The Riddle in Red

The Riddle in Red by Betsy Allen (1948) This is the second Connie Blair Mystery, and next to the first (The Clue in Blue), it feels a little claustrophobic, maybe just because most of it deals with her new job as a receptionist at an ad agency. Maybe it's a little too close to home. But then, I really liked the first one a lot, so there's a lot to live up to. Again Connie Blair heads out of her small home town, to Philadelphia, and stays with her very cool aunt—this time she's landed a job at pretty fancy-pants ad agency. It starts out with some real true-to-life job stuff—kind of oppressive, but Connie has a good attitude. Soon she gets mixed up in a mystery involving this intense woman who is the head a cosmetics company. It's funny, I just saw a Columbo episode that was centered on the cosmetics industry, and I swear a couple of the characters, including the cosmetics woman (who is also the murderer, played by Vera Myles) are based directly on this book! It was kind of eerie! I won't say what happens in this story (very different than the Columbo) but it is a pretty good mystery, with a satisfying conclusion. The two Connie Blair mysteries that I've now read were both good, and much better written than most of these series book—I mean, kind of strikingly well-written, at least in my opinion (I am, of course, an adult who reads kids' books). So I'm definitely planning on reading the next one—and maybe even the entire series (there are only 12 in all). They each have the name of a color as part of the title, like the Travis McGee books. I'm kind of a sucker for stuff like that.

The Mystery of Cabin Island

The Mystery of Cabin Island by Franklin W. Dixon (1929) This is the eighth Hardy Boy Mystery and a favorite one to many, including me. It doesn't have the best mystery, and it doesn't have the high weirdness of many of the original texts of the early Hardys, but it's maybe the best winter kid's book I've read—and I love the winter ones. The Hardys, Frank and Joe, along with friends Chet and Biff, get permission to spend Christmas week at a rustic cabin on an island out in the bay near where they live. They reach it by ice boat (there's a lot of ice boating action in this book). There are some intense snow storms, of course—almost the highlight of the book for me. Being in a cabin, in weather, and making good food. You almost don't need a mystery. But there is one, with some unsavory characters—though no one really too bad, which is actually kind of nice. Oh, also, there's clue involving a cipher! You can't beat that (and you can try to solve it yourself, if you like that kind of thing). The only downside of this book, for me, was almost an entire chapter involving a fox hunt (if you're a hunter, you might be into this). These were different times. The kids have guns with them. I could never hunt animals, and especially not foxes—there are some near where I live, and they're pretty cute! I used to get a Hardy Boy book every Christmas when I was a kid, and it must have been a pretty good one the year I got this book and started reading it next to the fireplace. I've read it over several times since. That first night they're on Cabin Island, a delicious dinner, and then to bed with the wind howling—and then the ghost! It's the best.

This Planet is Doomed

This Planet is Doomed by Sun Ra (2011) I bought a copy of this book the last time (I think) I was in New York, at a small bookstore—and it just really cheered me up—it's the kind of book that's nice to have—“the science fiction poetry” of Sun Ra, who I was, and still am, a big fan of. I saw him and his “Arkestra” play in Columbus, Ohio, at a fairly small club, sometime in the 80s, I think, and it was pretty inspiring. He recorded a lot of music over the years, some of it pretty out there, but when I'm in the mood for it, there's nothing better. Like most poetry books, I didn't read through this from cover to cover—I pick it up now and then and try to find something that connects with me. It's nice to let the words wash over you, or if you're feeling up to it, read one really closely. Sun Ra claimed to have visited Saturn, and even though that's a pretty outrageous story, I more or less believe him.

