Truth and Hijacking

Directly following my reading of Lucy Grealy’s Autobiography of a Face I read Ann Patchett’s non-fiction book Truth and Beauty: A Friendship where she writes about how she and Lucy were friends, writers, and as close as sisters. Directly following that, I read Suellen Grealy’s article Hijacked by Grief where she talks about her sister, Lucy, and Ann’s capitalizing on their friendship.

Two things. One, I believe Ann Patchett’s story. Two, I believe that Suellen Grealy hit it on the nose by saying that Ann is nothing like the writer Lucy was. If I had read Suellen Grealy’s article before I read Patchett’s book, I might have felt too guilty to read the book. However, I had an insatiable curiosity about Lucy Grealy after reading her book and was all too happy to read more about her.

Patchett describes the women’s lives on the road to ‘writer-dom’ with steadiness. It’s the same story I’ve heard from many authors. Somehow, although Patchett is being so true to her story, describing herself as the dull ant doing her work, and Grealy as the vibrant grasshopper bringing life to every situation, I found her patronizing, and even at a couple points, defensive. I know people who can be entirely loving and still rub me the wrong way. So, although I got to read what it meant for Grealy to survive the cancer and the subsequent reconstructive surgeries through the eyes of a friend, I had to acknowledge that their relationship was not my ideal. (However, I have spent more time valuing the friendships I hold dear since reading this.) When Grealy revealed her life’s struggles I felt her to be very much ‘like’ me, when Patchett took over Lucy became entirely ‘other.’

I understand that Ann and Lucy loved one another. I believe they used one another as much as they could stand, which for both of them would not be too much. And I am genuinely convinced that their need for one another was entirely deep and inscrutable. However, I feel very much for Suellen Grealy who has come away from the untimely death of her sister to discover this growth, this off-shoot on Lucy’s life. Tragedy is the world’s, and Lucy was in it. And, although they may at times be complimentary, as often Truth and Beauty are at odds.

Lucy's Face

Lucy Grealy’s Autobiography of a Face was not a story about cancer. It was a story about a girl eventually becoming a woman who wanted love yet wasn’t being fulfilled to her satisfaction. Her disfigured face seemed to her the culprit. However, like many people, Lucy’s loneliness and initial understanding of the world left her with the wrong answer.

Lucy was loved and Lucy was learning to love. The simple love of an animal or toy was her easy love. Her childhood friendships were a second love. Mature adult love became elusive. But Lucy found substitutes. She discovered “being good” love and “bravery” love and “medical” love and “sex” love and finally “knowledge” love. Ultimately Lucy is convincingly lovable and unlovable. It’s easy to believe that her face was an obstacle to romantic love, and perhaps a venue towards gracious love.

But Lucy did have cancer at the age of nine. She lived. She had life-long pain. She went home after surgery and then back to school with a large part of her lower jaw missing. Growing up in hospitals almost as much as at home certainly lends itself to another entire realm of development of self view, and world view. The amount that Lucy scrutinizes her own ideas and then the ways she copes with them is formidable.

The ability Lucy had to express herself was a wonderful gift. Her decision to write a story about her story was bold. It’s Lucy’s perception of luck and relativity and hypocrisy that seals her life’s most extraordinary work. The only justice that I can do is to refer back to her own writing. I am thankful to have read what she extracted from her life experiences and although the creation is hers, somehow I feel that Lucy and I might understand one another just a little. But, even if we wouldn’t, I appreciate my own needs in a new light and will consider others’ differently, as well.

Are You Somebody

I bought Are You Somebody: The Accidental Memoir of a Dublin Woman on the sale rack at a Barnes and Noble store in Bellingham for absolutely no explicable reason. Then I left it on my shelf for over a decade without reading it, again for no reason whatsoever. If third time’s a charm, then I ought to know why I picked it up the other night and read it. But I don’t.

Much like Nuala O’Faolain herself in writing the memoir, I stumbled into it and found it absolutely moving. As O’Faolain describes moving along in life without strategy, I felt that creepy sensation of someone reading my diary, but, actually it was me reading hers. I picked the book up the evening I discovered that I had not had a real conversation in a week. As disconcerting as that is, I’m young, go to social group things, work, have a housemate, etc, so it’s not as though I’m at risk of having some disaster befall me and not be found for a week. O’Faolain, however, has that grim possibility presented to her even as she recalls the people she knew for whom it was reality.

