Sometimes I think that garden photos are about as boring as photos of someone else’s unknown family members on vacation, but this month, I can’t resist. Everything is just so lush:
And I made my first dinner completely from the garden last night: Fava, parsnip, onion, garlic and tatsoi stir fry. Yum!
I keep a long list of books to read, and occasionally update it with what I have read. The list mostly comes from book reviews, and once in awhile the review itself has a really great sentence, like this one today from Marilyn Stasio, from her review of Richard Lange’s ANGEL BABY in the NY Times Book Review:
“When you find yourself rooting for the killer in a grisly crime novel, you know you’re in the hands of a real writer.”
This reminded me of my reaction to Evan Connell’s masterpiece, Diary of a Rapist, which I read decades ago. Not that I was exactly rooting for the rapist, but I felt I was seeing him from the inside. Needless to say, Angel Baby is now on my list.
After years when one of us had to be managing things at home–kids, work, whatever, Larry and I got used to separate vacations. But recently we traveled together to Sedona for a few days. I remembered how much fun it is to travel with Larry. Here are a few remarks.
When I was wondering what created the mountains that seemed to uniformly end in long broad plateaus, Larry said, “They ran into height restrictions in the building code.” Continue reading “Travels with Larry” →
I went to hear Anne Carson read. She is a classical scholar, poet, and essayist. I’m sure there’s a label for what she does–odd syntax, sometimes odd formats, a bit of scholarly snarkiness, and sometimes very beautiful language–you can read a review of her work here. Here’s a sample from a book titled Short Talks: Continue reading “Short Talks” →
Going through boxes again, I came on my first diary. It dates from when I was six, and I can still remember being inspired to start writing when my mother gave me a metal box of index cards. Here are a few entries (text on the right in case you can’t read it):
Continue reading “Juvenilia” →
Everything here is blooming, spouting, burgeoning. The hens are laying, the bees are busy, and I watch the vegetables grow as much as an inch a day:
It’s hard to be indoors at all…
I’ve been enjoying a book of essays on poetry, Madness, Rack, and Honey, an excellent read for literary-minded. I’ve mentioned the author, Mary Ruefle, before. There are many thought-provoking ideas interlaced in her very conversational, deceptively rambling style. Here’s one I like, from “Someone Reading a Book is a Sign of Order in the World”:
“Once this thought crossed my mind: every time an author dies, out of respect a word should also pass out of being. A word the author loved and used repeatedly in writing–that word should be theirs and die with them. Continue reading “An exemplary sentence” →