On Writing

On Writing by Stephen King (2000) This book is subtitled “A Memoir of the Craft” and is part memoir and part advice for young, new, or aspiring writers, as well as people like me, old, old, aspiring writers. There is a lot of plain advice in this book, stuff you might get from other books about writing, or good teachers of writing. Some of it is stuff I learned and forgot. You've got to keep relearning that stuff, like with any other activity, like brain surgery or baking—though, unlike, apparently, riding a bike. Besides this advice, and nuts and bolts stuff, he also talks about why he started writing, how things happened for him, his writing habits, and most significant of all, I feel, the joy he gets from it. Relating all this stuff—in writing, naturally—is easy to understand and compelling to read. I guess there's a reason he sells so many books—he's a really good writer. Also, pretty likable. That shouldn't be surprising necessarily, except that many, many people who are even near his level of success and wealth seem to be raging assholes. Oh, and the last part of the book is his account of this terrible accident he was in, and how it affected him. It sounds like he's lucky to be alive, and grateful to be alive, and grateful for all his success, too. I've never read a novel by Stephen King (generally horror is not my thing—I mean, it's not, at all), but I might read one now. I was happy to read this book, found it helpful and inspirational.

My Struggle: Book 1

My Struggle: Book1 by Karl Ove Knausgaard (2009) My friend Elissa and I once joked how we'd write a book called the Bible—just the idea seemed like the most punk rock thing you could do—but seeing how “bible” has been appropriated by everyone writing guides, from experts to idiots, it feels much more punk rock to name your book Min Kamp, since Hitler is a guy most people still shy away from sharing a bunkbed with. And seeing how the English title, My Struggle, practically gift-wraps easy, humorous reviews by lazy book critics, you kind of have to admire Karl Ove Knausgaard as someone who seems not to give a fuck. And writing about barely or not disguised close friends and family in intimate detail would seem to confirm that. On the other hand, you sense he cares deeply about people, as well, and the world at large, as well as the most minute corner of his experience—and I think those seemingly contradictory elements are partly responsible for this six volume literary home-run. Personally, I did have trouble getting through Book One, but then I was really impressed with how he slowed things down to such an insane extent the further you got into it—so the ending section, about putting things in order at his father's house, after his death—it's kind of incredible. It might take him a page to roll a cigarette. Seeing how I love the approach of elevating the mundane, blurring memoir and fiction, and all with straight-ahead crystal clear style, you'd think this is the book for me. I did like it, too, even if it took my slow reading self a long time to get through it. Where I didn't connect, I guess, is just the slightly alien flavor of another country, a marriage, children (his childhood, and I'm guessing, in later books, his children). So I did enjoy reading this one, but the next five, I don't think so.

The Moving Picture Girls at Oak Farm

The Moving Picture Girls at Oak Farm by Laura Lee Hope (1914) The subtitle of this book is: Or Queer Happenings While Taking Rural Plays. I love how old books used to have subtitles—I wonder if that's something I should make a point in doing—that is, if I ever write fiction again. Laura Lee Hope, of course, is not a person, but a name the publisher used as an author for any number of series books. Sometimes you can find out who the real author is if you dig deep enough. Whoever wrote this one might have authored any number of series books at the time. This book is really well-written, just surprisingly so. For a book that's over 100 years old, it has a fairly contemporary sensibility—I think anyone could read this now and enjoy it as a somewhat comic mystery of about a troupe of filmmakers who go to the country and stay on a farm in order to shoot silent film that is then processed back in New York and put out as entertainment. A lot of the ideas, sensibility, frustrations, and problems with filmmaking was, apparently, then pretty much exactly the same as it is now! There are a lot ongoing threads and gags about the characters' envy of each other, and stage actors feeling film is beneath them, and the kind of focused craziness of the filmmakers to capture images. Several times there are fiascos and mistakes that turn out to be interesting on film and reroute the direction of the stories being made. There are a lot of characters—more than I could easily follow, so I just let it flow and didn't worry about it. There's a fairly predictable mystery running through the story, of course, that has a satisfying outcome. Did I mention that there is a bee swarm? I don't want to give anything away, but the chapter with the bee swarm is particularly exciting, well-written, and even educational! I was pretty excited to find this book, as it was the first I'd heard of the Moving Picture Girls, and the book itself, judging by endpaper ads, is likely from the early Twenties, so it's kind of exciting just handling something that old—and exactly in the fashion for which it was intended—lying in bed reading, engaging my imagination. I liked this one enough to read another of the series, if I ever find one—the title of the next adventure, Snowbound, is particularly appealing to me.

