On Sitting Down to Read Pride and Prejudice Once More...

In John Keats’ famous short poem, “On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again,” he remarks that “When through the old oak forest I am gone,/Let me not wander in a barren dream,/But, when I am consumed in the fire/Give me phoenix wings to fly at my desire.”  Obviously art is not life, so in some respect we look to books (among other things) as a kind of escape.  Not, I hope, merely to bury our heads in the sand or even to indulge in voyeuristic fantasies; instead, it is a kind of leave-taking of the earth by trying on new forms—an entirely new identity.  Thus it is not a “barren dream,” but a way to kindle our fiery passions into new life, rising on the “phoenix wings” of an author’s thoughts.  The best works of art, such as King Lear seduce us out of our workaday world and offer us visions of new worlds which seem tantalizingly close to home.  Many a book lover would jump at the chance to live in his or her favorite book, even as a minor character; these worlds are not necessarily ‘better’ than our own, but the presence of the author assures us they are observed and shaped by a loving hand (even if Gloucester’s eyes are gouged out and Cordelia is hanged!).  Ultimately I think we identify with the creator, and want him/her to guide our own lives, welcoming us home from exile and marrying us off to our Fitzwilliam Darcy or Elizabeth Bennet.  Which brings me to reason for writing this post, as I recently sat down to read Pride and Prejudice once again—so many times now I’ve frankly lost count. 

In a certain sense, this is a difficult book to re-read.  After all, there are two very famous adaptations based on the book that imagine every particular, and the plot has been so much discussed and appropriated that there are no longer any surprises.  Even Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey have moments where you forget a certain detail or conversation and nearly fall over backwards in surprise.  Not so Pride and Prejudice, where one conversations leads seamlessly, but predictably, to another, and the inevitable union of Elizabeth and Darcy is nowhere to be contradicted, much less by Elizabeth’s doubting—and often clueless—narration.  In some sense, it reminds me of Jerry Seinfeld’s quip against people who keep books at home—roughly, “why keep them around, are you really going to read them again?”  Indeed, why read Pride and Prejudice again when you know everything about Darcy, about Wickham, about the contents of that fateful letter which unmasks them both?  Is it merely to relive familiar haunts, or indulge in the sheer romance of a well-told love story? 

Ironically, Keats never really tells us anything about King Lear—what brought him back to it, what his favorite scenes are, his favorite characters, his favorite lines.  What emerges from his poem is the sense of beholding a sublime moment in art, like watching an advancing thunderstorm roar in the distance.   We’ve seen thunder, rain, lightning, even hail dozens—perhaps hundreds of times.  Why see it again?  Because it’s a powerful, visceral experience: it lives and breathes, and seems quite capable of flicking us out of existence.  True, the experience of reading King Lear is quite different from Pride and Prejudice, but in the end both are sublime in exactly this way.  I never get the feeling I’m reading a work of ‘art’ fashioned by a writer consciously shaping characters and situations to conform to an overall theme.  No, this is as natural as the wind and as musical as the ocean.  While in the presence of such works you are at once awed by the power that dared to conceived it, yet consoled by the reality that it does exist and that you can be part of it, even if only for as long as it takes to read the book.  And the book is never quite the same book you picked up before, even if you know the plot and can recite all the dialogue verbatim.  You are older; you are wiser; you are sadder; you are more content; you are looking for solace; you are looking for inspiration; you are reveling in Austen’s syntax the way you sit back and bask in the melodies of a Mozart piano concerto.  In short, it’s not the story or the characters—however divine these are—but the sheer pleasure of being swept away by something larger than anything we can dream into existence.  Even if she could. 

And yet, there are many surprises when you re-read Pride and Prejudice.  The most obvious one for me is the sheer audacity of Austen’s prose.  By audacity I mean her fearless ability to be witty at everyone’s expense—no small task for an unmarried spinster!  Not that wit was something new (Congreve and Fielding had that market cornered several generations earlier), but to see a woman doing it—and doing it so artfully—is a marvel to behold.  Take, for example, the hilarious (in a darkly comic sense) letter Mr. Collins writes to the Bennet family upon learning of Lydia’s elopement:

“I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole you on the grevious affliction you are now suffering under…No arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others most afflicting to a parent’s mind.  The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this…[Lady Catherine and her daughter] agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be injurious to the fortunes of all others, for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family.  And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace.”

In his usual tone-deaf way, Collins says exactly the wrong things in a letter meant to console.  Yet he goes much further by his sheer stupidity in claiming to know what a parent would feel—and then suggesting that it would be better if Lydia had died!  What parent would think or feel so?  In classic satirical fashion, Mr. Collins invokes his duty rather than his love, and then goes on to thank himself, more or less, for not marrying Elizabeth; otherwise, “I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace.”  That Austen could even devise this speech is a testament to her genius.  This idiot of a clergyman is too concerned with his own position and prosperity to ever think of another’s feelings, even for the few minutes it must have taken to write this letter.  Invoking Lady Catherine as his unimpeachable authority, he reminds the family that they are ruined socially and that this may well be the last letter he writes them (unless he really takes pity on them!).  What kind of response did he imagine from such a letter?  Hilariously, I’m sure he expected them to be deeply moved and appreciative of his “condescension.” 

Now imagine Austen writing this: an unmarried woman, the daughter of a clergyman herself, who dared to write saucy novels lampooning the pretensions of her wayward society.  It was not for nothing that her nieces and nephews took great pains to excuse her conduct posthumously, reminding readers that “She did not rank any work of Fielding quite so high.  Without the slightest affectation she recoiled from everything gross.  Neither nature, wit, nor humour, could make her amends for so very low a scale of morals” (Henry Austen, Biographical Notice).  Certainly, too, such a deadly satirical portrait was never drawn for life—goodness no!  And we know this for a fact, since Henry Austen also reminds us, “She drew from nature; but, whatever may have been surmised to the contrary, never from individuals.”  Of course not! 

The satirical humor in this novel is so extensive and varied that an entire encyclopedia could scarcely do it justice.  It ranges from the dark humor above to a more gleeful, self-satisfied mockery, as in the case of Caroline Bingley’s attempts to mock Darcy out of love with Elizabeth:

“I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a wit.’  But afterwards she seemed to improve upon you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”

“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but that was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”

He then went away, and Miss Bingley was felt to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.” 

