Books

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Again With the Books

Djuna Barnes (1892-1982)

Nightwood, Barnes’ best novel, has the distinction of being the only lesbian-themed Modernist gem to garner praise, and an introduction, from arch-conservative T.S. Eliot. Before writing it, Barnes was born in a log cabin, raped as a teen, and lived as a Bohemian journalist in Greenwich Village. She was ahead of her time in just about every way possible, even pioneering the kind of New Journalism that wouldn’t catch fire until mid-century. A poet, novelist, playwright, and illustrator, Barnes exemplified both the glory and isolation that come with being a perpetual outsider. Hemingway wouldn’t have known what to make of her.

Book$iot
Posted by Book Riot

This from Book Riot’s piece on “Five Women Writers Tougher Than Hemingway,” which is why the ending sentence is a reference to Hem.

And I went to get my copy of Nightwood so I could snap a photo of said book, the one we are chatting about here. I could not find it. This will—no doubt, no doubt at all—lead to the great Rabbit Hole Adventure of August 16. I’ll look for the book, have to rearrange some bookshelves (technically the books on the bookshelves), then stop to play on the keyboard, then maybe…

And so of the day, to make much of the lovely Djuna. And there is so much more to say about her. But I must go look for the book.

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Books & Art & Words

Paperbacks Plus BookstorepaperbackBookstore Abibliophobia – noun: (uh-bib-li-uh-foh-bee-uh)            
                  An extreme fear of running out of reading material—————————————————————————————————
But it’s not the fear of running out of just any books, it’s the fear of running out of the Right books. There are Right books, you see. The books written by a favorite author, The books you know you will read, just waiting for the right time and savoring the time before the reading, books that require days filled with rain and storm, books you’ve wanted to read for years. Those sorts of books. Yes?
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Some Authors

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Photo on Vintage Books and Anchor Books

“There are no laws for the novel. There never have been, nor can there ever be.”
—Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing (1919 – 2013)

There are authors whom I am always going to “get to.” And some authors who say the things I need to hear at just the right time. Sometimes those things come together in one author. And so here we have that in Doris Lessing. Guess I’ll needs get around to the Doris Lessing body of work. At least The Golden Notebook.

But for now any books will have to wait. Anything at all outside the normal day needs will have to wait. It’s the car thing, the car thing that so became the money thing. Yesterday’s dues.

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Dying For An Award

Denis Johnson

LitHub

Photo by Lit Hub

The obituaries for the novelist and poet Denis Johnson, who died in May at age 67, mentioned his National Book Award, his many rave reviews, his almost saintly status as “a writer’s writer’s writer.” Now he is collecting another prestigious accolade. He’ll be awarded a posthumous prize on September 2, as part of the National Book Festival in Washington. It’s the award from the Library of Congress of its annual Prize for American Fiction.

I always wonder. Does it matter to the creator of art when he receives an award after he has left this plane of existence? It might, I suppose, depending upon one’s view of the after life. I personally don’t think so. I think that any belief—or none—would grant a level of something, a something else, that would remove any earthly desires. It’s sort of the equivalent of winning a million dollars without the ability to spend it. Yet it is nice for those left behind. They get to know that their loved one mattered. That it mattered in a way that counted for him. His journey here is noted. I figure that’s good stuff.

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When You Love Something

Or, The Acrudements Of Passions

coverWhen you are immersed in something, all aspects of it are a part of that whole, the whole of it that you love. In books it’s the scent of new books, the scent of old books, books to be read, books already read, stories of authors, stories of stories, manuscript pieces, marginalia. I have several moleskin notebooks. I have Blackwing pencils and a hand sharpener. I have good pens, used pens, old pens—those that perform well. And a trunk full of my own writing. All of these things, sacred.

In music it’s the same. Even the photos of music scores. I have my childhood music books and my current books. I have the flute my son used to play. I have an old manual metronome. Books about Glenn Gould. (Of course his records.) And here, above, is something I ran across on the internet, so I had to print it. I wish I had the real thing here, to hold in my hands and place on the piano stand. In the meantime, a photo will do. Isn’t it beautiful?

 

P.S. 1. There were more words attached; there were more posts and pages; Nothing Worked Right! Maybe later. I could not Save or Publish. But Titles to the posts published.

P.S. 2. I have no idea what the Likes were seeing.