The Secret of the Caves

The Secret of the Caves by Franklin W. Dixon (1929) Even though you can't beat the title of this book (The Secret of the Caves!), it's not a very good Hardy Boy mystery. It's probably my least favorite of the ones I've read lately. It's written by Leslie McFarlane, the original Hardy Boys author, but remember, he was just cranking these out (and other series books) for a meager paycheck. The writing is pretty flaccid, especially the adventure segments, which is what most of the book is... one rescue after another, that includes the sea, cliffs, and caves. Not enough mystery and too much danger, for me. Either of the Hardys could have been killed three or four times—really, the series should have been over after seven books, ending with friends putting flowers on their graves. There's the usual storm that comes up suddenly, at least (my favorite story element), and there are some pretty good descriptions of these mind-numbingly vast caves. What is kind of weird is the last book (The Shore Road Mystery) also took place at the caves, and one of criminals in that story has escaped from jail. The Hardys re-capture him (a guy named Carl Schaum!) only because they happen upon him while he's drunk and passed out on the beach! That's just a side plot, but the main story is similarly only solved due to coincidence. There's just not enough food, not enough hijinks, and most of all, not enough weirdness to make this a memorable Hardy Boys adventure. The good thing is that the next book, The Mystery of Cabin Island, is one the best, if not the best.

The Invisible Chimes

The Invisible Chimes by Margaret Sutton (1932) This is Number 3 in the series of Judy Bolton Mysteries, and I have to say, more than a lot of series books, it pays to read these in order. You could get to the bottom of this one, I guess, but to understand the resolution of the mystery with any depth, you really need to have read the previous book, if not the first two. Which is okay, and kind of great in a way. Also, it would be terrible of me to give away pretty much any of this story to anyone who might read it. I highly recommend Judy Bolton—there's a whole world here, and quite a bit different than her contemporaries Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. The one thing I will say is that it's a pretty serious story, even a little heavy, but not unpleasantly so—you just need to invest in it a little. It's almost not a kid's book, unless kids were smarter in the Thirties than adults are now—which may very well be the case. Not that there isn't a lot of fun stuff, and some nice old book details, like near the end, someone is going to make Floating Island Pudding, which I've never heard of. Of course, one can find a recipe on the internet, but I want to find a restaurant that has it, or a person who's made it. Like, does the term “floating island” even make any sense? I searched for that, images, and it was like looking at the (actual) X-files—scary, watch out—rabbit-hole to another dimension—there's a signpost up ahead—one that says: “Floating Island / 2 Miles”—and I'm sorry, but it scares me a lot more than a Treacle Tart.

Elroy Nights

Elroy Nights by Frederick Barthelme (2003) I kind of ignored Frederick Barthelme because I got him mixed up with Donald Barthelme (his brother) and John Barth (dumb of me) and Barth Hudson (just kidding), but then I read something David Shields wrote about him and it made me think I'd like his books. Then I also read that he was in the Red Crayola (a band from the early Eighties; I had one of their records—it was great—I wish I still had it). He has published a lot of novels, so somehow I picked this one—it's about an art professor in or near Biloxi, Mississippi, separated from his wife, who gets involved with a student. We're in a point in time where pretty much all women are going to roll their eyes at this summary, and most men will express disapproval. But what can I say, we are attracted to youth. As an officially “older” person, I have to accept that, I'm forced to, and it's best to not take it personally—I mean the perception of me as old. A story about an old guy who's attracted to a young woman can be okay, even quite compelling, if it's handled in an interesting way, and for me, this was. Frederick Barthelme is considered a minimalist, I guess—all I know is, after reading this, I like his writing. It's effortless to read and feels like it was effortless to write, though it probably wasn't. Among the wide world of novelistic stories, people probably consider this one as a story in which nothing happens, but for me (and I guess I'm kind of extreme as far as my personal story preferences go), far too much happened. I would have been cool with much less. I could read endless novels about breakfast at Waffle House and little else. I might add that the dialogue was almost painfully naturalistic—I don't know if I've read anything where I was more convinced by the dialogue. So much so that I think it made me yearn for stylized, unnatural dialogue. All this sounds like criticism, and maybe it is, but I loved this book, and I intend to read more by him.