Like Fielding (who we know she did read, as her letters mention her reading Tom Jones with Tom Lefroy, her one-time beau), Austen is able to dissect society to its mean artifices and petty triumphs.  Yet what makes this novel more than an exercise in 18^th century wit is her deep compassion for all her characters, even the ones who seem on first glance to be trivial buffoons.  Mrs. Bennet comes in for great mockery in the novel, and yet once Elizabeth is made to realize her own prejudices against Darcy, she also realizes how rashly she has judged her own mother.  On the same hand, she has given her father all too much license to be wise and discerning.  As Austen writes,

“Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour, which you and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind, had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her.  Respect, esteem, and confidence, had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown…She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible.” 

This is a sober moment in the book, when the satirical ribbing of Mr. Bennet becomes more sinister than the obsequiousness of Mr. Collins and his like.  No wonder Elizabeth is Mrs. Bennet’s least favorite daughter (as she, herself, reflects before trying to marry her off to Mr. Collins); Elizabeth had grown up largely despising her small-minded obsession with getting husbands.  However, one could just as easily argue Mrs. Bennet was being more of a realist than her husband, who seems to have washed his hands of all five daughters long ago.  That she cared to provide for them—even in her crass, misguided way—says a lot about her character, as well as Elizabeth’s inability to read parental affection. 

Elizabeth’s character, too, moves remarkably and believably from an eager, satirical ‘wit’ to a more cautious woman of feeling, suddenly aware of having to read people as people—not as characters in this or that romantic novel.  As a great reader, she naturally sees the world in novelistic terms—all the more so when characters take their cue from fiction (Wickham, Collins, and in some aspects, even Darcy).  But no romantic hero is spun from whole cloth, and we only discern character by re-reading, much as Pride and Prejudice itself is better appreciated once the plot is known and we can read for character, rather than plot.  Ironically, it is Darcy’s letter that teaches her to stop ‘reading’ and truly look.  It is a lesson learned previously by Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey, who imagines herself in a Gothic novel, and Marianne Dashwood, whose beau seems to have skipped right out of a Walter Scott novel.  Yet Elizabeth is a step removed since we see how she changes much more gradually and artfully.  Catherine is thrown out of the Abbey and Marianne takes to her sick bed—all very convenient, in some ways, to affect a grand transformation.  Nothing actually happens to Elizabeth other than a proposal which she refuses.  What makes her change is not the plot; it is herself.  She decides to change based on emotion and reason (or sense and sensibility, perhaps). 

The same, of course, is true for Darcy; he teaches her to read just as he, himself, learns the importance of being read.  As he remarks after his second proposal,

“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself.  The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me.  Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’  Those were your words.  You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”

As a proud and dignified man, he had no interesting in what ‘those people’ thought of him.  He ruled himself—quite well, if he dared say so himself—so the opinions of a Mrs. Bennet or even an Elizabeth Bennet reflected more on their own meager abilities.  For Elizabeth, however, he realizes the pain that a single glance, a single misplaced word can bestow.  Few people want to consciously cause pain, yet few realize how easily pain is dispensed upon the ‘underlings’ of the world.  Not surprisingly, Darcy changes the way most of us change: we fall in love with one person, and through that person we begin to see the world.  Initially he wants to be kind to her, to protect her, be civil to her aunt and uncle, and then to her wayward sister, and then…well, he’s become something of a decent human being.  This is one of the few novels I can think of where education is the means of romance.  They learn to be people before they fall in love, which is the polar opposite of almost any other novel or movie that even flirts with romance.  Is education sexy?  Not surprisingly, Jane Austen can make anything sexy. 

I could go on and on, obviously, but I’ll end here with the observation that Pride and Prejudice should be revisited, and often.  When Austen initially wrote the book it was an epistolary novel entitled “First Impressions.”  She drastically re-wrote the book to reflect more Romantic tastes (I imagine the first version might have sounded a bit more like Lady Susan or her unfinished novel, Catherine), though this central idea, how we read and misread the world, remained intact.  All reading is a mixture of pride (I’m too good to read those sorts of books!) and prejudice (oh, I know where this is headed!) yet this invites all sorts of confusion and misdirection.  To be truly educated, the novel suggests, is to read yourself before you read others.  To listen before you pronounce.  And to fall in love with the person who most captivates your intellect, regardless of their class, background, or parents(!).  I fell in love the first time I read Pride and Prejudice at 17 or 18 without even knowing why, and later felt almost embarrassed for doing so (it’s a chick book, isn’t it?).  Good books, however, and neither ‘chick lit’ nor ‘Young adult’ nor ‘world’s classics.’  They are simply there, waiting to be read, and waiting to bear us off on the “phoenix wings” of desire.  Until our next reading…

Focus on Sergei Rachmainov, Part II: Piano Concerto No. 4 (1926, rev. 1928/41)

Piano Concerto No.4: For many concertgoers or classical music fans, Rachmaninov is a composer of two works: Piano Concerto Nos. 2 and 3.  The Second Piano concerto is quintiessential Rachmaninov, full of brooding, gushing themes, all of which are instantly memorable and have been quoted out of context for almost a hundred years.  Ironically, this work came at a crisis of faith for Rachmaninov, as his previous work, the First Symphony, had been a disastrous failure as conducted by Glazunov in St. Petersburg (apparently, Glazunov had been drinking and St. Petersburg critics were never too kind to Muscovites).  He needed over a year of silence and hypnotic therapy (!) before he wrote his first bona fide masterpiece, which even today draws large crowds and is one of the true ‘blockbusters’ of the concerto repertoire.  No.3 is an even more valedictory essay, as it’s twice as long, twice as opulent,  and just a touch more masterful than No.2.  Opening with an innocent, chant-like melody, the concerto explores every inch of what the piano +orchestra combination can do.  It truly is the epitome of the late Romantic concerto.  After this, you simply have to resign yourself to copying him or laying down your pen.  Which poses an interesting question: what could Rachmaninov write after Piano Concerto No.3 if he dared to write a fourth piano conerto? 

