Bright Dead Things, Ada Limón

 Just a short post, because I have such a backlog of books to write about and a lot to do these days... 

Awhile back, Pilsen Community Books posted a poem from this book, and I was so taken by it that I immediately ordered it from them. I started reading it and was absolutely blown away, and then, wonder of wonders, it turned out that Limón was doing a reading at Cornell! So I got to go and hear her read some poems, and tell stories about them, and about her family, and talk about her process, and her worldview, and it was all just so absolutely magical. What an incredible presence she is. 

Of course, maybe it was also just the pleasure of being in a room with people appreciating poetry, which I haven't done in a very long time (my classes don't count, heh heh), but I do think this was an exceptionally good reading. Some credit goes to the audience, who asked really interesting questions (those fancy Cornell folk!). I was especially struck by a person who asked whether she does the line breaks in the first rush of composition, or adds them later (apparently this person had heard someone, maybe Victoria Chang? say that their first draft is one line of prose, and the line breaks come after), and another person who asked whether she composes out loud, or in writing. These are maybe very obvious questions to ask a poet, but I hadn't ever thought of them, and I was very interested in the answers (she does the line breaks in the initial composition, and she does compose out loud, fyi. In my own feeble attempts at poetry, I do line breaks immediately but am constantly playing with them and changing them, and I never compose out loud.)

It's really hard for me to explain what is so absolutely magnetic and immediately captivating about these poems. I gave my copy of the book to a dear friend so I can't even look over it and try to figure it out (though I will definitely be buying myself another copy). But really, they are incredible, and you should go buy this book right away.

In the Next Room, or the Vibrator Play, Sarah Ruhl

 This is a fun, witty play. I borrowed it from the library because, having read Ruhl's essays, I was curious about her plays, and it didn't disappoint. It's simultaneously daring and kind of quaint, in a really interesting way — the tone teeters between irony and wide-eyed sentiment. I think this is in part because the subject matter — the use of vibrators to treat hysteria — unavoidably involves a certain amount of dramatic irony. We know what's really going on here (sex!), except we also sort of don't, because it's so difficult to really understand how people at the time experienced this kind of thing (or at least it is for me). Is it really possible to be so disconnected from your own sexuality? I know it is (and I know I'm very lucky to find it so hard to fathom), but then what does this mean for your sense of your body, for instance?

The brilliance of Ruhl's play is the way it activates multiple meanings of electricity, and the thrills and dangers attendant to it, and subtly plays with our sense of the Victorian era and its moral milieu. There is a faint suggestion, for instance, that sexual identity is more fluid, precisely because less explicitly categorized. There's also an interesting way that the play activates contemporary taboos by confronting us with the "innocence" of certain aspects of the Victorian era, like the racial politics, or the all-knowing authority of medical discourse, without a clear commentary to comfortably situate it in relation to current norms (is the doctor sexually abusing his patients? is the treatment of the African American character racist? The answers will seem obvious to many viewers, but the play withholds comment). This inevitable sense of then-vs-now is neatly echoed in the way the play is staged, with action taking place in two spaces simultaneously, the division between them alternately fixed and porous.

It would be really neat to see it staged, but it was a pleasure to read as well. In one of her essays, Ruhl says something like, stage directions should be meaningful, they carry important ideas and tone, etc, and this is very true here, such that you feel like you're being let in on a secret, in a way, by getting to read them. And you realize with particular clarity that any staging of this play is going to be a particular interpretation (most intriguingly, in the directions to the actors for the sounds they are to make during orgasm). 

It's a really sweet, enjoyable text, I'm looking forward to reading more of her stuff (and hopefully seeing it performed someday!).

Mothers: an Essay on Love and Cruelty, Jacqueline Rose

This book returns me to my questions about the difference between theory, auto-theory, and essay. The subtitle claims this to be an essay (and it's an expanded version of a piece from the London Review of Books), but I guess I nonetheless expected it to be more like a work of theory, or I guess just...more rigorous? Not rigor in the sense of hard, but rather, I wanted it to follow up on the promises it made, and develop the ideas more.

The first chapter was really compelling and laid out a bold and interesting argument about motherhood being a repository for cultural anxieties and unreasonable expectations; the idea that mothers are expected to both shield us from the horrors of the world, and also fix the world, but without every being granted power or resources. But the book doesn't really follow up on that argument. Instead, it's a sort of meandering, often personal, meditation on various ideas connected to motherhood — eros, ambivalence, how the experience is portrayed. Is this because it's an essay — is that what essays get to do? We think of auto-theory as fragmentary, but I think there is an expectation of circling back and having a clear through-line of an overall point.

Something interesting, that I think will end up really dating this book, is that there's a whole chapter on Elena Ferrante's novels, which Rose sees as the best representation of motherhood ever, it seems. It reminded me of just how much critical adulation there was for Ferrante, around that time — I think it's passed now (on to Sally Rooney, perhaps) — I enjoyed those books, but I just don't think they're quite as amazing as they were believed to be back then, or maybe, it's that I think the critical consensus on them sort of got them wrong. Anyhow, the fact that Rose devotes this much time to them (and really just says that they're fantastic because they show you the negative sides of mothering — the implication is that no one else really does, which I think is just not true, especially outside of Anglophone lit) sort of makes it seem like this book was written rather quickly, at a moment when Rose (and others) were still just SO excited about Ferrante.

Anyways. Overall, I liked it, I just wanted it to be something slightly different (in part because I read it with a student who is working on an Honors thesis with me, and thought it would be a good work of theory for her to dig into). I wonder, though, if my frustration also stems from a somewhat uneasy balance in the book between the various things it wants to do — theorize, discuss current politics, discuss literature, and do some personal reflection. These are tricky things to weave together, and I guess maybe it also requires some clear sign-posting (and marketing) about what you really intend. Or just a reader who isn't entering the text with strong expectations!

Garden by the Sea, Merce Rodoreda

I loved this book so much that I almost don't want to write about it. It was the perfect summer read. A lovely, melancholic novel — a gardener who describes the amusements and dramas of the families whose summer homes he cares for. The prose is gorgeous (the translation is excellent), the tone is perfect, I just wanted to crawl inside this book forever.