The Red Notebook

The Red Notebook by Paul Auster (2002) This was a case of my spotting this thin paperback on the floor of a bookstore, buying it impulsively, and reading it right away—I'd not heard of this book, don't usually read short stories, and I wasn't looking to read anything by Paul Auster, though I've liked his books in the past. I guess this is a collection of previously published stories, put together here because of the theme of coincidence—which is one of my favorite subjects—I'm fascinated with the question. Is everything connected? I think it is, but whether that happens externally, with a grand structure, or if it's about us, and our perceptions—that's the question. I'm inclined to believe that there is no perception of the world without memory, and there is no memory without narrative, so it is us—but that doesn't, thankfully, explain everything. One might ask, about this book, is it actually “True Stories” (as it's subtitled) or is it fiction?—I don't ask that. I believe it to be both, at the same time. What I ask is, why is this writing so compelling? Everyone has these stories, so you'd think everyone could write this book. But try it. That's all I do, pretty much, is try it. Mostly you come up with a mass of words that are flatter than a pancake, and not nearly as tasty. Syrup just makes it worse. I've always found Paul Auster's voice to be both alien and like my best friend, at the same time, and I have no idea why. I suppose he's the old-fashioned magician, but a good one—he can be corny, but you can't figure out what he's doing, or why you love it so much, but you do—or I do anyway. I'll probably read this again sometime, if I don't loan it out to someone.

The Secret at Lone Tree Cottage

The Secret at Lone Tree Cottage by Carolyn Keene (1934) This is a Dana Girls Mystery, the first one I've ever read, and the second of the series. Carolyn Keene is the pen name attributed to the Nancy Drew series, of course, though there were ultimately many actual authors for that series as well as this one. According to Jennifer White, whose excellent Series Books for Girls website I refer to often, this title was actually written by Leslie McFarlane, who wrote the first many, and best, Hardy Boys titles. Unfortunately, of all the old series books I've read recently, I like this one the least, so I don't think I'll pursue or peruse more Dana Girls. I'm a slow reader and want to read more Judy Bolton and Connie Blair (my two recent favorites) and also check out other odd series books, and there are a lot out there. Not that this one was terrible—I enjoyed it—I just felt like it was a bit tedious, could have been much shorter, and the the two Dana sisters, Jean and Louise, didn't come to life for me enough that I could even remember which one was which. There were some interesting things, like this old guy character who complains about everything, and everyone tiptoes around, fearing his wrath and for his health. It's a great portrait of that type of patriarchal tyrant, so familiar and too prominent in most people's lives. Also, the bad guy was pretty slippery, even to the point of being disguised as a woman, which struck me as particularly fun and creepy, and likely a Leslie McFarlane touch, as his original Hardy Boys texts are full of odd and sometimes mildly disturbing details that make them worth rereading.

Dandelion Wine

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury (1957) I put this book on my reading list every summer because for as long as I can remember I get it out every spring with intention to reread it. I have, in the past, several times, but in recent years I've just been continuing where left off from the previous year. It's about a small, Midwestern town in the summer, told mostly from the point of view of a 12-year-old boy. I've read that it's based a lot on Ray Bradbury's childhood—it takes place in the summer of 1928, but it's pretty timeless. On one hand it's pure nostalgia, but it's a lot more than that. I really feel like it gets at what is magical and unexplained in the world, and so I keep finding new stuff in it, every time I read it. It also touches on a lot of tragedy and sadness. It's about death as much as anything. I think I first read it for my freshman high school English class, and Mr. Kimball was a little frustrated that people didn't get it, but I felt like I did—that's when I first fell in love with Dandelion Wine. I think it's a pretty adult book, though, ultimately. More than a proper novel, it's actually a collection of related short stories (many have been published alone, in magazines), but it can be read as a novel, or you can skip around. This one chapter really struck me this time—interesting, because I used to think it was pretty corny. It's about this newspaper reporter who sees a photograph of a beautiful woman in the paper, so he looks her up, and it turns out that she only let one photo of her ever be published, taken when she was young, and now she is 95. He tells her that, and oddly, she had some similar strange connection to him, and they begin meeting up and become friends, for a short time, anyway, until she dies. The odd thing is, when I first read this, I think I read it more from the perspective of the 12 year old (who is friends with the reporter) and thought it was merely kind of interesting. Later, I read it more from the perspective of the reporter, and thought it was a little sentimental and corny. Now, however, I'm reading it more from the perspective of the old woman, and this time it really broke my heart. I stopped there for the summer—but I'll pick it up again next year.