And he did write a Fourth concerto, the “ugly duckling” of Rachmaninov’s concertos, which in some ways is my favorite.  Not that it’s quite the equal of Nos. 2 and 3, since those are beyond peer; however, it shows Rachmaninov trying something new, and learning to adapt his expansive, melodic style into a more cryptic, pithy framework.  In some ways this concerto can be seen as a rough draft for the famous Rhapsody on a Theme of Paginini (ostensibly Concerto No.5), which is about the same length and offers more wit, rhythmic play, and modernist zest than any of his previous works.  What makes that work successful is its sheer showmanship; it’s very much a work for the theatre, meant to dazzle and charm.  Piano Concerto No. 4 is more like one of Shakespeare’s “problem plays,” in that it doesn’t deliver what the audience expects, and leaves people scratching their heads, unsure where to place it generically.  Is it a romantic piano concerto writ small?  Is it an aborted modernist work by a composer who couldn’t quite shake off the ghost of Tchaikovsky?  Certainly the old Rachmaninov is everywhere present: gorgeous orchestration—again, with more than a hint of Broadway—rhapsodic keyboard runs, soaring, endless melodies…and yet, none of it ‘soars’ or dazzles the way it should (if we assume all concertos should be like Nos. 2 and 3).  Instead, Rachmaninov seems to tease us, opening with a grand, epic invocation from the orchestra which is immediately pushed aside by a piano that hammers out notes aggressively, as if to say “I’ll make you forget the Tchaikovsky No.1!”  But then…it settles down to a much quieter, more subtle argument that approaches chamber music.  Yet the music itself is divine: Rachmaninov conjures up sounds never before heard in his music; it is much more playful than ever before, with the piano resembling some of his less tuneful Etudes-Tableaux.  A gorgeous Rachmaninov tune enters around the 2 minute mark, seeming to detour into Piano Concerto No.2 territory (it could easily exist in that work), but like the Third Symphony, it quickly morphs into a scherzo.  The music then drives into a darker realm, creating an almost spooky atmosphere of great seriousness.  After a grand climax the piano climbs out of the depths with solemn chords, and before long, the scherzo reasserts itself, followed by the gorgeous theme, and then—an abrupt, “blink or you’ll miss it” ending.  Indeed, many critics have criticized this ending, but in reality, it was longer; Rachmaninov decided it needed pruning and left us with this.  There’s something quite cheeky about how he ends it, and in many ways, it reminds me of the end of The Rhapsody, which also ends quite deadpan.  I have to think this is his defensive response to critics who accused him of too much romantic bombast.  In any case, taken on its own terms it works and it’s an enormously successful, varied first movement. 

The slow moment is also unusual—a broad, serene theme that some have compared (unreasonably) to “Three Blind Mice.”  I think it’s typical Rachmaninov, just without the romance; can a theme be beautiful without conjuring up desperate lovers and Pre-Raphaelite portraits?  Naturally—Mozart did it, and this reminds me of a Mozart Romance from his piano concertos, perhaps Nos. 20, 22, or 27.  Indeed, there is much that is Mozartian here, and though Mozart is not a composer one readily associates with Rachmaninov, there is much affinity between the two in Rachmaninov’s late music.  The autumnal quality, certainly, but also his willingness to experiment and play with form—think of Mozart’s 27^th concerto, which defies all the previous works in its lack of theatricality.  It simply exists as it is. 

The finale opens brashly—even cheekily in the orchestra, before the piano careens in, almost a tad drunkenly.  Everything here seems composed with a nod to Prokofiev by way of Broadway.  Indeed, there is a slight hint of Jazz beneath this music; let’s not forget that Rachmaninov was in the audience during the premier of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue!  This is one of Rachmainov’s first works written squarely in the 20^th century, and one that, without radically altering his style, converts the often heavy, austere quality of the Second Symphony into athletic, ‘young’ sounding music.  Of course, there’s melody and beauty throughout, but the dominant mood is satiric high spirits.  Indeed, the finale sounds like a discarded movement from the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, particularly Variations 19-21, which groove and shake like no other work in his opus (except this concerto).  So why is it so neglected?  Sure, it’s played now and then, and recorded when anyone does a complete set of his concerti, but as a stand-alone piece it delights—and is a nice reposte to those who exclaim Rachmaninov is old hat, washed up, hopelessly Romantic.  Amazingly, in his 60’s Rachmaninov was still reinventing himself and listening (and taking notes) on American music.  I often have to be in just the right mood to listen to Piano Concerto No.3, but No.4 always takes me by surprise and transports me to its unique soundscape.  For these reasons it makes an ideal introduction to Rachmaninov’s music, rather than a tolerated footnote to his compositional legacy. 

My favorite version is the classic recording from Ormandy and Entremont with the Philadelphia Symphony.  This was “Rachmaninov’s orchestra,” since he had a warm working relationship with them, and premiered several works with them, two of which he conceived with them in mind: Symphony No.3 and the Symphonic Dances.  Other great versions include the Ashkenazy/Haitnik version, as well as the much lauded version by Michelangeli, along with Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G (a novel, and very appropriate coupling!).  

The Weight-Loss Approach to Reading

In some respects, we’re living in a renaissance of reading—a true rebirth of reading culture.  When I was in college, it seemed like few people read books outside of classes, and almost no one knew any of the big authors, outside of the ones whose books were instantly translated into films.  With the advent of Kindle and e-books, suddenly it’s become cool to read again, since reading looks more like television or staring at a computer; it’s not ‘boring’ and you can actually read much faster on a Kindle than you can a ‘real’ book.  Partially this comes down to the skimming factor, since I suspect many people read e-books the way they read Facebook/Twitter feeds.  Of course, we’ve become so reliant on technology that for many people, sitting down with an actual paper book seems hopelessly old-fashioned and the lure of the screen becomes impossible to ignore.  Some of my students complain that they simply can’t sit down with a paperback for more than a few minutes before their mind starts racing.  E-books, however, allay that mental fear of losing the screen and they feel more connected; suddenly, people are rediscovering the ability to read a short book in a one go, or at least having an hour or two of uninterrupted pleasure.  So that’s a good thing; people are reading again, and from a quick glance at sites like Goodreads or Booklikes, they’re reading tons of books as quickly as they can find them.  Again, this is good—read books, read many books, and lose yourself in other writers’ lives and minds. 

