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In mental health circles, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a certain percentage of patients never show up for their first sessions. The simple act of picking up the phone and making an appointment—doing something to get help—makes them feel better enough (at least temporarily) that they decide they no longer actually need therapy. I propose that there is a bookish version of this problem, and I have it.
My name is Rebecca, and sometimes, just buying an intimidating book is enough to make me feel like I’ve accomplished something.
And that’s why War and Peace has been sitting on my shelves, giving me the stink eye for more than two years now. I had every intention to read it, I swear. But my mama always said the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so I’ve decided it’s time to shit or get off the pot. To put my money where my mouth is. To finally read the damn thing and stop mixing my metaphors. So today I did it.
And tomorrow, along with 242 other intrepid souls, I’ll begin the War and Peace Read-Along my friends Kalen Landow and Ann Kingman have organized. We’re reading this edition, translated by husband-and-wife team Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, who are totally the shit. (Ask me about their editions of Anna Karenina and Crime and Punishment some time.)
The read-along is broken into manageable chunks and is scheduled to run until the end of 2011. I have the “principal characters” page flagged; I’ve bookmarked several useful websites; and I’m studying up about the Napoleonic wars thanks to Wikipedia. If I can fit twenty pages a day in, in addition to everything else I’m reading, I should be able to do it.
And there’s nothing like peer pressure—and the desire to avoid public shaming by 242 fellow readers—to light a fire under this lady’s ass. Keep your eyes peeled for weekly installments of The War and Peace Diaries. You know, for your regular does of schadenfreude.
I’m too busy working on my Bookrageous poetry homework—this stuff takes brain power, y’all—to finish the piece I was working on for today. And much as I wish you’d all subscribe to the podcast, I figure I should continue sharing my adventures in genre here, too. I’m still processing what I’ve read (and giving myself an ongoing “you really are capable of reading poetry” pep talk), so here, sans analysis but in all its own glory, is one of my favorite selections, “Snow Angels” from Kevin Goodan’s In the Ghost-House Acquainted.
The barn is a story we’ve taken refuge in,
the one where the ghosts never arrive.
We wait anyway
since the weather demands it.
Strike a match and nothing disappears,
nothing leaps out, either.
Snow is a verb with certain ideas in mind,
it settles on the fringe of your coat.
Give me your hands.
The wind has a way of saying things
no longer self-evident.
Since the barn does not repeat itself
I will. Your hands,
they are remote and necessary.
With the temperature this close to zero
everything is at risk.
You know you’re in for a good Sunday when you sleep until almost noon, and that’s exactly what I’ve done today. There’s nothing like finishing a busy week by spending a whole day in pajamas, and I’m feeling pretty fantastic about the situation. I have a pile of good books—Jonathan Evison’s West of Here, Pat Conroy’s The Water is Wide, and War and Peace for a readalong that begins this week—and I’m not going to get off the couch (or put on real pants, for that matter) for anything.
Last week was bookended by a fabulous pair of Bare Necessities posts from Siobhan Fallon (You Know When the Men Are Gone) and Karen Abbott (Sin in the Second City and American Rose). I reviewed Hannah Pittard’s highly anticipated debut novel The Fates Will Find Their Way (which, by the way, is totally worth the wait) and continued my quest to read one book from every section of Fountain Bookstore with My Reading Life by Pat Conroy, which I didn’t expect to love but totally fell for.
I’m off to conquer the DVR, get some serious reading in, convince myself that I CAN do this War and Peace readalong, and soak up some laziness. How’s your Sunday shaping up?
The Bare Necessitiesis a series in which authors and book industry professionals share annotated reading lists of books they love.
Karen Abbott is the author of Sin in the Second City and American Rose: The Life and Times of Gypsy Rose Lee, a fantastic biography of “the most private public woman in the world.”American Rose reads like a striptease as Abbott slowly reveals several parts of the story of this woman who is “as fascinating as she is timeless.” I adore Abbott’s stories about bawdy women in history, and I’m thrilled that she’s here today with her Bare Necessities.
My background is in journalism, so I spent the first eight years of my career writing about people and places in the present. I followed Kobe Bryant during his rookie year with the Lakers, hung out with Philly’s erstwhile mob boss, “Skinny Joey” Merlino, and—strangest of all—befriended a trailer park-dwelling divorced mother of two who penned a how-to murder manual. But when my grandmother relayed a tale about an aunt who disappeared in Chicago in 1905, I immersed myself in the past and have dwelled there happily ever since.
My contemporary novelist friends talk about the importance of place in crafting a book’s mood, and for me, as a writer of historical narrative nonfiction, this translates into investigating every aspect of the time period—from the proper method of donning a corset, to the weight requirements of early burlesque performers, to the clandestine marketing methods of Prohibition-era speakeasies. I always appreciate a book that pays meticulous attention to historical detail, and here’s a selection of my favorites:
Paris Trout by Pete Dexter, published by Random House.
I’ve been a fan of Pete Dexter’s since my journalism days. Back in the 1980s, Dexter had been a Philly journalist himself, writing a popular column for the Philadelphia Daily News that evoked the city’s nuances and idiosyncrasies with such brutal, pinpoint honesty that he nearly was killed on the job by a furious mob of baseball bat-wielding thugs. After that incident Dexter turned to fiction, and Paris Trout—the winner of the 1988 National Book Award—is one of my top ten favorite novels of all time. Set in Cotton Point, Georgia in the 1949, Paris Trout opens with the title character, a respected white businessman, fatally shooting a 14-year-old black girl, and then examines the myriad ways this crime gnaws away at the social fabric and denizens of this small town. Dexter has a note-perfect ear for dialogue and local idioms that never patronize or veer into cliché, perhaps since his knowledge of the time and place was gleaned firsthand; he spent part of his childhood in Milledgeville, Georgia (the real “Cotton Point”) and this horrific crime was one of his earliest memories. Read more
The Fountain 360 in 365 is a year-long project for which I am reading one book from every section of my partner indie Fountain Bookstore, selected for me by its booksellers.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I had never heard of Pat Conroy when I moved to the South (yep, Richmond is capital-S South) four years ago. Sure, I’d heard mention of The Prince of Tides, but I knew of it only as a movie (one I still haven’t seen, and which I chronically confuse with that Leonardo DiCaprio movie The Beach), and honestly, I still have no idea what it is about. No one in my reading community had ever declared undying love for Conroy or any of his novels, and he never figured into my reading plans or popped up serendipitously in my bookstore wanderings. If you’d asked me six months ago, I’d have said the smart money was on me never reading anything by Pat Conroy.
But hand me a book about books, and I am powerless to resist. Read more