A moment of truth

David L. Ulin

This is what literature, at its best and most unrelenting, offers: a slicing through of all the noise and the ephemera, a cutting to the chase. There is something thrilling about it, this unburdening, the idea of getting at a truth so profound that, for a moment anyway, we become transcendent in the fullest sense.

David L. Ulin, The Lost Art of Reading

I love David L. Ulin's description above about the value of literature, but I seem to be most struck by his phrase "for a moment anyway."

Great novels can last a long time, and great lines from great novels may be repeated over and over again, yet Ulin is right. The profound truths that can be found in the best novels do tend to be fleeting. They strike us with power in the context of the story we are reading, but can never be quite as powerful again. Readers become transcendent, as he puts it, only briefly. And then reality swallows us up again.

I find that I recall certain novels with great fondness without remembering the reason, or even remembering much about the story itself or any of the characters. Perhaps what I am really remembering so fondly is that moment or moments of transcendence, those passages that momentarily hit home so powerfully.

Ulin sees the temporariness of literature as its virtue. "Its futility is what makes it noble; nothing will come of this, no one will be saved, but it is worth your attention anyway." Some people, including both nonreaders and those who read nonfiction exclusively, view fiction as a waste of time. What's the point?

The point, or at least one of them, is that occasional moment of truth.

Reading rediscovered

In The Lost Art of Reading (2018), David L. Ulin meditates on that very subject: Is reading a lost art?

Ulin read everything and anything in his youth. He is surprised when his 15-year-old son, assigned by his teacher to read The Great Gatsby, tells him literature is dead. He decides to help his son by rereading the novel himself. When he finds it difficult staying focused on the book he once loved, he wonders if his son might be right.

With so many electronic devices and social media, keeping one's attention focused on a book, especially one hundreds of pages long, seems like an impossible challenge to many people today, especially those who are young. They would much rather watch the movie, except that fewer novels are being adapted for the screen these days. 

Shorter books may be better at holding one's attention long enough to read them, and Ulin keeps his book short — just 156 pages, plus an introduction. Yet even his book proves hard to focus on, though that may have more to do with his meandering style than anything else.

In the end, he rediscovers for himself the joy and the art of reading that at least a few of us still enjoy. The question remains, however: How does one teach this art to others?

The door to everything

One of the joys of teaching literature is the freedom it allows to talk about any subject, so long as there is a short story, novel, play, or poem that mentions it.

Donna Leon, Wandering through Life

Donna Leon

What Donna Leon writes about teaching literature — that it opens the door to all subjects — is also true when it comes to writing about literature. It is one reason I have been able to keep this blog going for so many years, with few interruptions.

Before starting a blog, while still working at a newspaper, I gave a lot of thought  to whether a blog was really a good idea. I didn't want to be one of those bloggers — probably the majority of them — who start with energy and enthusiasm but then burn out within a matter of months, or even weeks. Their posts come less and less often and finally dry up altogether. I didn't want to be one of those.

I chose language and literature as my subject matter because they were topics I knew something about. I had worked for a newspaper for many years and had reviewed books for many years. Better yet, they opened the door to every other topic in the universe. Anything that could be written about, I could write about. I would never run out of material.

And this has proven to be the case. Nearly half of my posts are short book reviews. Thus, each time I read a book I get material for a new post. And often, as in the case of Wandering through Life, they provide me with ideas for multiple posts.

Add to this the endless subjects that become available by reading those books, as well as by reading newspapers, magazines and even street signs and bumper stickers. I can write about the lives of writers. I can write about bookstores and the reading life. I can write about history, science, human relationships, crime and all the other subjects covered in books. I usually try to avoid politics in this blog, but even that hot topic sometimes becomes irresistible, as when I wrote about Steven Pinker's observations in The Stuff of Thought about how politicians bamboozle the public.

When Donna Leon taught literature classes she found it gave her the freedom to talk — and teach — about virtually anything, while still talking about literature.  I have enjoyed the same kind of freedom.

The other Booths

Villains have families, too. That's not something we often think about. When villains die in movies, it doesn't occur to us that they must have had someone who loved them. And it is much the same way with real-life villains.

This thought led Karen Joy Fowler to write her excellent 2022 novel Booth about not John Wilkes Booth but rather his family.

Fowler tells her story through the eyes of various members of the Booth family, but never John Wilkes, the handsome, unpredictable younger brother. It is Edwin, an older son in a family of actors, who becomes the family's central figure. It is he, not Junius or John, who matches their father's greatness on the stage.

It turns out that their father and mother had never actually married. It's a shock to all when his actual wife arrives from England and begins making demands. Then there is his alcoholism, a trait passed down to his elder sons. The daughters — Rosalie, the plain one, and Asia, the beauty — also feature prominently in the novel.

Although the Booths have slaves — set free but still working for the family — their sympathies lie with the North when war breaks out. That is, except for John, who has lived in Richmond, and Joe, an even younger brother, who was notable for being a deserter from both armies.