What does concern me is the distressing focus on quantity on all these sites.  Goodreads offers a 2014 Reading Challenge, where you’re supposed to set a reading goal—say, 50 books—that you hope to meet by the end of the year.  I’ve seen people boast about reading 200 books—some even more.  Many readers’ accounts have hundreds and hundreds of books on their ‘to read’ list, and they are all the time adding more, reading more, devouring more.  Also, these sites encourage you to update your progress: what page are you on, how close are you to finishing, how many books have you completed this month?  Even the Kindle reader has a little bar on the bottom telling you the percentage you have left of the book, as if we can all sigh with relief when it finally, mercifully, reaches 80%.  There are even sites that track how fast you read books and encourage you to increase your speed, buy products that can help you read words faster, etc.  Granted, few of these books are Joyce’s Ulysses or anything that requires deep concentration, but even so, should we encourage reading to the finish line?  Why are we trying to read so many books so quickly?  My own ‘to read’ pile is enormous, and always has been, but the last thing I want to do is set time limits on how quickly I plan to demolish it so I can start a new one.  What’s the rush? 

In Alan Jacob’s excellent little book, The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction (2011), he addresses this very issue of reading fast and posting it for all the world to see:

I think this is a bad idea.  It’s what you’re reading that matters, and how you’re reading it, not the speed with which you’re getting through it.  Reading is supposed to be about the encounter with other minds, not an opportunity to return to the endlessly appealing subject of Me.  Americans have enough encouragements to narcissism; let’s try to do without this one (67). 

Though this passage—and I suppose my entire post here—sounds a bit hectoring, I think it makes a great point about why people have taken up reading with such aplomb.  It’s a kind of boasting, isn’t it?   Would people read so much if they had to do it in silence, in solitude?  Why do we need to constantly post what we’ve read, how much we’ve read, how much we want to read?  Is it really all about me?  And in our rush to beat last year’s record, or to show our followers how many eclectic books we can experience, are we actually doing anything resembling good old fashioned reading?  Don’t get me wrong—I commit all of the sins outlined above: I read books fairly quickly, post about them, write reviews of them, etc.  However, I don’t feel any urge to set limits and my training as an English scholar has taught me to read slowly, deeply, and for more than surface appreciation.  Does that make me better than anyone else?  Of course not…but I suspect I’m enjoying the books I read a bit more, since I’m not racing through them or glancing at the readout that tells me how much time left until I can get off the Stairmaster.

Shouldn’t reading be fun?  Something savored, the way you would take your time over a great meal, or perhaps more suitably, the way you spend time with someone you love?  Do you really want it to end so you can get on to your next meal—or your next love affair?  If so, what is the value of a good meal or a true relationship with another person?  Is it all just casual sex or fast food take out?  Okay, so who cares if people make out with their books and eat great quantities of high calorie romance novels (to stretch the metaphor to its breaking point)?  This leads to my second point: by focusing more on reading quickly, we might be reading with blinders.  Let’s face it, not every book is written the same; some books are all about plot, with little emphasis on style or character development.  Others are all about how the sentence is written, how the character looks at a certain building at a certain time of day.  For some books, description is the plot, is the character development (despite our modern maxims that description is lazy writing, is boring, is fluff).  

When we read fast, we read for two things: plot and genre.  You can’t read quickly without looking for (and relying on) the convenient sign posts of genre.  You see Character X which you recognize from a thousand books; you see Plot Y which you’ve read over and over again, but you expect a new, fresh twist on it right at the end.  A satisfying, five-star read is a book that gives you exactly what you expected, yet adds one tiny spice to make you, for a moment, think you’ve read a different book.  This is why after Harry Potter every publisher green-lighted stories about adolescent sorcerers; why after Twilight teenage vampires invaded every high school and small town across America; and after The Hunger Games dystopian worlds and gladiatorial games became the soup du jour.  So what happens to those writers, past and present, who don’t want to follow the pre-packaged mold?  A mold which, ironically, was not followed by J.K. Rowling, Stephanie Meyer, or Suzanne Collins.  Do we know how to read those books?  Can we appreciate them?  Or do we get irritated with them and even call them out for being ‘bad’ or ‘disappointing’?

To return once more to Alan Jacobs, he discusses how much pleasure he’s derived from reading the philosopher David Hume, who is by no stretch of the imagination a “page turner.”  As he explains,

For almost all of us, then, Hume’s writing will provide a kind of test—an opportunity to find out just how much patience we have, how much time we’re willing to take.  And to spare any suspense on this point, the results of that test will almost certainly be: not patient enough.  But this is no cause for discouragement.  A person who had been sedentary for a lifetime would not think that she could rise up from her sofa, head out the door, and run a breezy 10K.  Instead she would work up to it slowly, starting with a few strolls around the block perhaps, then longer walks, then a little jogging, and so on.  The same applies to the reading of texts written in an unfamiliar idiom or genre, or written in an age whose stylistic preferences differ from our own (49). 

As an English teacher and scholar of older literatures, I deeply identify with this statement.  I, too, started out sedentary then learned to crawl, then walk, then jog, then sprint—and even then, only for a short time before becoming winded.  However, I always knew that it was a race worth running.  Yet as reading becomes more and more about a different kind of race, are we able to take the time to adjust our reading preferences or grapple with a different period, culture, style, or author?  I ask this because I’ve seen so much ignorant nonsense on sites like Goodreads, Booklikes, and even Amazon, from readers who give classic books such as Pride and Prejudice and The Lord of the Rings negative reviews for being too long, too wordy, too descriptive, and ultimately, too boring.  One reviewer—who, conveniently enough, was also an author—claimed that Tolkein needed to learn how to edit, and that he could make the three novels into one really good one, if anyone cared to ask him.  I’ve heard similar comments about The Iliad and all of Shakespeare’s works: pointless, discursive, and in need of a good editor.  

The ignorance of these statements is shattering.   First of all, it assumes that we, in the 21^st century, invented editing.  Don’t you think it was edited?  In fact, I would wager to believe that many works of the past were edited with more intelligence and rigor that anything we push through the presses today.  Take The Iliad, for example; this is a work from the oral tradition that was probably re-written, revised, and recast for hundreds of years before it assumed anything like its final form.  Jane Austen completely re-wrote the book Pride and Prejudice was based on (First Impressions), changing it from an epistolary novel to a more traditional one, and in the process making a work of the late Enlightenment into a fledgling Romantic novel.  Can you imagine the work (and critical fortitude) that must have went into this process?  Secondly, making a book from the past into a ‘bestseller’ would not notably improve it; indeed, it would destroy what makes it unique and able to transcend its moment in time.  By this logic, should we abolish different languages in favor of one we all agree on, that could speak to everyone equally, without taking into account the nuances of culture and poetry?  In short, reading takes time, and learning to read the works of the past, as well as works outside our own cultural and generic norms, takes patience (to quote Jacobs).  I don’t think the current reading environment encourages patience, and many young readers, raised on this approach, will quickly abandon works that don’t “speak to them,” assuming that it’s a flaw of the book/author.  As a reader, I usually assume the fault lies with me, and I need to recalibrate my expectations before I dismiss a book as 1 or 2 stars, or heap it on the “will never finish” pile. 

