The June Online Book Choice Is:

The Living by Annie Dillard

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Annie Dillard wrote Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, winning the Pulitzer in 1975, and worthy of a read.

This book about intertwined families and communities was written in 1992. The book follows the 19th century settling by whites in Washington. It is a hard existence, hard to get a toe hold, but community, no matter what tribe you’re from, is ready to help.

It reminded me of Faulkner, or Garcia Marquez, particularly with her treatment of time. It is epic in nature, and written fully. This, describing the northern coastline of Washington state:

‘This high, precarious latitude, and its snowy peaks visible from everywhere on the farm, and its heavy timber and blue light, overwhelmed Green Randall. The plants by the roadside bore white, smooth berries, or pink hairy ones, or thorned leaves or glossy ones, and looked, among the ferns and moss, like trial plants of the beginning world … Here in this extravagant country, here on this buckling edge of the world, he was sensible already of the days’ shortening, and the winter darkness bearing down.’

And, what always draws me to a writer, a touching on death. It’s always good to have the reminder that our days are numbered:

‘Death was ready to take people, of any size, always, and so was the broad earth ready to receive them. A child’s death was a heartbreak — but it was no outrage, no freak, nothing not in the contract, and not really early, just soon.’

Annie Dillard is a former writing professor.

The May Online Book Choice Is:

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

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These ten letters are a compilation of Rilke’s responses to a young student who wanted advice; specifically whether his poetry was good enough to seriously consider making it a career.

Rilke’s responses are moving, mostly because he was motivated to help the student. Rilke had unsuccessfully attended the same military school that the student was currently attending. Rilke’s time at the academy was a devastating experience. He was abused physically and emotionally by his peers. He was not soldier strong and his artistic side was constantly being beaten down. He finally dropped out when he was 15 and then concentrated on becoming a poet and writer. He was just beginning to become popularly known when the student wrote to him.

‘Therefore, my dear sir, I know no advice for you save this: to go into yourself and test the deeps in which your life takes rise; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create  … The point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.’

This speaks to the pain that Rilke felt:

‘And if there is one thing more that I must say to you, it is this: Do not believe that he who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. His life has much difficulty and sadness and remains far behind yours. Were it otherwise he would never have been able to find those words.’

I include a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke:

I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother’s face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

The April Online Book Choice Is:

How to Cook a Wolf by M.F.K. Fisher

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This is a book of economy, written during the midst of World War II, and gives helpful advice (and recipes) to cooks who are dealing with the slimness of their larders, and the inconsistencies of public utilities, not to mention the expense of grocery purchasing, due to war time rationing.

With chapter titles such as How to Boil Water, How to be Cheerful through Starving, How Not to Be an Earthworm, Fisher puts a neat spin on how the home cook can vary and expand a war-time diet. This, regarding chowder:

‘There is another well-worn controversy among chowder-lovers as to which is correct, the kind made with milk or the kind made with tomato and water. Long ago it may have been dependent on transportation and climate and so forth, so that in the winter when the cow was still fresh there was milk, and in the summer when the tomatoes were plump and heavy they were used…
Who knows? Furthermore, who cares? You should eat according to your own tastes, as much as possible, and, if you want to make a chowder with milk and tomato, and crackers and potatoes, do it, if the result pleases you…’

And every so often, Fisher brings her typical touch of her love affair with gastronomy. This remembrance, from her time in Switzerland:

‘One (recipe) I remember that we used to make, never earlier than two and never later than four in the morning, in a strange modernistic electric kitchen on the wine terraces between Lausanne and Montreux. We put cream and Worcestershire sauce into little casseroles, and heated them into bubbling. Then we broke eggs into them, turned off the current, and waited until they looked done, while we stood around drinking champagne with circles under our eyes and Viennese music in our heads. Then we ate the eggs with spoons, and went to bed.’

Here is Fisher’s splurge of a recipe for:

Scrambled Eggs

8 good fresh eggs
Half a pint rich cream…or more
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Grated cheese, herbs, whatnot, if desired

Break eggs gently into cold iron skillet. Pour cream in, and stir quietly until the whole is blended, but no more. Never beat or whip. Heat very slowly, stirring from the middle bottom in large curds, as seldom as possible. Never let bubble. Add seasoning at the last stir or two.
This takes perhaps a half hour. It cannot be hurried.
Serve on toast, when it is barely firm.

——

And the one vegetable that might save us all:

‘It is easy to think of potatoes, and fortunately for men who have not much money it is easy to think of them with a certain safety. Potatoes are one of the last things to disappear, in times of war, which is probably why they should not be forgotten in times of peace.’

