I was very interested in learning about going from the city to the farm when I saw Sue Bender’s Plain and Simple. It always seemed to me that ‘taking away’ was a harder lifestyle change than ‘adding’. With a second baby on the way, I am in the mindset of taking some lifestyle things away while adding a lot more personal complexity. I wanted a glimpse into a world where people lived with a lot fewer things but still led full, complicated lives. Bender’s was also drawn to this lifestyle through the beauty of Amish quilts. She herself was a quilter and saw some quilts hanging in a store. Something pulled her to them and she continued to visit the quilts until she realized that she needed to go live with the Amish.

I am still amazed that she was able to find an Amish family who would allow her to live with them. Bender grew up in New York City and lived in Berkeley, CA. She knew no Amish people but had some friends that lived near Amish communities. She didn’t know anything about how the Amish lived other than that they live in isolated communities without electricity. At this point, in this short book, I should have begun questioning this woman. What could she have gained by infiltrating the lives of an Amish family? But, then, I really wanted to know, too. Does this unknown culture, that has been living within my known culture, have the secret to a happy life? What can I learn from this woman’s experience, if anything?

Unfortunately, very little. The book was structured in an odd fashion: like a patch-work quilt with little vignettes about her experiences before, during, and after her experience with the Amish. It didn’t read fluently (unlike a patch-work quilt that comes together to form a congruous whole). It read more like pieces of a quilt haphazardly put together in order to show off the more important pieces (in this case, the author). In other words, I got the impression that this book was more about her and not about the Amish. Aren’t memoirs supposed to be about the authors? Yes, but there was a lack of perspective that made the author seem a little too self-absorbed – so much so that I was beginning to dislike her. At one point she criticizes one family she visits for what they eat (lots of sweets, white bread, and butter*) because it wasn’t what she expected even though she based her expectations on little to no knowledge of the Amish lifestyle. Her criticism of this and other small things showed how little tolerance she had for her hosts and revealed how exploitive her journey into the Amish community turned out to be. Truthfully, I think the only reason I finished it was because it was so short and I wouldn’t have felt good about myself for not being able to finish a book that was around 120 pages.

*Being from Pennsylvania Dutch country, this did not come as a surprise to me. Even just one visit to Lancaster, PA (which the author does do) should reveal the region’s love of refined sugar.

I can’t help but talk about where it takes place, the fictional town of Brewer, which was based on Reading, PA. I grew up in Wyomissing, PA, a small suburb about five minutes outside of Reading and a beautiful bike trail away from Updike’s hometown of Shillington, and had family that still lived in the city. I have visited places where many books have taken place but there was something eerily familial about reading Rabbit, Run. I can only imagine how New Yorkers and Londonders feel to have their hometowns constantly immortalized. Reading, PA is no NYC or London; in fact, it’s anywhere (or nowhere), really, as it probably felt to Updike then.

It’s hard to tell whether or not Brewer had a strong influence on Rabbit. It felt that Updike spent a lot of time describing places: the streets – even street/road/route names (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve driven Rt. 422 to and from Philadelphia), Mt. Judge (or, Mt. Penn, if you could really must call it a mountain – it’s more like a hill, which is a lot easier for me to say now that I have views of both the Cascade and Olympic Mountain Ranges), the golf course, the Pinnacle Hotel, etc.; but, it could have felt that way to me because I have such a strong connection to them. I will admit I was looking for the bits and pieces about my hometown, which certainly put place as a literary function in my reading, but I do believe that a lot of the detail of place was intentional. Rabbit seemed like a man who was caught in the ‘big fish – little pond’ syndrome’: stuck in the past, no real future, hoping the familiar will carry him to a good life. It doesn’t and he gets caught and needs to run. I can appreciate that feeling – the feeling that in order to improve, one must leave and start over.

It is easy for me to say that I didn’t like Rabbit. He was immature, irrational, and simple. I found it hard to sympathize with him but willingly accepted his discontent.There was an intimacy with the characters that I haven’t read in a while – and something I greatly appreciated. It could have been very easy to attempt to elicit pity but I never felt that way. Somehow Updike was able to create enough distance, through intimacy, that I felt no obligation to the characters – even when they needed it the most. I will never forget when Janice gets drunk after she gives birth and she ‘knows that the worst thing that has ever happened to any woman in the world has happened to her.’ How simply put. How tragic.

