Today, somebody longs for yesterday and they are leaving steaming evidence of their sadness and I can prove it, but yesterday there was somebody who was sure happiness ended the day before. I can go all the way to Jesus Christ and keep going. It’s going to take research, I admit that, but this is there.

Maybe you’ll yearn to feel so unsatisfied in an unfamiliar place or at least wish you’d visited Budapest instead of Prague.

There is a foreword and an essay at the back that I would read if I knew German!

The one response worth reading beforehand is Kat’s at No Good for Me, as I think she summed up well what to expect, especially this part:

This is a curious book in that it’s about intimacy, but not really about "relationships" as we know them in the modern sense - in fact, one can argue that Leo seems to have spent much of his relationship with Rema prior to her "disappearance" not quite relating to her or even understanding her much. The story’s heart is really about the idea of the beloved - about having the biggest source of mystery in your life be in the closest proximity to you, about realizing the person you love most is a foreign land, with a language, history and customs that are nothing like your own. No matter how far you travel, you’ll never quite penetrate into its inner workings or secrets or mysteries. That Leo remains forever in search of Rema to the end breaks your heart in so many ways because it’s both a testament to how much he loves her but also a mirror of the fear that we can never truly be close to those flames that we flutter closest towards.

There is apparently a rare syndrome that can cause this imposter delusion, but I think reading this solely as a narrative exploration of a condition is kind of a boring way to approach the story. But as the book really doesn’t hint at this and most people aren’t aware of this condition, it may be helpful to know that beforehand.

One of those witnesses is a young girl who was in the process of packing that day to move house and, interspersed into the narration of that single day, is her first-person account of later finding out she is pregnant from a one-night stand and her struggle to find the support she needs. Though she is dealing with greater troubles, she has a hard time putting that day behind her.

The story seems to heading towards a predictable end, but then it turns out the real tragedy is something nobody witnessed.

The re-reading of stories was sometimes the best part: the first instantly nostalgic ones I’d read in "The Beggar Maid," the devastating "Runaway," plus I’d forgotten that "The Bear Came Over the Mountain" was the inspiration for the film Away from Her — both are lovely and melancholy but there are definitely some more internal sections that were difficult to communicate in the film.

Some of the new-to-me stories became favorites too: the epic titular "Carried Away" and the way "A Wilderness Station," composed entirely of letters, feels like a story pieced together from different dusty, likely faded and worn, sources.

Though Munro suggested in 2006 that she not publish another book, 2009 brought a new collection, Too Much Happiness, which will definitely end up on my to-read list for 2010.

Probably you know what it’s about already: WWII, Dresden, a fatalist optometrist jostling back and forth through time, the 116 intonations of "So it goes" to acknowledge death and mortality. It still felt important reading it now, having read so much by people who read this and probably wanted to be as concise and humorous about terrible things, and often not even such terrible things.

And I was buoyed by Vonnegut’s introduction as Chapter 1 when he explains:

When I got home from the Second World War twenty-three years ago, I thought it would be easy for me to write about the destruction of Dresden, since all I would have to do would be to report what I had seen. And I thought, too, that it would be a masterpiece or at least make me a lot of money, since the subject was so big.

But not many words about Dresden came from my mind then—not enough of them to make a book, anyway.

But eventually, there was this.

Thanksgiving in Dundas

Hitching the Hamilton highway
styrofoam hot chocolate
from a steeltown diner
waiting, the most precise
measurement of patience

Her building elevator holds
specific movements
the first time I let desire
slip my hand to her neck
lips to mine
palms cupping
the surveillance camera

We are older now
practically married,
she is cooking in her father’s kitchen
roasting carrots and yams
home in her fingers

She fought hardest to stay here

I do the shy family shuffle
watching as she holds
sister, brother, father
together like paper valentines

Post-meal, walking exhausted
backseat of smoking cars
I listen as she and her brother talk
unwavering love
the pain of her insight
invisible to the siblings
she protects at any cost

Recognizing violence
she has learned to recognize grace
in others
clear as day over turkey leftovers
drives to the orchard
she holds them together

and her love holds me

I’m curious about Gene Luen Yang’s previous book American Born Chinese.