Quick Potato Soup

1/4 pound good butter
4 large potatoes
4 large onions
2 quarts whole milk
Salt, pepper, minced parsley if agreeable

Melt the butter in large kettle, or in fireproof casserole in which the soup can be served. Grate the clean potatoes into it. (I like to leave them unpeeled, but the soup is not so pretty unless chopped fresh herbs, added at the last, change its natural whiteness enough to hide the bits of brown skin.) Grate the peeled onions into it, or slice them very thin. Heat the mixture to bubble-point, stirring well. Then reduce the heat, and cover closely for about ten minutes or until the vegetables are tender but not mushy, shaking the pot now and then to prevent sticking. Add more butter (or chicken fat) if it seems wise. Heat the milk to boiling point but not beyond, add slowly to the pot, season, and serve.

——

Though I got the shudders when Fisher mentioned cooking with canned cream of mushroom soup (too many flashbacks to the church fundraiser cookbook recipes), war time cooks didn’t have a lot of options. You had to do what you had to do, with what you had. Fresh food was not much of an option, unless you got it from your own back yard garden, be it through vegetables and/or small livestock. A recipe for Tomato Soup Cake? Hunger will change anyone’s opinions about any food oddity.

‘But in each one of them there is a basic thoughtfulness, a searching for the kernel in the nut, the bite in honest bread, the slow savor in a baked wished-for apple. It is this thoughtfulness that we must hold to, in peace or war, if we may continue to eat to live.’

With a hat off to all the churches, schools, and libraries that have published a fundraiser cookbook, here is a recipe from the Arthur Public Library’s Centennial Cookbook, 2001:

Pour-a-Pizza

1 pkg. instant beef bouillon per serving
1 c. tomato juice per serving

Empty the bouillon into each cup. Add the spice or spices of your choice (red pepper, oregano, garlic salt). Heat the tomato juice to boiling; pour into each cup with the bouillon. Stir and serve.

The March Online Book Choice Is:

My Struggle: Book 1 by Karl Ove Knausgaard

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My Struggle is a rough, humorous, and strangely mesmerizing read. Knausgaard wrote Book 1 in 2009 and followed it with five more volumes. Not just for that reason, Knausgaard is compared to Proust. No doubt, the epic nature of his 6 volume work mirrors Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. They both write of autobiographical events and shape them into a novel, or rather, multiple novels.

The book is not an autobiography, and Knausgaard states in an interview:
“I was never after representing episodes from my life, which an autobiography does but rather to search a life for meaning. My life was just the raw material.”
Abend, Lisa. “Norway’s Proust.” Time 183.21 (2014): 50-52. Academic Search Premier. Web. 1 Mar. 2016.

Recounting all the minutiae in a life. Why isn’t it boring to read? The language he uses is straight and to the point, nothing fancy, nothing that sings, and he recalls moments big and small and recalls them both in the same manner. Most of our days don’t sing. Most days are filled with physical or emotional difficulties, or with nothing at all. Same old, same old. To write of this in a direct manner and to keep the reader from putting the book down is a great accomplishment.

Here is Karl Ove, contemplating:

As I sit here writing this, I recognize that more than thirty years have passed. In the window before me I can vaguely make out the reflection of my face. Apart from one eye, which is glistening, and the area immediately beneath, which dimly reflects a little light, the whole of the left side is in shadow. Two deep furrows divide my forehead, one deep furrow intersects each cheek, all of them as if filled with darkness, and with the eyes staring and serious, and the corners of the mouth drooping, it is impossible not to consider this face gloomy.
What has engraved itself on my face?

You won’t read this book and have your breath taken away by his words, but you might have it taken away nonetheless. It is worth the read. On to Book 2.

The February Online Book Choice Is:

Barefoot in Baghdad by Manal Omar

Barefoot in Baghdad
Manal Omar was the liaison for a humanitarian organization that was headquartered in Baghdad in 2003 at the beginning of Iraq’s civil unrest. This book chronicles her work and life there.

Omar is an idealist and works purposefully to help the women who are on the outskirts of Iraqi society. These are the widows, single mothers, the abused, the rape victims, any women that carry a stigma. It is difficult work in a male hierarchical society, not to mention a war zone. Her fellow workers in other aid organizations see the futility when Omar tries to see solutions. This from an orphanage director:

‘Manal, you need to understand that we are tired of fighting,’ Asma said. ‘That’s all I have been doing; it’s all my mother did. We don’t want to fight anymore. It doesn’t mean we have given up. Far from it. It just means we want to find a more peaceful way to live something that may resemble a normal life.’

