For some reason I have the habit of having several books on the go at the same time. (The simple reason for this, as I think about it, is it allows me to read stuff only when I feel like it: somewhere among my books is the one that fits a particular mood. Indulgent, I know, but there you have it.) Some actually take years to complete. I pull them off the shelf, open to where I left off, and read a page, or a chapter, or more. Sometimes a book grabs and I take it to the end.
The ones I've been dabbling in lately have been Here I Stand, a biography of Martin Luther, In the Beginning, a novel by Chaim Potok, the collected stories of John Cheever, and The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris. Lately these four have moved to the front burner by becoming bedtime reading and/or traveling in my back pack to work.
I feel a vague connection with Norris. A poet, she moved from NYC to her grandparents' homestead in South Dakota and wrote her bestselling "spiritual geography" a number of years ago called Dakota. She and her poet husband, David, stuck it out for 20 years or more (he died a few years ago) and then she wrote The Cloister Walk. Although she'd gone from agnostic to Presbyterian (she preaches occasionally in her Lemon, SD church) she also felt a great affinity with Benedictine monks. She visited the monastery close by, attended their Psalm-chanting services, became friends with monks. She also spent about seven months with Benedictine nuns in Minnesota. It's odd but interesting stuff. It's all part of her eccentric, artistic, spiritual journey. I feel connected to Norris's writing in part, of course, because she moved to SD as we've moved to AB, but also because she seems to look at things through a somewhat similar lens. Anyhow, I've found pulling her book out and knocking off a chapter (some of which are only a few pages long and deal with topics like her relationship to trees in various places she's lived--Virginia, Hawaii, Illinois, South Dakota) comforting. She makes indirect spiritual points and usually circles back to the theme of monks, fourth century Desert Fathers, and what have you. The book has lots of stories.
The book of Cheevers stories is a bit of a revelation. He was one of those well-known names in popular American fiction over the years, but I assumed his stuff was lightweight fluff--mainly because it was so popular. Well, I picked up the great fat paperback book I'm now reading for, I think, 50 cents, while visiting a thrift store in Grand Rapids recently. I needed something diverting to read, and the price was right. Well, it's more than fluff; you might even call it "literature," by the old definition: i.e., it's stuff people'll still likely be reading in a hundred years. The stories I've been reading are set in the 30's and 40's and I've found them fascinating, in part, for that reason. It's a little like going in a time machine and getting a taste of life back then. His stories are like that: about ordinary, real life situations, most of which take occur in NYC or close by.
In the Beginning by Potok, famed Jewish novelist, is a bit depressing. Has to do with a thoughtful Jewish boy growing up in NYC in the 30's (once again) encountering antisemitism from other kids and so forth. Not the sort of thing to send me off to Dreamland in a state of euphoria. But well written, no doubt about it.
The book about Luther I read somewhat dutifully, as the mood strikes, but occasionally anecdotes sparkle and/or gaps in my knowledge are filled in.
Today I sit in the office on a glorious Saturday. I have things to do, places to go, chores to accomplish. Yet I have paused to rap out this account of my Current Reading for you, dear reader (if you have read thus far, or at all). Which is to say, or imply, as cartoon mouse Speedy Gonzales might have put it, eet ees time to go.
The ones I've been dabbling in lately have been Here I Stand, a biography of Martin Luther, In the Beginning, a novel by Chaim Potok, the collected stories of John Cheever, and The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris. Lately these four have moved to the front burner by becoming bedtime reading and/or traveling in my back pack to work.
I feel a vague connection with Norris. A poet, she moved from NYC to her grandparents' homestead in South Dakota and wrote her bestselling "spiritual geography" a number of years ago called Dakota. She and her poet husband, David, stuck it out for 20 years or more (he died a few years ago) and then she wrote The Cloister Walk. Although she'd gone from agnostic to Presbyterian (she preaches occasionally in her Lemon, SD church) she also felt a great affinity with Benedictine monks. She visited the monastery close by, attended their Psalm-chanting services, became friends with monks. She also spent about seven months with Benedictine nuns in Minnesota. It's odd but interesting stuff. It's all part of her eccentric, artistic, spiritual journey. I feel connected to Norris's writing in part, of course, because she moved to SD as we've moved to AB, but also because she seems to look at things through a somewhat similar lens. Anyhow, I've found pulling her book out and knocking off a chapter (some of which are only a few pages long and deal with topics like her relationship to trees in various places she's lived--Virginia, Hawaii, Illinois, South Dakota) comforting. She makes indirect spiritual points and usually circles back to the theme of monks, fourth century Desert Fathers, and what have you. The book has lots of stories.
The book of Cheevers stories is a bit of a revelation. He was one of those well-known names in popular American fiction over the years, but I assumed his stuff was lightweight fluff--mainly because it was so popular. Well, I picked up the great fat paperback book I'm now reading for, I think, 50 cents, while visiting a thrift store in Grand Rapids recently. I needed something diverting to read, and the price was right. Well, it's more than fluff; you might even call it "literature," by the old definition: i.e., it's stuff people'll still likely be reading in a hundred years. The stories I've been reading are set in the 30's and 40's and I've found them fascinating, in part, for that reason. It's a little like going in a time machine and getting a taste of life back then. His stories are like that: about ordinary, real life situations, most of which take occur in NYC or close by.
In the Beginning by Potok, famed Jewish novelist, is a bit depressing. Has to do with a thoughtful Jewish boy growing up in NYC in the 30's (once again) encountering antisemitism from other kids and so forth. Not the sort of thing to send me off to Dreamland in a state of euphoria. But well written, no doubt about it.
The book about Luther I read somewhat dutifully, as the mood strikes, but occasionally anecdotes sparkle and/or gaps in my knowledge are filled in.
Today I sit in the office on a glorious Saturday. I have things to do, places to go, chores to accomplish. Yet I have paused to rap out this account of my Current Reading for you, dear reader (if you have read thus far, or at all). Which is to say, or imply, as cartoon mouse Speedy Gonzales might have put it, eet ees time to go.
posted by Ted | 1:22 PM
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