbo; the groom (and all 15 groomsmen) changed into black and white Chuck Taylor All Stars to better groove to the live band. Did I mention the twelve bagpipers piping in a parade into the grand ballroom to lead the 450 guests to dinner? Outstanding.

This week is all about packing. And all about reading instead of packing. We leave Boston to return to our Indiana abode on Monday of this coming week. By this time next week, I may already be "home." I am in exquisite denial. The truth is that I can be happy here or there, which is a good thing. Any transition, however, can be fraught. Change is good--in theory.

Speaking of change, welcome to my newest niece! She is tiny, but tough with lots of black hair.

In the meantime, I am typing away again on my novel. Today I passed the 50,000 word mark. (Author pats herself on the back and grins to the chagrin of her fellow cafe hunt-and-peckers on Newbury street.) Actually, my original plan for the piece was 50,000 words. It is quite clear, however, that I will need at least another 20,000 to round out the story.

For the record: since my last blog we dined at an amazing restaurant, Sorellina. The setting was ultra-cool and the food was divine. This was an eating experience made all the more transcendent by our company--a Roman and an Athenian! Go for the truffled fries--seriously the best french fries I have ever eaten (and I am, sadly, an expert.)

Ugh. Time to pack up my laptop and head home to face the boxes. Packing is lame.

The Myth of You & Me by Leah Stewart

All right kids, this is it: I am in full flush after just finishing a new novel. This book wasn't even on my bookshelf!

Yesterday I was browsing at the Brookline Booksmith and the red cover caught my eye. The book jacket blurb went something like"blah blah blah captures the intensity of a friendship as well as the real sense of loss that lingers after the end of one blah blah etc." I bought it. And a little shy of 24 hours later, I have turned the last page.

These characters are my age and might as well be my reflection in terms of experience. The tale is simply told and captures the beautiful angst of frienships forsaken (and reforged?). What a delicous read--especially if you too used to have big hair shellacked with AquaNet and then grew up together with your college friends. Read it. And beware: I may be forced to send this book via Amazon to you and then compel you to read it too....

The Myth of You & Me by Leah Stewart

Her website is: http://www.leahstewart.com/

Walt Whitman

excerpts from Song of Myself

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor

look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres

in books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things

from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

*****

Urge and urge and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.

*****

Do you take it I would astonish?

Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering

through the woods?

Do I astonish more than they?

*****

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

*****

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of

me is a miracle.

*****

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

*****

Enough! enough! enough!

Somehow I have been stunn’d. Stand back!

Give me a little time beyond my cuff’d head, slumbers, dreams,

gaping,

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

*****

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Mrs. World Fiasco

The following horrible real life drama is almost too painful to watch. Mrs. DF sent me the note below and the link to a video. Please read first and then view the fiasco.
Ouch.
It makes me feel both sad for the women involved and grateful for my far less dramatic (and less public) life.

********************************************************************************

at the 2006 miss world pageant in russia---did you hear what happened?

they were down to the last 2 girls, miss russia and miss costa rica and neither spoke english . . . nor did most of the audience

so allan thicke is the host and he has some woman helping him who barely speaks english and you know how they usually tell you the first runner up . . . and then the camera goes to the winner and they all celebrate?

well allan says "the runner up is miss costa rica!" and there's a cheer and then you can kinda hear him say "the winner is miss russia" but the celebrations have begun and the woman helping him puts the miss world sash on miss costa rica.

girls come running down to congratulate those that speak english look confused a little girl dressed as an angel is lowered from the ceiling with the crown and they put it on miss costa rica.

allan walks off the stage, the producer is furious and yells at the helper woman.

so now they have to do something, right?

so the go back out and tell everyone the mistake---miss costa rica is dethroned, she's bawling, many of the other contestants are furious and storm off. . . .

and they replay the WHOLE thing there are only about 10 or 12 women left on stage miss costa rica i think is still there crying and they say "the winner is miss russia!"

the angel comes back down, . . . etc. etc

*******************************************************************************

Now view the video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1TJ_UKt4QtQ

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

I picked up a copy of Robinson's novel Gilead after it was recommended to me by a literary agent at the Grub Street conference. The agent had read a sample of my novel and suggested Robinson's work as an author I could learn from. As I made my way through the text I noted her flawless prose and use of details. I also read to notice how Robinson makes use of a first person narrator. My own work is currently told from the first person and I find that I need more writerly tools to make the most of his point-of-view.