The Case of the Gone Goose

The Case of the Gone Goose by Scott Corbett (1966). This is the first book of the “Inspector Tearle” series, about a twelve-year-old detective, his sister, and their friend, who are trying to solve the mystery of three geese, at a local farm, who are being beheaded one by one. The story is mostly tedious and the mystery not very satisfying, and the protagonist, Roger Tearle, is so full of anxiety—you see a lot of antacid in his future. The appeal to me, the star of this series, is the treehouse that the kids use as their headquarters. It's nothing special (though it is equipped with a phone and a filing cabinet)—just a treehouse—built in a tree right next to the Tearle residence. Though, you know, everything is special about a treehouse—that's the point. When I was that age, we didn't have any mysteries, at least that we were able to solve, but we did have a lot of forts, hideouts, and clubhouses. A secret cave in a woodpile covered by building materials, guarded by snakes. An old pigeon coop (shared with pigeons). A room in a detached garage attic. A shack in the woods in which we dug a basement and 20 foot tunnel. A treehouse in the woods, high up, with a floor, ceiling, walls, and windows—a treehouse! Were there any adults involved in building any of this stuff? No adults!

10:04

10:04 by Ben Lerner (2014) I think I heard about Ben Lerner from David Shields, writing about various authors whose work crosses the line, back and forth, from fiction and non-fiction, or maybe erases the line, which is something I'm interested in, at least reading. I'm not sure about doing it. Well, I do do it, but I also just like fiction—I like making things up. Okay, I guess I'm there, as far as stuff I write, and I relate to the approach in this book, but I also would not take quite this approach. It's hard to explain. I was always attracted to the earlier, kind of more crude versions of erasing that line, like in some works by John Barth, and Richard Brautigan, etc. I guess some of that's called “post-modernism” and also “metafiction.” To me, those kind of labels and categories aren't very helpful, unless it's helpful in finding other similar stuff. So anyway, the story in 10:04 is about an unnamed character (so it may as well be Ben Lerner) who is in New York during this specific period of time, that happens to be framed by Hurricane Irene and Hurricane Sandy—which is when I was living in NYC, and so a lot of this is both historically and geographically familiar to me: Christian Marclay's The Clock, The High Line, post 911, pre-Trump. Other major references are the movie Back to the Future (1985) and the 1986 Space Shuttle disaster (which Ben Lerner is almost too young to remember, but I happened to experience while living in NYC, the first time I lived there). A lot of this book is also about the author's struggle with a possibly catastrophic medical condition, and attempts to be a sperm donor for a close friend... so there's birth and death, which adds a lot of weight to the narrative, while also, in my case, creating considerable distance. Ben Lerner is an interesting character (i.e., real person) in that in this kind of rarified literary world he's a rock star, a Superstar, i.e., he's the guy, while at the same time, not a household word, and in fact virtually unknown (certainly among my friends, family, co-workers, and the man on the street), which makes him, in a way, exactly the person I want to be. But I wouldn't trade places with him for a million dollars, all the tea in China, or that elusive “happiness”—which I guess brings me back to a kind of self-reflection where I realize that I love my life, am eternally grateful for it and happy about it, even while recognizing that, as a career, or looking at it from “above,” it's a disaster, a car-wreck, and an absolute failure. But anyway, thanks Ben Lerner!