Prompted by a major transition in Eeyore’s life, the father looks to the poetry of William Blake to make sense of his and Eeyore’s history and to inspire him towards writing a set of definitions of the world in terms children like Eeyore could understand. The plot meanders through different milestones, and the father seems so focused on his oldest son that his other two kids’ names aren’t even mentioned (at the very end, the younger brother’s name is revealed). But overall his literary approach to his relationship with his son and the political aspects of dealing with his son’s disabilities is compelling.

The Crowds Cheered as Gloom Galloped Away

Everyone was happier. But where did the sadness go? People wanted to know. They didn’t want it collecting in their elbows or knees then popping up later. The girl who thought of the ponies made a lot of money. Now a month’s supply of pills came in a hard blue case with a handle. You opened it & found the usual vial plus six tiny ponies of assorted shapes & sizes, softly breathing in the Styrofoam. Often they had to be pried out & would wobble a little when first put on the ground. In the beginning the children tried to play with them, but the sharp hooves nicked their fingers & the ponies refused to jump over pencil hurdles. The children stopped feeding them sugarwater & the ponies were left to break their legs on the gardens’ gravel paths or drown in the gutters. On the first day of the month, rats gathered on doorsteps & spat out only the bitter manes. Many a pony’s last sight was a bounding squirrel with its tail hovering over its head like a halo. Behind the movie theatre the hardier ponies gathered in packs amongst the cigarette butts, getting their hooves stuck in wads of gum. They lined the hills at funerals, huddled under folding chairs at weddings. It became a matter of pride if one of your ponies proved unusually sturdy. People would smile & say, "This would have been an awful month for me," pointing to the glossy palomino trotting energetically around their ankles. Eventually, the ponies were no longer needed. People had learned to imagine their sadness trotting away, & when they wanted something more tangible, they could always go to the racetrack & study the larger horses’ faces. Gloom, #341, with those big black eyes, was almost sure to win.

I can’t say I made much of an effort to figure out the clues myself, but it was the first time in a little while that I’ve completely lost myself in reading, so I was just riding along for the last hour. It was a nice break from plodding through Alice Munro’s Carried Away, which I’ve been reading off and on for over a month in between other books, waiting for things to come in at the library.

Ellen Raskin wrote and illustrated many books but also designed covers for other authors, like the first edition of A Wrinkle in Time.

Following a similar approach as his blog, there’s a lot about food (including many recipes) and insider scoops on places to go in Paris, rounded out by observations about French culture from an outsider’s perspective. Lebovitz has a charming sense of humor and pokes fun at himself almost as much as the Parisians who often confound him with their difficult customer service. There are many good tips for those who hope to visit someday, both about specific locations to visit and general suggestions for being a good tourist. I also learned that I’ve probably cut cheese rudely in the past. (At least now I know.)

I didn’t try any of the recipes in the book just yet, but the chocolate mole sounds really good right now.

Also an avant-garde film.

“Boys and Girls” was definitely a favorite as a story, even though the “intrinsic nature of gender” message was unsatisfying. Apparently it was also a short film. “The Peace of Utrecht” is maybe the most Munroesque of the bunch — so much said in twenty pages. There are a few stories with big events or dramatic endings that seems unlike her later work. Though it has been quite a while since I’ve read any of her stories. This wasn’t my favorite collection, but mostly in a comparative sense.

I’d heard rumblings that the ending was a disappointment to some and must say I felt much the same. After 980 pages and another 100 of endnotes (and endnotes with footnotes!), you’d hope at least to have a sense of finality about the act of reading the book (if not the story itself) upon finishing. But instead I found myself cycling back to the beginning to see if there was anything I missed in those tantalizing first 30 pages or so. I’d bet most people who read this book immediately start again on the first page, which actually makes brilliant sense.

The structure is challenging, even once the story comes together and each different point of view seems to somehow be moving in the same direction near the end, there are still seemingly irrelevant digressions that go on for what feels like too many pages. And as the remaining pages of the book dwindle, it can create some anxiety about how much will be left unsaid. I’m not sure if in time I’ll come to consider this one of my favorite books (favorites in the sense of being a book that you wish everyone would read — I know not everyone would enjoy this), but I can say that it wasn’t just an exercise in persistence. This is definitely the funniest, epic book that I’ve read, and I came away with genuine fondness for the characters and a recurring ability to relate aspects of this book to everyday life. The annoyance that some of the best stuff in story isn’t divulged in Wallace’s extra-fine detail speaks to what he created here.