As an English teacher, more and more of my first-year students seem to read books, which is amazing—no question.  Yet these same students are more reluctant, it seems, to read books that demand more of them, that don’t fit into a genre they like or an author they’ve previously read.  I hear quite often, “I don’t like classics,” as if this is a genre or a style of writing.  My point, if I really have one, is that our reading seems more driven by advertising and marketing than a desire to read new books and meet new ideas.  All new technology destroys as it creates, and I fear our frantic embrace of e-books and the marketers that come with it, are making us count books as we count calories.  Are books good for you?  Of course they are; they enrich the mind, nourish the soul, and knock us out of our selfish bubble to see other worlds—worlds we may never visit in person (all the more so for worlds in the past).  Yet reading by itself isn’t necessarily good; I could read a thousand cereal boxes and not walk away enlightened.  Reading is an art, which is ultimately a tool, a means to transport us to another state of mind/being.  If we read blindly, we learn blindly, too.  Reading should never become like our 1,500 “friends” on Facebook.  Even if you read only one book this year, read it slowly, patiently, and let the experience transform you.  If you love books, of course you want to read as many as possible—I certainly do—but don’t let sheer numbers impress you.  Don’t count the books or take stock of the pages.  Just keep reading: different books and different authors, different styles and genres, and in different languages if possible…especially when no one’s looking.  

Focus on Sergei Rachmaninov, Part I: Symphony No.3 (1936)

Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninov is something of a 20th century enigma: he doesn’t fit neatly into the parade of modernist composers who blossomed in Europe and Russia in the early years of the 20th century, and he stubbornly resisted the tide of serialism that conquered the composing world soon after WWI. However, it is incorrect to call him an anachronism, either, as his music could not have been written in the 19th century, and throughout his works are subtle hallmarks of a ‘modern’ ear, one that combined the true sensibility of Romanticism with a world-weary, and at times, despairing 20th century outlook. Even before his death, the critical music world dismissed him as a has-been (and to some, a never-was), though his works stubbornly refused to disappear from the repertory. Audiences clamored to hear his 2nd and 3rd piano concertos, the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, his 2nd symphony, and numerous piano works, including the haunting, often Chopinesque Preludes. It wasn’t until serialism had run its course (and even academics were admitting that audiences would never completely warm to its rigors) that conductors, musicians, and critics began the ‘thaw’ of Rachmaninov’s legacy. Sure, some of the works never entirely fell out of favor, but what of all the other works—the 2 other piano concertos, the 3 other symphonies, and a slew of piano works that few pianists dared to attempt (such as the First Piano Sonata, or the unrevised version of the Second). Today, Rachmaninov is one of the most-recorded composers in the catalogue, his reputation as a 20th century master firmly established, and a true link between the generation of Tchaikovsky and the neo-Romantics, including many modernist-Romantics such as Samuel Barber and Erich Korngold. 

This is the first post of many where I will examine some of his ‘forgotten’ works, which even today, are lesser-known (though often prolifically recorded), and belie his status as an “old fashioned” composer, or as Stravinsky once accused him, a painter who abandoned fresh watercolors for stale oils.  Hearing this works alongside his more famous music gives us a complex portrait of an artist who continued to grow and evolve, even though his unique musical thumbprint appeared at an early age.  Though he would never be as radical as Schoenberg, or as innovative as Bartok, he offered profound solutions to the question of musical meaning in a disillusioned age.  Rachmaninov’s piano sounds like no one else’s before or since, and his orchestra, though spiced with the aromas of Tchaikovsky and Richard Strauss, finds its own solitary byways that few composers dared—or were able—to follow. 

Symphony No.3: This late, autumnal symphony was largely rejected by both the modernists and the traditionalists when it appeared in 1936.  Modernists, of course, found it another example of his mawkish melodrama, while friends more in sympathy with Rachmaninov, such as the composer-pianist Nikolai Medtner, exclaimed that he had jumped to the modernist’s camp!  The reasons for this confusing critical assessment are not hard to discern: the symphony marries Rachmaninov’s traditional melodies and flow with a growing appreciation for American music, as well as, perhaps, a deeper understanding of Stravinsky’s art.  His orchestration is leaner, more muscular, and yet more inventive than in previous works, such as the gargantuan, and sometimes densely scored Second Symphony.  Chief among his orchestral innovations is his focus on rhythmic elements, which to me suggests allusions to the American scene—jazz and Broadway above all.  The opening movement, however, is most memorable for its sense of overwhelming longing; it has been called his “Exile” symphony, for Rachmaninov had abandoned Russia after the Revolution and was never to return.  He spent his last decades in America, shored up in Southern California along other European ex-pats such as Schoenberg and Stravinsky.  For such a deeply Russian composer (at least in the sense that his music carries a significant national stamp), composing in America must have been a tricky proposition (all the more so in Beverly Hills!). Many attributed his long compositional silence to his exile, though it probably had more to do with an endless round of concert engagements to pay the bills. 

At any rate, the Third Symphony exhibits Rachmaninov at the height of his powers, and like the Second Symphony, it opens with a motto theme that provides material for the entire movement—a haunting tune for 2 clarinets, horn and muted cello, which then explodes into a rhythmic clatter.  This subsides into more typical Rachmaninov, a searching, wistful theme which seems to speak of exile and old Russia (it also slightly resembles a more agitated version of the slow movement of Piano Concerto No.4).  Rachmaninov develops this in many unusual ways, often more typical of his scherzo movements than a first movement.  His use of percussion and rhythmic effects nicely offset his familiar melodic strain, making the movement a refined, subtle, but always provocative masterpiece.  The slow movement is the most interesting movement, as it combines slow movement and scherzo, offering us one of his greatest romantic themes, but not letting it run the show as in the Second Symphony.  A jolly, sardonic march intrudes early on, dominating the movement until the gorgeous theme reasserts itself.  The finale that follows is cut from the same cloth as the opening movement, with boisterous, scherzo-like rhythm occasionally broken up by moments of painful nostalgia.  I honestly feel like this was Rachmaninov’s way of composing in an ‘American’ style without compromising his essential aesthetic.  It is more athletic and lean, yet everything sounds exactly like him.  I truly admire his ability, quite late in life, to unleash a side of him left dormant (to some degree) since his First Symphony, where melody was firmly held in check for symphonic development.  While I wouldn’t say this is necessary better than his more famous Second Symphony, it is surely its equal—and superior for its ability to conform to new styles and be influenced by his adopted homeland. 