The Apology

The Apology by Eve Ensler 2019 This book takes the form of a letter written to Eve Ensler from her father, dead for some 30 years, written from the afterlife, as an apology to her for the horrific sexual, physical, and mental abuse he inflicted on her from the time of her birth to his death. I've found myself, when trying to imagine the reasons an adult would sexually abuse a child, with no answers, and for one, this depiction, in first recreating her father's childhood, gives insight into understanding the unimaginable. It is a difficult story to stomach, and I wanted to put it down, but I made myself read through it, hoping to learn something, and I learned a lot. Not to lessen the vision of horror of the sexual abuse, I think I found even more upsetting the relentless reign of terror her father then inflicted on her in his attempt to discredit her, erase her, to make her disappear. I mean, he nearly killed her, and failing that, was determined to cause her to kill herself. As upsetting and just plain heartbreaking as this story is, just the fact that she survived is beyond hopeful. And not only survived, but has worked and written at a high level, powerful and poetic, and reached out to people who have gone through similar ordeals and helped them. This book will continue to do so, of course—this is and will be, I'm sure, a really important book in a lot of people's lives.

Ready Fire Aim

Ready Fire Aim by Kevin Triggs (2015) One of the pleasures, and indeed benefits of reading in a relaxed way, and as slowly as I do (several books at once, slow as molasses) is that I make a lot of connections with other books I'm reading at the same time—and even my life as I'm living it. This novel, by a Milwaukee author who I've met, follows George, our late-teen protagonist, through a year or so of his life as he navigates one big interconnected storm of hormones, intense but very small family (him and his mom), first love, alcohol, drugs, work, responsibly, friendship, group politics, and his vital connection to the world. It's set among the backdrop of Milwaukee's anti-racist skinhead culture of the time, and that alone is pretty fascinating—the struggles and support within a close-knit group, amidst external struggles (directly and sometimes violently opposed to overtly racist groups, while being misunderstood by the mainstream). But it's also a great portrait of guy, a place, and a time. As far as the place, since I live here, it's fun to know the references, whether exactly on or slightly fictionalized, but if you've never been to Milwaukee you can get a pretty good picture of one side of it, at least from the early-Nineties perspective. And then as it travels through a year or so of time—I found myself, by chance, reading along as the seasons coincided. Also, it just happened that a major cultural event in the story—the police beating of Rodney King, and subsequent riots, in spring 1991—also took place in the timeline as I was reading this Leonard Cohen biography. George, I'm guessing, is roughly Triggs' age, at the time, and as the narrative is in first person, with a distinctive voice, one has to wonder the extent of it being autobiographical. I know you're not supposed to ask or care, but I like that tension. George is a guy who's very much that age (you want to take him aside, once in awhile, and tell him to relax, be patient!), but he's also much more advanced than I was. He's very much looking at the big picture, and you think, he's going to be okay. Whether the world is going to be okay remains to be seen, but I found this story, while often being painful, to be about growing, and thus ultimately hopeful.

The Shore Road Mystery

The Shore Road Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon (1928) This is the original version, actually written by Leslie McFarlane, I'm pretty sure. Like some of the other, early, original versions, it's a much more relaxed approach, with some early chapters dedicated almost entirely to hijinks. After staying up very late one night in their efforts to catch the car thieves, both of the Hardys are so tired in school that they are falling asleep in class, much to the amusement of their chums. There is also a prank, played by Chet, involving a raw, dead fish. One odd thing, later on in the story, during a particularly daring adventure, the Hardys are debating how to proceed, and Frank is for being more reckless, while Joe is more for being careful, and it says, of Joe: “he was of a more cautious nature than his brother...”—which is exactly opposite of my understanding of the Hardys, in which Joe is more “impetuous.” I don't know if that was played up in the re-writes, but I think McFarlane might have forgotten—for a moment, here—anyway. I'll keep that in mind reading further original texts. Toward the end, just after being apprehended, the villain says: “I'd have been clear away if it wasn't for them brats of boys!” Which made me think, that's a weird way to re-word that line you stole from Scooby-Doo—before, remembering, of course, that this book was published in 1928. When the Hardys finally use the old Trojan Horse device to catch the car thieves, they carry their revolvers with them—remember, these are high school kids. They don't make a big point out of it, but it's probably one of the things that prompted the rewrites—that began in 1950s—whereas kids probably still did have guns, some of them, but it's the kind of thing the big publishers didn't want to focus on in their mass market fiction. Actually, being successful and having a long publishing life is one thing that prompted these rewrites. Sometimes it's just changes in hardware. In the 1964 re-write, the boys hide in the car trunk. In the original, they hide in the “locker” on back of the car. If there is a current re-write of this book, they probably catch the car thieves by using a drone.

