"If writers possess a common temperament, it's that they tend to be shy egomaniacs; publicity is the spotlight they suffer for the recognition they crave." Gail Caldwell, from her book "Let's Take The Long Way Around"

"To look life in the face, always to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away. . .always the years. Always the love. Always the hours." From the movie "The Hours", based on the book of the same name by Michael Cunningham

"Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly." Baz Luhrman, "Everybody's Free (to wear sunscreen)"

"A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls." Walt Whitman

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant or talented?’ Actually, who are you not to be?” Marianne Williamson

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Here, then, am I

I'm back.  It feels like it has been ages since I've blogged, but really it's been, what, two weeks or so?  That is ages.  Life got a little ahead of me, but now, I think I am here in the moment. 

I just finished reading (what a perfect joy!) "The Hours" by Michael Cunningham.  I love, love, love the movie and can't believe now that I waited so long to read the book.  It's stunning.  It draws you in and the writing, though a little difficult at first because it is so rich in detail, becomes like liquid and you are swimming in it - or drowning, maybe, like Virginia Woolf herself.  It's lovely.

If my writing sounds contrived, forgive me and humor me just a bit.  I am still caught up in the language of the book; I can hear it in my head, the way he writes.  If you've read the book, you can understand:  Here then, is my apartment with it's antique piano and it's small space, my husband in the bathroom, shaving at five o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday, two cats lounging on the sofa and the table.  It's a beautiful day - the reason one lives in Arizona.  The air is still and fresh, only 80 degrees or so which is warm by most standards for the end of October, but which is perfect today in Arizona.  There is still the scent of Fall in the air, the faint hint of a cool breeze, which promises even cooler weather, which I will savor in the moment when I am most cold because it is so hot for so long throughout the year.  Deril has found it in him to carve a chicken and boil the carcass for broth which is now simmering on the stove with bay leaves and onions and celery root.  And I am on the sofa, feet curled under me with a blanket, the first blanket I ever made, neither square nor rectangular but some other polygonal shape - I can't remember the correct name from geometry class.  Here, then, is the moment, the perfect time of day, just before the sun starts to set and night falls and the day begins to end with tomorrow looming ahead; but for now, it is this moment.  It is enough.

There, then, is my tribute to what is now one of my most favorite books and its brilliant author.  There is so much to read  - I still have two other books going, but I am now driven to read "Mrs. Dalloway" and of course, Cunningham's new book, just out, with which I indulged myself and bought in hardcover, even though I could have easily borrowed it from work.

Next post, I promise, will continue my own story - and I won't wait so long to do so.

1 comment:

  1. I loved the lyrical writing. I'm now going to have to try Cunningham. It's okay to purchase a book and wallow in the luxury of it. Especially when it's such memorable writing that leaves feeling all kinds of things to feel and experience.