And Omar:

During my six months in Iraq I had met with women from a wide range of backgrounds. Although their circumstances were different, they all had in common the fact that they wanted to share their stories. And a common thread in those stories, a thread repeated in almost all my interviews with Iraqi women across the county, was that idea. They were the words that bridged the gap between rich and poor, literate and illiterate, and ethnic and religious: ta’abna (we are tired) and malayna (we have had enough)…..My strategy was to remain focused on the individuals in front of me. I convinced myself that if I could help one, two, perhaps even ten women, then I had fulfilled my role. I had become so focused on maintaining an optimistic viewpoint that perhaps I had lost perspective.

When international aid workers began to be kidnapped and murdered in Iraq, then everything fell apart in terms of helping the Iraqis. Sides were drawn, between Sunni, Shia, and the occupying American forces. And the unrest kept growing until Omar became completely overwhelmed by it. There was no escape for those who lived there and it became impossible for Omar to lend a helping hand to them. Most depressingly, given the current state of affairs in the Middle East, are her following lines:

At the same time, the number of my Iraqi friends now settling in Amman began to increase. Even more of them headed to Syria. We all waited for the end of 2004 with the belief that 2005 would bring some new promise.

Manal Omar currently works for the United States Institute of Peace, Middle East and Africa branch.

Since this book was published in 2010 and Iraq and the surrounding countries have disintegrated under the rise of ISIS, here is a good way to keep up on your current events. The Salida Library offers a host of foreign policy periodicals you can read online through our Ebscohost databases, which are available with a quick login of your library card. Use the Academic Search Premier to find Foreign Affairs’ Nov/Dec 2015 issue which is dedicated to ‘The Post-American Middle East’ and Aaron David Miller’s article from American Foreign Policy Interests, ‘Gulliver’s Troubles: America in the Middle East’.

Map of Middle East

The January Online Book Choice Is:

Mrs. Engels by Gavin McCrea

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With Gavin McCrea’s first book, he has written the hell out of his main character. Lizzie Burns was the Irish-born common-law wife of Friedrich Engels, brought out of Engels’ industrial factory and into society life with zero training for it. It was survival of the fittest and the shrewdest for any woman, and Lizzie was ready for it. This is Lizzie:

Take warning. This is a changing world, we don’t know today what’ll happen tomorrow, and the man you go with will decide where you’re put, whether it’s on the top or on the bottom or where. The fine feelings love will bring won’t match the volume of problems a pauper will create …  Love is a bygone idea; centuries worn. There’s things we can go without, and love is among them, bread and a warm hearth are not … Establish yourself in a decent situation and put away what you can, that, please God, one day you may need no man’s help. Take it and be content, then you’ll journey well.

McCrea does not paint a pleasant portrait of Marx or Engels in their treatment of women. This is Engels’ treatment of Lizzie’s sister:

No doubt he goes with other women — he’s been seen wandering alone down the District — and the thought of it makes her suffer, deep and miserable. He stays away for weeks on end. She sees him in the mill and pours all her hurt into her eyes, but he resists her willing and stays upstairs where he is. Then when it suits him, he appears again, raps his ashplant on the door, and goes to the end of the passage to wait. So strong is her wanting, she throws a shawl around her pain, and runs out.

But Lizzie gets it. After a rough and life-changing ordeal with an STD, she still sees the endgame of surviving in her world:

It’s men are at the bottom of every plague in this world. We come to the lock with this frontmost in our minds, and as we lie here stewing in our cures, and wondering if we’ll be next to go cripple, or walk off into fits, or turn so childish we’ve to be washed in bath chairs and given to drink with a spoon in a teacup, our knowledge turns to action: sometimes screams or fists but most often somber vows of chastity breathed out into the late-night miasmas …  And we make the same vow the next night and every night after, till we’re told by some twist-whiskered pup that we’re saved and can likely leave in the morning … More than that, when we see them biding by the door to take us home, it’s Lucky me! we think. Lucky me to have such a morsel worrying after me!