I have never heard a bad recorded version of this symphony, though I would recommend the following versions highly: Dutoit with the Philadelphia Symphony, Jansons with the St. Peterburgh Philharmonic, Ashkenazy with the London Symphony, and Ormandy with the Philadelphia (the pioneer recording). 

Review of "Forty-Six: My Tulsa in Pictures" by Ashley Martin

Forty-Six: My Tulsa in Pictures, by Ashley Martin 

When I first came to Tulsa in 1989 as a teenager, I found a town slowly emerging into a more cosmopolitan identity.  However, these attempts were isolated to very specific regions of the city; elsewhere, it remained something of a “cow town,” which rested on its laurels as a famous stop on Route 66.  Large tracts of land with cattle sat comfortably next to a strip mall, while the downtown itself had been largely abandoned, its art deco architecture left to decay amidst a sea of shopping carts and faded billboards.  That Tulsa has largely disappeared, replaced by new roads, parking lots, coffee houses, and a revitalized downtown.  Tulsa is now a progressive, thriving mid-sized city, and I’m sometimes at a loss to find the Tulsa I grew up in.  This might be the inspiration behind Ashley Martin’s wonderful book of pictures, Forty Six: My Tulsa in Pictures, which almost totally ignores what Tulsa has become in the search for what it was—20 years ago, 40 years ago, and even further beyond.  Like any city, the past still clings on in the margins, visible in an alleyway or neglected back road.  Ashley Martin explores the less glamorous—okay, the downright grungy—aspects of Tulsa to piece together this lost Tulsa that many of us grew up in.  However, this isn’t an exercise in willful nostalgia or hipster vintage gusto; instead, it’s simply a poetic look at how the past slowly dies in plain sight.  This Tulsa is still there—people still live here—but how few of us look at it, racing by in our cars to a more exclusive destination.  In a few years, I imagine, even these last vestiges will be gone, so Martin’s book will be a testament to what was; better left forgotten by some, but well worth remembering by others.  For all of it, good and bad, made Tulsa was it is, particularly the mythic images of open land and cattle that form the definitive architecture of the book. 

Fittingly, the book opens with a gorgeous black and white image of a tree embracing the sky, the idyllic Tulsa that has always been (we’re in Green Country, after all).  This is followed by another ‘past’ Tulsa, a seemingly abandoned warehouse adorned with a stylish ‘Tulsa’ sign on its front.  Clearly, Tulsa has forgotten this once integral member of its economy, and the reflection in its large windows reveals empty streets and shadows of signs that look ominously like crosses.  A sunrise is also caught in the window, but one fears it might be the last for this building (we could probably hear the rumble of bulldozers that morning).  Martin’s tour continues through quaint shop windows, school entrances, churches, beauty salons, and the iconic “Wonder Bread” sign that all Tulsans of a certain generation recognize.  Yet the tour is ultimately not celebratory, as a metaphorical graveyard of stripped down gas pumps informs us: in the race to progress, much of the old Tulsa has simply been left to die.  The “Rebel Run” restaurant, with boarded up and broken windows, broods in silence, never again to serve up its tasty fried delicacies.  A similar fate has met “Barber & Beauty Supply,” a decaying storefront on an abandoned street, which Martin captures in the full light of a Tulsa blue sky.  Cleverly, the windows again capture the other side of the street, revealing only a gas station, the one business still in business (so people can continue their hasty retreat out of the neighborhood, perhaps).  In some ways, the most poetic image of this ‘abandoned Tulsa’ series is a crushed pack of Marlboros photographed on the street.  It has clearly been run over several times, and its flat, empty exterior is scarcely more colorful than the crusty, gray pavement itself.  Yet from the grime emerges an American icon: the brand is instantly recognizable and even in our “no smoking” world they conjure up a sense of pride and identity.  All these faded storefronts do the same: though they are no longer ‘good for our health,’ we secretly wish to look through the windows, imagining them at their prime, when we could sit down, grab a bite, and listen to the conversation of a dozen strangers. 

Martin also captures the older, Route 66 Tulsa in her images, as witnessed by a Jazz Age “Atlas Travel” sign downtown, and a rusted-beyond-recognition sign for used cars, which has the iconic Route 66 arrow.  The Mayo building, too, rises out of a black and white Tulsa night, as a beacon to its historic past.  Reaching even further into history are a few fleeting images of our Western past: a balloon emblazed with a cowboy rising into a pink sunset sky, a young girl participating in a cattle show, and the cow itself, a beautiful animal staring placidly at the camera.  This seems to be her final thought on Tulsa, as she ends with a two page spread of a Tulsa field, the grass shimmering in a sun-drenched summer day.  A few clouds drift lazily overhead, and nothing of the new or old Tulsa is visible, beyond the faintest impression of a house or two on the margins.  Tulsa may be on the march to a glorious, big-city rebirth, but it remains rooted in Oklahoma.  The land, the sky, and the smothering heat will always be here, no matter how many Walgreen’s we erect on every corner.  Martin’s book is a reminder that this Tulsa can be re-discovered, the one you grew up with as well as the one that preceded us all.  We should look more, not drive so fast, and simply take pictures (even if only mental ones) of the city we love.  Because even in its squalor and decay, beauty can be found—even if it takes a clever and perceptive photographer to find it.  