I find that often intellectual simplicity appeals to my reading sensibility. While Rabbit seems like an immature and simple man, Updike does not tell the story that way. He doesn’t try to capture the moment of what it’s like to be a restless, married, twenty-something, small-town man, which I find plagues some contemporary writing. He attempts to capture how Rabbit is a restless, married, twenty-something, small-town man. I am not sure why I’ve held out on Updike’s novels before because I was truly amazed at how well he framed his characters.

• Netherland – Joseph O’Neill
• Let the Great World Spin – Colum McCann
• The Hospital for Bad Poets – J.C. Hallman
• Look At Me – Jennifer Egan
• Portnoy’s Complaint – Philip Roth
• Tender Is the Night* – F. Scott Fitzgerald
• The Road* – Cormac McCarthy
• Love and Obstacles* – Aleksandar Hemon
• The Master Bedroom* – Tessa Hadley
• The Other City – Michal Ajvaz
• What the World Will Be Like When All the Water Leaves Us – Laura van den Berg
• The Interrogative Mood – Padgett Powell

*unfinished. Seeing that this list has four books that I did not finish, it hasn’t been the most productive few months in reading. I can list excuses: moving across the country, being pregnant, renewing a hobby, and freelance work – but they would just be excuses.

I really wish I would have kept up with writing about each of these individually. There is much to say about all of them – even the ones I haven’t (or won’t finish). I will say that my favorite (surprisingly) was The Other City but I think that has to do with my mood. Moving to Seattle, while being pregnant, has become quite an experience – generally positive, sometimes surreal, and utterly different – I’m continually amazed how much the East Coast is ingrained in my psyche. I am constantly evaluating my perspective and The Other City somehow captured these feelings. It was the right book at the right time, as they say.

So I am hoping to get back on track with my current read (Rabbit, Run) and stay that way. I miss writing about reading; in fact, I miss writing in general.

Can there really exist a world in such close proximity to our own, one that seethes with such strange life, one that was possibly here before our own city and yet we know absolutely nothing about it? The more I pondered on it, the more I was inclined to think that it was indeed quite possible, that it corresponded to our lifestyle, to the way we lived in circumscribed spaces that we are afraid to leave. We are troubled by the dark music heard from over the border, which undermines our order. We fear what looms in the twilit corners; we don’t know whether they are broken or disintegrating shapes of our world, or the embryos of a new fauna, which will one day transform the city into its hunting ground – the vanguard of an army of monsters slowly lurking its way through our apartments. That is why we prefer not to see shapes that came into existence on the other side and we don’t hear sounds emitted at night beyond the walls. We truly acknowledge only what has taken root in our world, what is connected with the other things and events of those few games repeat monotonously, and we speak of their internal relationships as if they were the cause the reason, the meaning. These games that form the tissue of our world are no less strange or horrifying that the nocturnal revelries of the glass statues. And if someone looks from the other side, such as through the gaps between the books in our bookshelf, they must experience the same feelings of unsettling amazement at the fascinating and oppressive rituality, which I experienced when I watched the fish pageant from the colonnade. ‘What fantastic monsters!’ they whisper as they watch us with dread and gloomy admiration.

And yet the world we have confined ourselves in is so narrow. Even inside the space we regard as our property there are places that lie beyond our power, lairs inhabited by creatures whose home is over the border. We are familiar with the strange queasiness we feel when we encounter the reverse side of things and their inner cavities, which refuse to take part in our game: when she shove aside a cabinet during spring-cleaning and suddenly find ourselves looking the ironically impassive face of its reverse side, which stares into the dark chambers that are mirrored on its surface, when we unscrew the back of the television set and run our fingers over the tangle of wires, when we crawl under the bed for a pencil that rolled away and we suddenly find ourselves in a mysterious cavern, whose walls are covered in magical, trembling wisps of dust, a cavern in which something evil is slowly maturing until one quiet afternoon it will emerge into the light. All that exists for us is what forms part of the games we play: it is not surprising that we know nothing about the world that lies beyond the territory of these games; we probably wouldn’t notice it even it held its celebrations right in the middle of our daily bustle.

I’ve only been to Seattle once, for the aforementioned house hunting trip, so I am eager to explore the new city. Philadelphia and Seattle are quite different based on my short first-impression; but, it’s hard to say or understand what these differences are just yet. I’m sure I’ll be drinking a lot of coffee and eating a lot of fish instead of drinking a little coffee and eating a lot of pasta and gravy.