There are many tracks that O’Faolain’s memoir takes which entranced me. She can put so many specific pieces of information into each story, to the point where the details almost overtake the actual event, making them more solid, whereas for many authors they would instead become tedious. She lists her relationships in a mesmerizing way for they were at once the part of her life she most obsessed about and was most detached from. She cites her strokes of luck and her irresponsibility and continual subscription to faith and ignorance without any chagrin or shame or uncertainty or defensiveness. She gives another context for the budding women’s movement of the mid-late 20^th Century, sharing freshly and intelligently.

I love her matter-of-factness. I love her ability to say plainly terrible things without sensationalism. I love that she understands something of the plight of humanity and that she isn’t scared or unusually brave, either. I don’t know if everyone needs to read this story, this memoir of a Dublin woman. But I needed to read it. I also need to have another good conversation!

Flights

If you have any latent romantic heartstrings that can be pulled, then James Collins’ Beginners Greek is your ticket. This is the kind of story that may even inspire frequent flights cross-country. Personally I’m about ready to hop a flight to LA. And that’s not solely because I have heaps of family and friends down there I’d really like to visit.

So, the premise is that two young people fall in love. Setting: airplane. Distance: NYC to LA. Focal point: the woman is reading The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann (I still remember who I was in love with when I read that book! – and, as wonderful as second breakfast sounded, it was the rest cures that captured my imagination… and which have appeared in my lifestyle…..). Tragedy: the guy loses the girl’s phone number. Resolution: ahem, well, really, you’re literate, read it yourself.

I do, in fact, feel that it is worth reading – major caveat: unless you’re like my sister; I can’t imagine her liking it one bit, or my roommate’s boyfriend, either. It’s a little less intellectual than, say, Thomas Mann, but it isn’t trite. It moves with the intrigue of Gone With the Wind but was compared by critics to something by Jane Austen. The ‘hero’ seems a little bit too wussy and perfect to be believed – what investment banker do you know who’s able to recite an entire poem by an little-known American, who lived in Greece, at a dinner party just off the cuff, and yet not tell a girl he’s been in love with for nearly a decade that he fancies her? Perhaps I’m too judgmental. He sounds a little absurd. He sounds like someone I might know but don’t get….

At times I felt that the book could have been written by someone a bit like the character Charlotte – someone who tries so very hard. Incidentally, Charlotte felt like the absolute most authentic person, followed, but not very closely, by the heroine, Holly. The author wrote about women so well; I wonder if his mother died when he was young and now he’s just trying to earn the love of women…. A joke, once you’ve read the book you’ll get it.

The one string left hanging was the only one I saw from a fair distance the easiest resolution. In other words, one character’s presence in the story was purely to be a catalyst. Sort of the same role as the apothecary in Romeo & Juliet. Funny, her name was Julia…. I ended up respecting her a tiny bit and not minding overly much at all that it looks like she suffered a completely renewed spirit over the course of the book and would choose the right path from here on out.

The setting being New York City, with brief flights to LA, Paris, etc, was alright. I often wondered while reading why two such good people ended up there, but I shouldn’t. I know some lovely people, whose stories don’t even remotely resemble this one, living in NYC. But I’ll readily admit that finding love there and the description of the lifestyle enjoyed did not entice me. This realization surfaced into my consciousness multiple times while reading the book. Usually as a scene is created I get entirely caught up in it. This was a disconcerting break from my suspension of disbelief, and I have no ready explanation.

Pickled Herring

It’s not very often that I am given jars of pickled herring. This fine day did occur very recently and was quickly followed by a meeting with Rene Redzepi, the chef of Noma, which was recognized this year with the S Pellegrino award as the Best Restaurant in the World, and is located in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Prior to consulting Redzepi’s cookbook to see if pickled herring was indeed part of Nordic Cuisine, I fashioned a pickled herring salsa. I used the tomatoes I had processed at the end of summer (which I cooked very little and added to caramelized onions, thyme, and oregano – not super typical of salsa, I realize). Just some herring and cooked wheat berries didn’t quite make the salsa swing. However, I heated the combination, which ended up being too strong, but the following day when I tried it cold again – delicious.