Gilead is a ponderous novel. It is an epistolary novel written by a 76 year-old pastor in 1956 Iowa to his seven-year-old son. The pastor is near death and wants to write to his son who will not remember him after his death.

I finished the novel a few weeks ago and only today picked up my copy to give it more thought. As I paged through and reread sections, I was impressed more deeply by the language and the ideas in the novel. So please forgive the extensive excerpts. (I actually left out sections that were noteworthy!)

Memorable Quotes

(hardcover first edition, 2004)

I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I’m old, and you said, I don’t think you’re old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren’t very old, as if that settled it. I told you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you’ve had with me, and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that. And then you said, Don’t laugh! because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother’s. It’s a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I’m always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsinged after I’ve suffered one of those looks. I will miss them. (Opening paragraph)

You can know a thing to death and be for all purposes completely ignorant of it. A man can know his father, or his son, and there might still be nothing between them but loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension. (p 7)

There is a reality in blessing, which I take baptism to be, primarily. It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it, and there is a power in that. (p 23)

That was the first time in my life I ever knew what it was to love another human being. Not that I hadn’t loved people before. But I hadn’t realized what it meant to love them before. (p 55)

I was always amazed, watching grownups, at the way they seemed to know what was to be done in any situation, to know what was the decent thing. (p 95)

So you must not judge what I know by what I find words for. (p 114)

There is something in her face I have always felt I must be sufficient to, as if there is a truth in it that tests the meaning of what I say. (p 137)

But I believe that the rewards of obedience are great, because at the root of real honor is always the sense of the sacredness of the person who is its object. (p 139)

And often enough, when we think we are protecting ourselves, we are struggling against our rescuer. (p 154)

Because nothing true can be said about God from a posture of defense. (p 177)

My custom has always been to ponder grief; that is, to follow it through ventricle and aorta to find out its lurking places. (p 179)

The tact was audible. (p 186)

I don’t know exactly what covetise is, but in my experience it is not so much desiring someone else’s virtue or happiness as rejecting it, taking offense at the beauty of it. (p 188)

One interesting aspect of the whole experience was that I simply could not be honest with myself, and I couldn’t deceive myself, either. (p 203)

. . . that was the first time in my life I ever felt I could be snatched out of my character, my calling, my reputation, as if they could just fall away like a dry husk. (p 205)

Love is holy because it is like grace—the worthiness of its object is never really what matters. (p 209)

There is no justice in love, no proportion in it, and there need not be, because in any specific instance it is only a glimpse or parable of an embracing, incomprehensible reality. It makes no sense at all because it is the eternal breaking in on the temporal. So how could it subordinate itself to cause or consequence? (p 238)

There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient. (p 243)

It seems to me that when something really ought to be true then it has a very powerful truth, which starts me thinking again about heaven. (p 244)

A Few Good Words

susurrus: etymology: Latin, hum, whisper; a whispering or rustling sound

crepuscular: of, relating to, or resembling twilight OR active in the twilight

Model sentences

Here I am trying to be wise, the way a father should be, the way an old pastor certainly should be. (p 56)

I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens it eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for and then has to close its eyes again. (p 57)

In any case, it felt so necessary to me to walk up the road. . . . (74)

I was standing there, taking it in, trying to decide what to do, when the old man wheeled around and planted that stare on me. (p 98)

I conceal my motives from myself pretty effectively sometimes. (p 147)

Your mother looked at me, so I knew I must have sounded upset. I was upset. (p 152)

Useful Links

NPR Terry Gross Interview with Marilynne Robinson on Gilead
(I highly recommend this interview--very thoughtful)

Saturday by Ian McEwan

I recently finished Saturday, by Ian McEwan. I consider his book, Atonement, one of my favorite novels. So I was intrigued to read another piece of his work.