Check out her blog of photos and poems here: thetemporaryarrangement.com
You can buy Forty-Six here: http://blur.by/1ch613z

New Semester--New Class: Global Shakespeares

The Spring semester just started here at ECU, and I'm finally tackling one of my 'bucket list' courses: a Shakespeare seminar with a World Literature focus.  That is, we're focusing primarily on adaptations of Shakespeare in other countries and/or Western adaptations that are informed by the outside world--postcolonial approaches, etc.  It's a very ambitious course for me, and I've been reading up on it for months, trying to build on what I already know, and I've come across some great books, notably Huang's work, Chinese Shakespeares, which pointed me to some great modern productions in China, as well as MIT's Global Shakespeares page, which collects performances from around the world, few of them in English (watch them here): http://globalshakespeares.mit.edu/#

Here is the blog that accompanies my class, and which my students will be posting on and adding to with their own ideas and research.  We're starting with As You Like It next week, first with the recent Branagh film, then with the text, so that the students encounter the adaptation first, as do most readers of Shakespeare today (many of them haven't read As You Like It yet).  Follow along and let me know if you know of other sites, books, or ideas (assignments) of interest.  So excited for this semester; this is a class that feels as creative as writing an article or a book--but I get the class to help! 

The site: ecushakespeare.blogspot.com

TCOTLD--Free on Amazon this Wed/Thur, Jan.8-9

What happens when you lock your Death in a chest for 15 years...and then hire a sorcerer named Hildigrim Blackbeard to sort it all out?  Find out for this Wednesday/Thursday on Amazon where you can download my book for FREE (instead of its whopping $2.99 price tag!).  I hate to plug the book on my blog, but I still believe in it and hope someone else will believe in it, too.  Commercial over--but I do hope you'll check it out! (the blurb and link follow)

Count Leopold always wondered about the strange chest sealed with three magic locks.  His father warned him never to mention the Box—nor pry into the secret chamber where it was kept.  Now the Box has begun speaking to Leopold, begging him to find the key and undo the hateful locks.  If he does so, it promises him to fulfill his every desire, even offering him the hand of the forbidden—and forbiddingly named— Lady Mary Bianca Domenica de Grassini Algarotti.  However, before unfastening the third lock he catches a glimpse of something unspeakable inside—and turns to the only man who shared his father’s secret, the legendary Conjurer-Magician, Hildigrim Blackbeard.  A man who, if the stories are true, will exact a terrible price in return for his service. 

Download it for free here:  http://www.amazon.com/Count-Living-Chronicles-Hildigrim-Blackbeard-ebook/dp/B00FQ6711Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_s_t_1

A Review of Eleanor & Park: A Book That Looks Like Art

I had the good fortune to speak at an event with Rainbow Rowell at a Tulsa Library Novel Talk series on “Literature and Romance” in 2012.  I was there to give a talk over Jane Austen as prelude to a reading from her book, Attachments, and a Q & A with a friend of mine, Laura Raphael, who organized the event.  Sadly, I didn’t know a single one of her works, but my wife and I were bowled over by her presentation and unique storytelling ability.  I knew she had to be a great writer based on what I heard that afternoon, but nothing prepared me for the voice I encountered in her books—to say nothing of the feeling I had when I turned the final page of her novel, Eleanor & Park, last night.  Perhaps it’s for the best that I didn’t know her work back then; otherwise, I would have felt like a fool for speaking on the same stage as her, and might have simply yielded my time to let her go even longer.  After all, who cares what some diminutive professor from a small university has to say about Jane Austen—we have her direct descendant in the room with us!  (more about the Jane Austen connection to follow).   

I suppose it’s redundant to write yet another laudatory review of Rainbow Rowell’s phenomenally successful novel, Eleanor & Park, especially when she already has another successful book out (Fangirl) and a fourth one imminent (Landline).  However, a great work of art demands a response, and perhaps that’s my only defense in writing this review: to claim this work as a great piece of literature, rather than Young Adult lit or as some would pejoratively claim, ‘chick lit.’  This book works on every level that, say, Jane Austen, does, another writer who is unfairly relegated to the questionable sub-genre of ‘books that only girls like.’  Like Jane Austen, Rainbow Rowell uses the flowering of an unlikely romance to document our society—its prejudices, phobias, confusions, ideals, and disappointments.  The story of Eleanor and Park, two extraordinarily unique yet realistic teenagers, should resonate with anyone who tried to piece together adulthood from the disjointed shards of adolescence.  Clearly, we aren’t given all the pieces, and when we try to make them fit, the edges don’t match—we cut ourselves—and the result is a painful, frustrating mess that only years later, when we’re older and wiser (perhaps) do we appreciate why it was all worth it.  That’s what this work does for me: it shows why being a teenager was worth it, and why the pain of isolation and being ostracized is one of the greatest gifts you can receive in life.

Halfway through the book, when Eleanor and Park have begun their tentative relationship, Park reflects on Eleanor’s claim that she never looks ‘nice.’  He agrees, adding, “Eleanor was right: She never looked nice.  She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.”  It’s an important passage, since Eleanor and Park are two people who don’t look “nice.”  They aren’t “pretty,” and they don’t fit the neat ideals of American life sold to us in films,  advertisements, and far too many novels.  Eleanor is large, has a wild shock of red hair, dresses in a hodgepodge of men’s clothing, and just wants to be left alone.  Park is one of the lone Koreans in suburban Omaha, comes from a loving family, listens to punk rock and reads comic books, and secretly despises everyone he goes to school with.  Fittingly, they meet on the bus, with Eleanor as the new girl who everyone immediately makes fun of; even Park, no romantic hero himself (shades of Darcy, perhaps?), thinks she’s a weirdo and wants nothing to do with her.  Grudgingly he offers her space on his seat, though without a shred of gallantry; indeed, he hopes she never so much as looks at him in thanks.  The kids on the bus jeer her with whispers and shouts of “Big Red,” and Park simply glowers in silence, wondering why in the world he offered to be her protector. 

From this very unpromising beginning, the two begin a relationship as only two alienated teenagers could strike up: she begins reading comics with him from across the seat, and he, feeling a mixture of guilt and interest, starts leaning over a little more, waiting for her silently to finish the page before turning to the next.  The romance is slow, subtle, yet so entirely believable—or perhaps, life as it should be believed—that I fell in love with them myself.  Park finally takes the leap and gives her a comic to take home with her, which leads to short, staccato conversations about the X-Men and the Watchmen; this leads to offers of music (mix tapes!) and eventually, to holding hands.  The first time Park takes her hand—after weeks of hesitant attempts to say something real to one another—we get a masterpiece of literary polyphony; that is, two voices coming together to make a satisfying, harmonious whole.   Rowell breaks up the chapters between Eleanor and Park’s point of view, and while some chapters focus on long spans of narrative, others are mere pinpoints of thought (some are a single sentence).  This moment is first narrated by Eleanor, as she records their pointless chatter about the Watchmen:

“He was still holding the end of her scarf, rubbing the silk idly between his thumb and fingers.  She watched his hand.  If he were to look up at her now, he’d know exactly how stupid she was...If Park were to look up at her now, he’d know everything.  He didn’t look up.  He wound the scarf around his fingers until her hand was hanging in the space between then.  Then he slid the silk and his fingers into his open palm.  And Eleanor disintegrated...Like something had gone wrong beaming her into the Starship Enterprise....Maybe Park had paralyed her with his ninja magic, his Vulcan handhold, and now he was going to eat her.  That would be awesome.”