The December Online Book Choice Is:

The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett

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This is a regional read, centered around island life off the coast of Maine. The narrator, a female writer taking retreat, remains unnamed throughout the story; she learns from the locals what a life lived sparsely can be. Jewett writes with a very basic realism of her characters lives. Here is the narrator at Joanna’s grave:

I drank at the spring, and thought that now and then some one would follow me from the busy, hard-worked, and simple-thoughted countryside of the mainland, which lay dim and dreamlike in the August haze, as Joanna must have watched it many a day. There was the world, and here was she with eternity well begun. In the life of each of us, I said to myself, there is a place remote and islanded, and given to endless regret or secret happiness; we are each the unaccompanied hermit and recluse of an hour or a day; we understand our fellows of the cell to whatever age of history they may belong.

And a portrait of the local fishermen:

These ancient seafarers had houses and lands not outwardly different from other Dunnet Landing dwellings, and two of them were fathers of families, but their true dwelling places were the sea, and the stony beach that edged its familiar shore, and the fishhouses, where much salt brine from the mackerel kits had soaked the very timbers into a state of brown permanence and petrifaction. It had also affected the old fishermen’s hard complexions, until one fancied that when death claimed them it could only be with the aid, not of any slender modern dart, but the good serviceable harpoon of a seventeenth century woodcut.

Sarah Orne Jewett died in 1909.

The November Online Book Choice Is:

J by Howard Jacobson

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J is set in a dystopic, futuristic world, where WHAT HAPPENED, IF IT HAPPENED has happened. Ailinn and Kevern are misfits in a miserable world, and the community they live in is inhabited by brutality and melancholy. Social thought is tightly controlled, books are edited by those in power, and no one speaks of what did happen. Jacobson offers clues throughout. This from Ailinn:

At first Kevern thought it was his fault. He’d been tossing and turning, perhaps, or snoring, or crying out in the night, stopping her sleeping. But she told him she had always been like this — not morning grumpiness but a sort of species desolation, as though opening her eyes on a world in which no one of her sort existed.

And from her confidant, Esme:

Of the thoughts that flew at her, as the weeks passed, this last was the most persistent, skimming her cheek with its quilled wing, as though it wanted to scratch her into waking — we are poorer by what we took away.

It’s clear that a mass genocide has taken place. Were all complicit? Jacobson never tells the reader what ‘J’ stands for but it’s simple enough to deduce. There are passages throughout the book that recall pogroms. This quote from a character describing the mob mentality and subsequent murders from the time of WHAT HAPPENED.

I am who I am because I am not them — well, I was not alone in feeling that. We were all who we were because we were not them. So why did that translate into hate? I don’t know, but when everyone’s feeling the same thing it can appear to be reasonableness. Can you understand that? What everyone’s doing becomes a common duty. Besides, it wasn’t for me to play God. These people had their own God, I thought — let Him look after her.

Eventually, Ailinn and Kevern struggle with the truth and identity, and how to change the world they live in. But the changes come with a price.

I don’t hate myself either. But criticism rubs off. How could it be otherwise? Sometimes the glass through which others look at you tilts and you catch a little of what they see.

The October Online Book Choice Is:

Hedda Gabler by Henrik Ibsen

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It’s easy enough to read through Ibsen’s play and think of Hedda Gabler, ‘What a dreadful woman’; harder still to empathize with her. For certain, Hedda is without conscience. She is jealous, conniving, and maneuvering. But Hedda lived in a time when women lived predetermined lives, boxed away into houses and made into mothers. Perhaps her only way to react to her situation (and her marriage to that dolt Tesman) is to be an aggressor and to be truthful to herself, everyone else be damned. Ibsen was a great feminist and gives this theory credence. And it’s important to note that the play is called Hedda Gabler, rather than Hedda Tesman.

Henrik Ibsen died in 1906.

The September Online Book Choice Is:

The Haircut by Ring Lardner

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One of Ring Lardner’s best known short stories, The Haircut is somewhat satirical, fairly dark, with plenty of vernacular thrown in. That’s Lardner’s style. You will be forced to become involved in the story. Was the character John Kendall murdered or did he die accidentally? And how many people were involved in a conspiracy if he was murdered? Is the barber a sympathetic character? He defends Kendall’s antisocial behavior, but is it all an act?

Here’s a taste:

It was a Saturday and the shop was full and Jim got up out of that chair and says, “Gentlemen, I got an important announcement to make. I been fired from my job.”

Well, they asked him if he was in earnest and he said he was and nobody could think of nothin’ to say till Jim finally broke the ice himself. He says, “I been sellin’ canned goods and now I’m canned goods myself.”

You see, the concern he’d been workin’ for was a factory that made canned goods. Over in Carterville. And now Jim said he was canned himself. He was certainly a card!

Ring Lardner died in 1933.