Now that I have looked through NOMA: Time and Place in Nordic Cuisine, as well as searched the Index for herring, I find that indeed, the only herring dish is pickled! In fact, the herring is marinated – with salt and vinegar, whereas mine also has sugar. The herring is paired with pumpkin and walnut, both ingredients I often employ in the more moderate Northwest. I’m looking forward to experimenting with the rest of my herring!

As for the other recipes, I can understand why I was told that it really isn’t the sort of cooking one does on a day to day basis. And yet, the combinations feel entirely familiar and reasonable. Well, maybe not potato, anise, and chocolate…. But, as interesting as the food sounds, I’ll admit that the greater delight for me is in the photographs. Each section follows from raw ingredients and landscapes to plated dishes in a mesmerizing flow. I look forward to trying more combinations and techniques this fall and winter, when thoughts of the Nordic are closer than ever.

Evelyn Waugh in short

I just finished reading The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh. It was a book with short shorts, long shorts, and incomplete shorts. The New York Times review stated “It is never too late to read or reread Evelyn Waugh.” I would have to agree wholeheartedly. This statement does beg the question, however, whether it is ever too early.

Considering that I groaned audibly at the end of more than one of these stories, causing my roommate’s dog, Canyon, to come check on me as he does when my nieces cry when falling off the swing in the back yard, I imagine it might be at least PG13 reading. I know kids read JK Rowlings’ Harry Potter series which is full of suspense and drama. Somehow Waugh’s stories aren’t enough of that genre, but more the gut-wrenching ironic twist for a finish that will make one gag a bit and realize that the story has hit much harder than one quite wishes for an evening in with a book.

Having said that, needing to set the book aside from time to time as certain stories keep me from sitting comfortably in the overstuffed leather chair with the ottoman didn’t keep me from it long, as the stories were so well-told that the occasionally humorous and light ones enticed me back again and again. So, I will likely reread Evelyn Waugh, long before it’s too late.

The Age of Persuasion

Everyone who sees my book, The Age of Persuasion: How Marketing Ate Our Culture has a comment or question or both. This is a fantastic ice breaker if you’re pretty much anywhere. I’ve traveled most of the West coast of the United States with it while on a road trip. This does lessen the punch somewhat. I find that reading over long periods of time and long distances usually weakens the message. But with the message coming from award-winning ad-men, Terry O’Reilly and Mike Tennant, I guess that’s an apt description of their point. Who can contemplate massive redwood forests and guerrilla marketing simultaneously? (Not to mention keeping one’s eyes on the road in order to catch all the Hwy 101 signs.)

I think that there is a lot about marketing that I really admire and enjoy. The authors, O’Reilly and Tennant, agree and even elucidate for me what those areas are. I now understand the ‘implicit contract’ between advertiser and advertisee. There are also innumerable annoying things about ads, which the authors not only identify, but tear apart thread by thread the way I used to go at mozzarella sticks as a kid. Covering the age from snake oils to product placements in entertainment, it is quite a big cheese stick.

I’d like to quote at some length what this implicit contract really is, as it’s such an easy way to determine the quality of ads. “While much of the work is highly creative, it (speaking here of billboards), like many other media, must figure out a way to honor an implicit contract between advertisers and consumers which, simply put, promises that advertisers must give you something in exchange for their imposition on your time, attention, and space…. The key is that it offers some tangible benefit.” (Age of Persuasion, p29)

Since I avoid most forms of marketing (don’t watch TV, listen to public radio, avoid clothes with insignias on them, etc) billboards are by far the most typical thing I see. In the city I commute past a number of them and historically they stand out since their message is so big and bold. They sometimes make me blush. Apparently that is not altogether certainly good or bad. Hmm.

If you’re interested in how our culture was consumed, then this book may be of interest. I got a kick out of the style: corny, engaging, informed, opinionated, anecdotal, with pleasant cartoon boxes full of extraneous information. Good, fun reading! The implicit contract was met –and that with a phenomenal cover design to boot.

‘Ad giant Phil Dusenberry put it: “I have always believed that writing advertisements is the second most profitable form of writing. The first, of course, is ransom notes.”’ (Age of Persuasion, pxxiv)