We then switch to Park’s perspective, as he notes that “Holding Eleanor’s hand was like holding a butterfly.  Or a heartbeat.  Like holding something complete, and completely alive.”  He goes onto to recall his previous attempts to hold or kiss a girl, which were not only awkward, but lifeless.  He feared he wasn’t attracted to “real girls,” or perhaps only to “perverted cartoon-sexual” girls found in comics.  However, once he took her hand, he realized, “he just didn’t recognize all those other girls.  The way a computer drive will spit out a disk if it doesn’t recognize the formatting.  When he touched Eleanor’s hand, he recognized her.  He knew.” 

While the romance is carefully and believably constructed, what is more important here is how both teenagers experience love.  Not through cliched phrases and “pretty” emotions, but through their own eclectic sensations and metaphors.  Nothing new happens in the world, we’ve all seen it before as readers, but as people, everything we experience is new—all the more so when we’re young, and all those song lyrics and films and books suddenly make sense (to us, at any rate).  How would a teenager like Eleanor, who has been told her entire life she’s fat, unwanted, unfit to exist in a world of prettiness and popularity, understand that another boy would want to “eat” her?  And how would a kid raised on American stereotypes and punk rock rebellion find beauty in a girl who isn’t afraid to be a work of art—a woman that makes him feel, rather than a cardboard model blithely sipping a Diet Coke?   The relationship that follows is a true work of art, not just in Rowell’s words, but in the haphazard, confused, beautiful, sublime manner in which they find one another. 

Yet like Jane Austen (to invoke her one final time), Rowell uses the teenage lovers to examine our own world—or in this case, the 80’s of Middle America.  Omaha exists as a real place in her work, with the good part of town divided from the bad by a single block.  Yet this narrow gulf is an ocean for Eleanor, who lives with her abused mother and four siblings in her drunk father-in-law, Richie’s, house.  Richie, a man who probably grew up in a “pretty” world and became disillusioned when he couldn’t have it, now sees all women as trash.  He kicks Eleanor out of the house—with her mother’s defeated but total compliance—and threatens worse, particularly as he scrawls pornographic messages on her schoolbook covers.  Eleanor learns early on that “pretty” is just a sales pitch, which money can buy—and others can only dream of.  So she defiantly becomes “ugly,” dressing as a piece of walking performance art which horrifies her peers (who, in one scene, stuff her clothes in the gym toilet).  This is not only her defense, but also her artistic manifesto for small-town Omaha: I’ve seen what you think is beautiful, and if that’s beauty, I’ll be a festering sore on your beauty; I’ll be the Caliban to your Prospero, mocking you as you live in splendor on your little island. 

In the same way, Park is formulating his own private manifesto, as society expects him to live up to the ideals of a suburban American male—and an Asian American male.  Yes, he does well in school and takes martial arts (at his father’s insistence, an American military man who married a Korean woman), but to him, this is all part of the pretty package he’s supposed to embody.  He longs for the feelings that comics inspire in him-a world of mutants and heroes who save the world by being different, who rise from the gutters to reach the stars.  Though taught to date a “pretty” girl like Tina (the popular girl, who secretly likes him), every instinct screams out for Eleanor, the only girl who looks like a comic book hero come to life.  When she cannot understand why someone as beautiful as Park likes her, he continually tells her, because you’re “cool.”  “Cool” meaning not neat, trendy, hip, or amazing, but a work of art—something that makes you feel something.  Teenagers are full of strong emotions but are taught to push these down and emulate ideas and experiences that only adults can appreciate.  Eleanor gives form to the emotions he has always felt, but has no words for—and only the frames of a comic book can approximate. 

Without recounting the wonderful story and the ins-and-outs of Eleanor and Park’s relationship, I will conclude with the ultimate spoiler: we don’t get a happy ending.  That is, we do get one, but it’s not pretty—it’s “ugly,” by which I mean as unique and satisfying as Eleanor and Park themselves.  True art and beauty cannot exist unsullied in life, especially for teenagers, who can never truly own anything.  Yet the book is gloriously optimistic—if never sentimental—in its view of love, and how love is a necessary step in our evolution, even if the results disappoint.  We need love, even if we can’t hold onto it, even if we can’t take it with us.  As Eleanor reflects at the end of the book, “You saved my life, she tried to tell him.  Not forever, not for good.  Probably just temporarily, and now I’m yours.  The me that’s me right now is yours.  Always.”  Here Eleanor shows wisdom beyond her years as she unconsciously quotes Keats, knowing that the figures in the urn can never reach one another, can never touch, but the result is art—timeless and beautiful.  After all, love is a mature experience, and one you rarely get right—or get to savor—the first time around.  Yet your first experience shapes you for life, and that person never truly dies, but remains evergreen in your dreams and ideals.  So, too, with Eleanor and Park, fictional characters in a work of art that feels like Keats’ Urn set in motion. 

Only one other work I can think of captures this sense of teenage awakening and social awareness so accurately—Craig Thompson’s monumental graphic novel, Blankets.  Both works share many of the same themes, characters, and ideas, and both are unafraid to be ugly when pretty is all we expect.  There are many pretty works of art out there, so many to choose from; but when you read a work like Eleanor & Park, you quickly lose your taste for them.  This is the real thing, the kind of work that reminds us why we read in the first place.  No, not for escape or for voyeuristic pleasure, but to find ourselves in the lives of others.  Though I read through the book far too quickly (and I’m sure I’ll read it again soon!), I’ve rarely felt so much a part of the two characters’ lives; I am desperate to know what happens next, yet am relieved that I can never know.  Like the best art, it’s not about the future but the present—it exists right here, in the moment we can hold in our hands as we read the book.  There’s nothing else.