I cannot wait to discover the bookstores of Seattle. Surprisingly, I’ve been able to keep on reading during this month of chaos. I’m hoping to eventually post about my latest reads:

• The Hospital for Bad Poets by J.C. Hallman
• Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann
• Netherland by Joseph O’Neill

There is so much more to say but for now I’ll keep this short because I’m tired and there is a lot more to do before I leave Philly for the last time on Monday morning. So, good-bye for now…

I Am Not Sydney Poitier tells the story of a boy named Not Sydney Poitier who just happens to look a lot like Sydney Poitier. When his mother dies, he goes to live with Ted Turner and has to struggle with his identity of being Not Sydney**. While I Am Not Sydney Poitier is about Not Sydney’s coming of age, it’s also about race and class, which transcends it from being considered a ‘coming-of-age’ novel.

The best part about this book was that it made me laugh. It’s been a while since a book made me laugh out loud. A few times, I thought to myself: Should I be laughing at this? Everett’s pointed satire always seemed to answer Yes! Here’s a bit of a conversation between Ted Turner and Not Sydney (who Ted Turner calls Nu’ott):

‘You know where the name of the Ouija Board comes from, Nu’ott?’ Ted asked. ‘It’s from the French and German words for yes. Could have easily been called the non-nein. Of course that just one theory. There are probably many. I find it simply strange that the skin they pack sausages in is edible. Edgar Cayce thought they were dangerous.’

‘Sausages?’

‘No, Ouija Boards. Why would Edgar Cayce care about sausages? Maybe he did. He was a weird dude. And sausages are everywhere.’ Ted looked at his bare feet at the end of his chinos. ‘Let me ask it a question. Why can’t the Democrats come up with decent slogans?’

‘I think that might be a long answer,’ I said.

‘My point exactly. Republicans run around chanting ‘America, love it or leave it’ and ‘Freedom isn’t free.’ ‘

‘The board can’t handle that,’ I said.

‘We ought to market a better one. Pigs are really smart, you know.’

The dialogue made this book phenomenal and perhaps I was so taken by it because dialogue is something that I have trouble writing; but, Everett captures idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, which seem accentuated around the unsure Not Sydney, who often just flows along with the strong personalities that surround him.

Everett’s characters stand out. Since this is the first book I’ve read of Everett’s, I don’t know if that’s his style – to create strong characters and let them carry the book – but it works brilliantly. Not surprisingly, Not Sydney is not the most interesting character. The supporting cast: his late mother and his guardian, Ted Turner, and a Percival Everett makes a cameo, too, help to define Not Sydney by being, well, what he is not. Of course, that may be obvious when the main character is trying to make an identity for himself; but, I rarely felt attached to Not Sydney but I was able to completely sympathize with him.

*That is certainly enough parenthetical exclamations for one post.

**Having a strange name is something I can relate to. With a name like Season, it is easy to feel how much simple words can be part of an identity – there are too many associations. When your name is a noun, like mine, you have to compete with those associations, particularly at introductions. I have often wished for a more common name but then realized I couldn’t be named anything else. It’s who I am.

Well, I mean, I’m writing about the Caribbean. The reason we’re all in the Caribbean is because bodies were enslaved and bodies were made into machines and bodies were made into incubators and bodies were turned into permanent—at least for people who were living in the moment’bodies were turned into permanent destiny. Our bodies were used to enslave us and were reason to slay us. And I think that the way that the body has worked in the Caribbean is very important historically. I mean, for God’s sake, it was a matter of life and death, beyond just what it normally is every day. If you woke up and you suddenly had black skin, that meant that that was your fate for the rest of your life and it would be to your death, in some ways still. But you know I was also interested in the object, the deep historical thing, that we’re talking about a place where in the local culture, in certain sectors of the local culture, people are embodied in really weird ways. You know, it’s like, every time you hear anyone talk about the Caribbean, whether it’s Caribbeans themselves or people outside, there’s always talk about women’s bodies. Talk about this voluptuousness, this kind of stereotype of what a Caribbean person is. And I think these are stereotypes that even people inside the culture, we actually sometimes claim them and we’re very proud. And look, nothing reminds us—beyond just any Caribbean nonsense and any sort of old ancient history nonsense—the body is what reminds us on a daily basis that we’re human. The body defies us, it betrays us, we have to struggle with it, you know. And it reveals in curious and in abiding ways how we are not perfect. I think that if you’re writing about the human condition, my God, you’ve got to start at base: point zero, point one, is the body.

