Farewell Indian Summer

Day 259 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project, and David is reading Farewell Summer, by Ray Bradbury, a sequel to Dandelion Wine, and "good seasonal stuff."  He likes the titles of both books and says "the prose is poetic."

(I am linking you to the large-print paperback edition because it is easier to see the blowing seeds on the dandelion puff on the cover, and to read that it is the "eagerly-anticipated sequel."  Plus, I like the hourglass better than the mass market paperback's clock.  Plus plus, we don't get a lot of large-print paperbacks at Babbitt's, as we take what comes in, so here's your chance!)

Meanwhile, our Midwestern Indian Summer has lingered, but some much-needed rain has fallen, conveniently after most of the harvest.  Today will still be warm, and the rain may not come again till nightfall, as in Camelot.  The moon has moved from full to lopsided, high in the morning sky, the blue and white morning glories are open, and the sun is turning everything pale gold.

Yes, the pale gold of the cover of The Beforelife, by Franz Wright, a color more intense, book in hand, than here in the image.  I dimly remember reading about this book when it first came out, as an intense, terribly honest look at the legacy of abuse, at the self at rock bottom, and at some kind of redemption.  Yes, it is brutal and beautiful.

I wince to realize that the poet's father is poet James Wright, father of some lovely poems, but  also the father in "Primogeniture" who beat his son.  And the son says this:

and may my hand wither

may it forget how to write
if ever I strike a child.

(And fear not, it really does say "wither" in the book, not "whither," as in the Amazon review.  You think I should not be concerned with The Correct Spelling & Exact Meaning?  Oh, but I am!)

And, recalling a lovely conversation between people of different faith traditions, I offer Franz Wright's poem "Based on a Prayer by Rabi'a al-Adawiyya," whom he identifies as "an early Sufi poet.  She died in 801."

God, if I speak my love to you in fear of hell, incinerate me in it;
if I speak my love to you in hope of heaven, close it in my face.
But if I speak to you simply because you exist, cease
              withholding from me your
              neverending beauty.

Write Your Heart Out

Day 257...and Candace has been reading The Faith of a Writer: Life, Craft, Art, by Joyce Carol Oates, because she is a writer herself, of fiction and poetry, and this is a book that helps you have faith in yourself as a writer.  She wanted me to read it, so I am, and it's such fine clear writing in several short--some very short--essays written for various purposes and published elsewhere, here gathered.

For example, I have already read "To a Young Writer," which begins and ends Write your heart out, because it appears in Letters to a Young Writer, edited by Frederick Busch, and I enjoyed that book.  Loved reading Oates again, because Write your heart out is good advice.  If you've got a heart, and you're a writer, what else are you going to do?

There's some repetition in the book--of childhood stories or locales, of favorite books, like Alice in Wonderland--but that's OK.  It ties things together, and this is a quick read.  I loved "Notes on Failure," because, yes, failure or just "not making it" in the eyes of the current culture or marketplace, so often deepens us, as writers or any kind of artist, and frees us to do what we do in our own way, anyway.

I'm halfway through the book and feel that Joyce Carol Oates is the Barbra Streisand of writing, in versatility, perfect pitch, and pure, clear voice.  Also they share some sensitivity and honesty.  I recall that Barbra Streisand had severe stage fright for a time, preventing her from doing live shows, and the "Notes on Failure" chapter applies here.  Also, these two women share perfectionism, I sense, or intense devotion to their art.

I was reading it between matches and during warm-ups at the Big 12 Junior Varsity tournament today, where other people were reading, too!  A coach was reading a mass market paperback mystery.  Parent spectators were reading hardbacks, library books, trade paperbacks.  One was 1776 by David McCullough.

And one of the players, the one who writes poetry, was reading while lying in a heap with her teammates, resting after eating during the long break.  I'm not sure, but it might have been The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.