The assassination of Abraham Lincoln comes as as much of a shock to the Booths as to anyone else, and they all pay the price of notoriety. Edwin's acting career tanks; Junius spends time in prison for the crime of being John's brother.

At times you don't know whether you are reading fiction or history, and this uncertainty seems to be deliberate on Fowler's part. Little is actually known about Rosalie, one of the best drawn characters, and so she is almost entirely fictional. Others left letters or are mentioned more in historical records, and so their stories read more like history. All in all, it makes for an impressive book, not as good as some of Fowler's other novels, yet better than many books written by historians about this tragedy.

Doing the right thing

Small Things Like These is a title that could describe the book itself, a wonderful 114 -page novella by Claire Keegan published in 2021.

Set in Ireland in 1985 in the days just before Christmas, the story tells of Bill Furlong, a coal merchant. With the holidays approaching and the weather getting colder, Furlong stays busy and misses having more time with his wife and daughters.

He feels blessed with this family, for he grew up an orphan. His mother died young, and he never knew his father (although he has a good idea by the end of this story). He was raised by a kindly woman who made everything else in his life possible.

With this background, Furlong takes it very hard when he discovers a freezing girl locked in the coal shed at the local convent. He takes the girl into the convent, returning her to those who locked her up, unsure whether he has done the right thing or not. Would he do things differently if he had another chance? It turns out that he gets another chance on Christmas Eve.

If the Catholic Church was rocked but evidence of priests sexually abusing altar boys, it was rocked in Ireland even before that by the so-called Magdalene laundries. Pregnant teenage girls were taken in by the nuns. Their babies were put up for adoption, while the girls themselves, as well as orphan girls, were turned into virtual slaves in these laundries managed by the nuns. The last such laundry did not close until 1996. Keegan suggests as many as 30,000 young women may have been forced to work in these places — not such a small thing after all.

Her novella, one of several small books by Keegan now available in hardback editions, gives this tragedy human faces.

Movies at their best

For people who love movies, 1939 has often been mentioned as Hollywood's greatest year. That was the year that gave us Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Stagecoach, Wuthering Heights, Ninotchka, The Hunchback of Notre Dame and so many others. Stephen Farber and Michael McClellan beg to differ. In Cinema '62 (2020), they make their case that 1962 was, in fact, "the greatest year at the movies," as their subtitle body declares.

The list of notable films from that year is no less impressive — To Kill a Mockingbird, The Miracle Worker, Ride the High Country, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, The Longest Day, Lolita, The Manchurian Candidate and so many others, including Lawrence of Arabia, which they call "the quintessential film" of that year. Yet they also point out that 1962 was notable for much more than just its great movies.

This was the year when black and white films finally surrendered to color.

It was a great year for female actors, even if Lawrence of Arabia had hardly any women in the entire film. Anne Bancroft, Geraldine Page, Lee Remick, Katharine Hepburn and other women excelled, while Bette Davis and Joan Crawford reclaimed their positions in Hollywood with Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

Foreign films were excellent that year, with the likes of Through a Glass Darkly, Electra, Sundays and Cybele and Last Year at Marienbad.

Movies focused on sexuality issues more openly than in the past, several of them dealing with homosexuality and Lolita touching on the issue of adults preying on children.

Farber and McClellan, while building their case that 1962 was an outstanding year for movies, also make it clear that that whole period — the 1960s in general — was something of a golden age. Today so many movies are remakes or sequels, or they feature comic book heroes or are live-action versions of popular animated movies. Back in 1962, by contrast, a significant number of films were adapted from great novels and plays — Billy Budd, Long Day's Journey into Night, To Kill a Mockingbird, Mutiny on the Bounty, etc. Movies back then had depth. They told stories. Today they have special effects.

The best toy ever

Donna Leon

In her book Wandering through Life, Donna Leon recalls the first time her mother read to her the rhyme that has delighted all of us:

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear./Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair./Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy,/Wuzzy?

She writes, "And I still remember the bolt of delight I felt as I grasped this miraculous truth: a word could have two separate meanings. Suddenly language was revealed to me as the best toy ever."

Peter Farb makes a similar point in his book Word Play. People in every culture play word games, he says. They have fun with riddles, outrageous insults. jokes having to do with confusing words and so on. Most of the humor in episodes of The Beverly Hillbillies, one of the most popular situation comedies of its day, had to do with the Clampetts and others engaging in conversations in which each party thought they were both talking about the same thing when, as only the audience knew, they were actually talking about very different things.

Most one-liners told by comics have to do with word play. "Take my wife ... please," Henny Youngman said. The line got a laugh because you thought he was using his wife as an example, and then with one word he suddenly gave his words a literal meaning.

Yet language need not be funny to be "the best toy ever." Writers enjoy what they do because of the pleasure words give them when they are shaped into sentences that express meaning, that reveal beauty, that give amazingly accurate descriptions, that produce emotions, that encourage others to change their opinions or to take action.

I was 14 when I suddenly discovered one day that writing was fun. Words had become, thanks to a blue portable typewriter, the best toy ever. Now in my 80s, I still play every day.