Saturday is set in London post 9/11 and just before the war with Iraq. The events take place on one Saturday and are told from a neurosurgeon's point-of-view. Henry Perowne is happily married with two artistic children--a poet and a blues musician. His cherished Saturday begins early when he awakens and views a burning plane make an emergency landing. We follow him as he interacts with his children and wife, plays a mean (and long) game of squash, shops for dinner, and cooks a fish stew for a family dinner. (Yes, he even cooks.) This typical Saturday is laced with conflict brought about by a random encounter with a less-fortunate street guy--a tough guy whose Huntington’s Disease the neurosurgeon readily diagnoses in the middle of road rage in the streets of London.

I admit that I was not immediately hooked by the story. The characters, however, and the choreography are finely drawn. And I did feel my pulse race as McEwan built tension and suspense into the narrative. Any book that elevates my heart rate is doing something right.

This book made the New York Times top ten books of 2005. Indeed it does capture modern life and a thoroughly recognizable attempt to "make sense" of a world on the brink of war.

Memorable Quotes
(page numbers from paperback First Anchor Books Edition, April 2006)

The primitive thinking of the supernaturally inclined amounts to what his psychiatric colleagues call a problem, or an idea, of reference. An excess of the subjective, the ordering of the world in line with your needs, an inability to contemplate your own unimportance. ( p 17)

She remained in silent contact with an imaginary intimate. (p 48)

Happiness seemed like a betrayal of principle, but happiness was unavoidable. (p 49)

This reading list persuaded Perowne that the supernatural was the recourse of an insufficient imagination, a dereliction of duty, a childish evasion of the difficulties and wonders of the real, of the demanding re-enactment of the plausible. (p 66)

Work that you cannot begin to imagine achieving yourself, that displays a ruthless, nearly inhuman element of self-enclosed perfection—this is his idea of genius. This notion of Daisy’s, that people can’t “live” without stories, is simply not true. He is living proof.

There is much in human affairs that can be accounted for at the level of the complex molecule. Who could eve reckon up the damage done to love and friendship and all hopes of happiness by a surfeit or depletion of this or that neurotransmitter? And who will ever find a morality, an ethics down among the enzymes and amino acids when the general taste is for looking in the other direction? (p 92)

There are so many ways a brain can let you down. Like an expensive car, it’s intricate, but mass-produced nevertheless, with more than six billion in circulation. (p 99)

A race of extraterrestrial grown-ups is needed to set right the general disorder, then put everyone to bed for an early night. God was once supposed to be a grown-up, but in disputes He childishly took sides. Then sending us an actual child, one of His own—the last thing we needed. A spinning rock already swarming with orphans. . . (p 122)

It isn’t rationalism that will overcome the religious zealots, but ordinary shopping and all it entails—jobs for a start, and peace, and some commitment to realizable pleasures, the promise of appetites sated in this world, not the next. Rather shop than pray. (p 127)

Unlike in Daisy’s novels, moments of precise reckoning are rare in real life; questions of misinterpretation are not often resolved. Nor do they remain pressingly unresolved. They simple fade. People don’t remember clearly, or they die, or the questions die and new ones take their place. (p 159)

There are these rare moments when musicians together touch something sweeter than they’ve ever found before in rehearsals or performance, beyond the merely collaborative or technically proficient, when their expression becomes as easy and graceful as friendship or love. This is when they give us a glimpse of what we might be, of our best selves, and of an impossible world in which you give everything you have to others, but lose nothing of yourself. (p 176)

When there are no consequences, being wrong is simply an interesting diversion. (p 198)

Useful Link

Ian McEwan's Website: Saturday
(Includes a reading guide, reviews of the book AND a recipe for the Fish Stew)

Edith Wharton, et al.

In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways.
--Edith Wharton, US Novelist (1862-1937)

***

It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would aprove; and that if from this day you began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which you might revert with pleasure.
--Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre (1847)

***

A self-narrative that meets the accuracy, peace-of-mind, and believeablity criteria is likely to be a quite useful one, precisely by avoiding too much instropsection.
--Timothy D. Wilson, Strangers to Ourselves (2002)

***

“And the truth is that the truth can never ultimately hurt.”
--Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (1986)

***

“Anything we fully do is an alone journey. . . . you can’t expect anyone to match the intensity of your emotions.”
--Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (1986)

***

“Writing practice softens the heart and mind, helps to keep us flexible so that rigid distinctions between apples and milk, tigers and celery, disappear.”
--Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (1986)