The Yellow Wall Paper

The Yellow Wall Paper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1892). This is not a book, it's a short story, but it got my interest on several levels and was worth reading and reading about, as it's at once considered an early work of feminist literature, and also psychological fiction, and also gothic horror. If you know me, you might guess I'm also obsessed with both yellow rooms and living, breathing wallpaper. I hadn't been thinking about this until I read it, but besides all the usual accounts of patriarchal oppression—which was at one time blatant and scarcely disguised, and in our present time just as blatant but more pathetically disguised—for political control, personal control, and control for the sake of control—the idea of not allowing a woman to write, for “health reasons,” is a particularly chilling one. That the husband in this story is a doctor who likely really believes he is acting in the woman's best interest is also horrifying. The idea of evil, I mean as an externally influenced (by Satan, etc.) force is of little interest to me, but “good” people—whose well-intentioned actions are harmful—is of particular interest to me. I also have little interest in “horror” per se, but am very attuned to everyday horror. Also, I have little interest in the exercise of writing from the point of view of the mind in descent into madness (it just feels like work, the writing part), but there is something about this story that is gripping, as I can't exactly figure out the point of view. Also, that it was published in 1892 and reads as pretty contemporary, and probably still will in 2112 in the Temples of Syrinx, or even 2525 (if woman can survive). Like many of us, my personal experience informs everything I come into contact with, and I remember writing a story called “The Yellow Room,” which may or may not be eerily close to this story (though mine is already all but lost). And finally, what is it about wallpaper that is so creepy? I can never really shake that feeling. And what is it about certain patterns of repetitious design (like why does houndstooth give me a migraine?) that's, while manmade, seem to take on a disturbing life of its own?

Notes of a Native Son

Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin (1955) This book is a collection of essays, and while probably one of those books you feel like you should, or should have read, it's not a huge drag like I find a lot of the “should stuff”—but it's by no means a hoot, either, or even a workout at the gym. I love James Baldwin's writing, and his voice, and I like hearing it in my brain, and I might go right back and start this book over, both because I don't think I came close to getting it all, and also because his style of writing inspires me. I don't know if I've exactly come to terms with my role as a white person amid ongoing racial inequality, but it's an evolving process. All learning is, of course—never done. It's equally as hard to accept that I'm not very smart, in a relative sense—but of course, what point is there dwelling on that? One can just keep trying to do better, I guess. I was surprised at, on one hand, how specific some of the essays in this book are, like an examination of Carmen Jones (1954) which I haven't seen, but probably will, some day, and think of this. And how compelling, in an almost fiction-like way some of the other accounts are, of the harrowing adventures of young James Baldwin, faced with the various forces of society—and trying to remember these things happened half a century or more ago. And mostly of how totally relevant this all is to the times we are living in now. It may be more relevant now than it ever was—and I don't know if that's just really depressing, as for our world, or it's just saying a lot about his insight and vision—I suppose both those things.

Good Old Archibald

Good Old Archibald by Ethelyn M. Parkinson (1960) For whatever reason, this book was just my favorite when I was a kid, and I used to check out a lot of books at the downtown Sandusky, Ohio library. I have a very strong memory—before it was remodeled—of how that library looked and felt. I think I must have picked books based on the covers, or titles—I certainly didn't read them all. This story isn't the greatest—it's about a new kid in the neighborhood and the slow process of accepting him. What I think really attracted me to it was the vivid portrait of this very large family who are in a lot of ways creative and eccentric. One of the kids cooks meals in the basement—dead animals and vegetables from the wild, and another kid holds funerals for wildlife that has perished, including a bat from the garage. The illustrations here, by Mary Stevens, are also among the best of this era of kid's books—she did a lot of them. Ethelyn M. Parkinson wrote mostly about young boys, and I guess she never had children of her own. She writes with a really singular sense of humor—the situations, and the dialogue, and her word choices—I've never read anything quite like it. She's in a lot of ways like Beverly Cleary, who I also love, but I think (I've not read all of either of them) a bit more odd. She continues to be my favorite children's author, and I'm trying to find and read all of her books.