Before I can even begin about the content, I must address Vollmann’s writing and voice. (I don’t know much about him although I’ve been reading some interviews now that Imperial is out.) WTV pulls you in with his sincerity, keeps you there with his eye for raw subject matter, and then leaves it up to you to judge – if you must. Something seems soft and quiet, even when he’s describing the homeless people that use his building as a toilet or a town – once beautiful and handcrafted with pride – that is soon to be demolished:

“Under the road, where time is slower and cheaper, not only does the division of labor sometimes insist less on itself, but so does the division between labor and art. Well, goodbye, goodbye! Simple, crownlike flowers on short-plucked diagonal stems spread their angled wings and hovered darkly on a house’s pale wall, under-the-road blossoms awaiting the happy day when oil’s thoroughfare, preceded by its herald, the wrecking ball, would uplift everybody into superior normality.”

His ability to juxtapose this soft sincerity with the harsh realities of poor people’s lives paradoxically takes WTV himself off of the page and yet makes it strikingly personal: Will it be a ‘happy day when oil’s thoroughfare, preceded by its herald, the wrecking ball, would uplift everybody into superior normality“? It depends on who you ask.

I almost forgot Poor People is a very long essay. It doesn’t feel like editorializing but that’s what it is. He deftly states: here is the situation and (with paragraphs like the one above) subtly asks: now what do you think of that? However, there is never a time when he asks: what are you going to do about it? In fact, he states that he is not writing to tell people how to fix the problem of poverty. He is writing to tell you about poverty and what makes someone poor.

WTV chooses to write about poverty that most people never see and rarely understand. If you know WTV’s writing, then you know the prostitutes, the drug addicts, the downtrodden, the drunks, the sick, the forgotten. Somehow, in Poor People he is also able to find compelling stories – but, then, with this subject matter, maybe they all are. I can’t help but think he finds the compelling stories because he seems to look for them without fear. In Japan, he searches for the elusive and extremely dangerous Snakeheads (people involved in human trafficking), knowing that knocking on certain doors could get him killed – fortunately, and even he recognizes this, these doors are not answered. There is story of the Thai woman who works to get drunk and take care of her daughter. There is the story of the two beggars in Russia: one an epileptic and one who is in her eighties, supporting her family. (I found this story amazing: the son-in-law was sent to work to clean up Chernobyl – when he started they were initially only allowed to work 5 seconds a day due to the radiation. Now he is too sick to work. His exposure was so great he has the potential to make the rest of his family sick by being around them – his two daughters rarely leave the house due to illness.) There is the story of the oil town in Kazakhstan whose town officials are ordering everyone to move – there are rumors that the refinery is making everyone sick and that the entire town has anemia. There are the stories of Afghan women who are poor but invisible under the strong arm of the Taliban (it is illegal for women to beg, among many other things). So many stories. So much poverty.

The beauty of WTV’s book is that I didn’t find myself pitying these people. He was able to make them human. Of course, they are human! However, I find that often when people write about these kinds of stories they patronize and pity to the point where these stories become sentimental simulacra of themselves – almost cartoonish, as if it couldn’t/doesn’t really happen. (The best example I can think of is most of the Katrina coverage.) WTV writes in such away that you don’t want to turn away, you are not embarrassed, or nervous, or scared of (most of) these people. Some are just like us. Just poorer. A lot poorer.

But are they? That is, I think, what WTV really wanted to know. What makes someone poor? Is it how much they have? How much money they have? Or is it something else? For each person it is different, a different story, a different sadness, a different hope. And hope is what WTV thinks is the best thing you can give these people. Let them drink, smoke, do drugs, as long as it gives them hope and makes their lives a little better. I am not sure I agree with this at all times, especially when the behavior can affect others. But, hope, in itself, I can believe in.

• Ralph Nadar
• Lorrie Moore
• Marjane Satrapi
• Howard Dean
• Richard Russo
• Richard Dawkins
• Jeanette Walls
• Jonathan Safran Foer
• Lydia Davis
• Lydia Bastianich

If you’re in Philadelphia, be sure to check out the calendar. Where ever you are be sure to support your local library!