Sunday, July 28, 2019

The Book of Delights

"...joy has nothing to do with ease. And joy has everything to do with the fact that we’re all going to die. That’s actually — when I’m thinking about joy, I’m thinking about that at the same time as something wonderful is happening, some connection is being made in my life, we are also in the process of dying. That is every moment. That is every moment." Ross Gay, On Being

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Postscript. This book made Maria Popova's "favorites" list this year.

“The high value put upon every minute of time, the idea of hurry-hurry as the most important objective of living, is unquestionably the most dangerous enemy of joy,” Hermann Hesse wrote at the dawn of the twentieth century in trying to course-correct the budding consumerist conscience toward the small triumphs of attentive presence that make life worth living, adding: “My advice to the person suffering from lack of time and from apathy is this: Seek out each day as many as possible of the small joys.” Delights, we may call them. And that is what poet Ross Gay does call them as he picks up, a century and a civilizational failure later, where Hesse left off with The Book of Delights (public library) — his yearlong experiment in learning to notice, amid a world that so readily gives us reasons to despair, the daily wellsprings of delight, or what Wendell Berry, in his gorgeous case for delight as a countercultural force of resistance, called the elemental pleasures “to which a man had to be acutely and intricately attentive, or he could not have them at all.”
(continues)

Saturday, July 27, 2019

Love love love

For use on Valentine's Day, or when discussing Plato's Symposium, or...

Forms of Love

I love you but I'm married.
I love you but I wish you had more hair.
I love you more.
I love you more like a friend.
I love your friends more than you.
I love how when we go into a mall and classical muzak is playing,
you can always name the composer.
I love you, but one or both of us is/are fictional.
I love you but "I" am an unstable signifier.
I love you saying, "I understand the semiotics of that" when I said, "I
had a little personal business to take care of."
I love you as long as you love me back.
I love you in spite of the restraining order.
I love you from the coma you put me in.
I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, except for this one
guy.
I love you when you're not getting drunk and stupid.
I love how you get me.
I love your pain, it's so competitive.
I love how emotionally unavailable you are.
I love you like I'm a strange backyard and you're running from the
cops, looking for a place to stash your gun.
I love your hair.
I love you but I'm just not that into you.
I love you secretly.
I love how you make me feel like I'm a monastery in the desert.
I love how you defined grace as the little turn the blood in the
syringe takes when you're shooting heroin, after you pull back
the plunger slightly to make sure you hit the vein.
I love your mother, she's the opposite of mine.
I love you and feel a powerful spiritual connection to you, even
though we've never met.
I love your tacos! I love your stick deodorant!
I love it when you tie me up with ropes using the knots you
learned in Boy Scouts, and when you do the stoned Dennis
Hopper rap from Apocalypse Now!
I love your extravagant double takes!
I love your mother, even though I'm nearly her age!
I love everything about you except your hair.
If it weren't for that I know I could really, really love you.
"Forms of Love" by Kim Addonizio, from Lucifer at the Starlite. © W.W. Norton & Company, 2009.

Monday, July 15, 2019

Have dog, will write

Or will at least think about it, while walking the dog. Solvitur ambulando, solvitur cogitem...

NYT:
You might be surprised to learn how many authors on the current best-seller lists have had help — well, sort of — from their dogs. (Note to cat people: Please don’t be offended. We’ll investigate writers and their felines another week.)

As Jennifer Weiner — whose latest novel, “Mrs. Everything,” is at No. 7 — explained recently on her website, owning a dog is essential to the creative process: “You wake up every morning. You walk the dog. You do this whether you’re tired, depressed, broke, hung over or have been recently dumped. You do it. And while you’re walking, you’re thinking about plot, or characters, or that tricky bit of dialogue that’s had you stumped for days.”

Elizabeth Gilbert — whose new novel, “City of Girls,” is at No. 5 — credits her beloved French bulldog, Chunky, with helping her survive an emotional crisis. “When somebody you love is close to death, your world becomes terribly small,” she told O Magazine last fall. Having to take Chunky out four times a day reminded her that “I still belonged to the world of the living,” she said, adding, “And in the 10 months since the love of my life died, Chunky has taken me out nearly 800 times. My life cannot collapse into a dark world of grief because his cannot.”

Debbie Macomber, author of the No. 6 novel, “Cottage by the Sea,” has often blogged about her dog, Bogie: “He’s partial to me. He has to be in the same room as me. If I’m writing, he’s nestled by my side, and if I get up for a cup of coffee, he follows me into the kitchen.” (He’s probably hoping for some of the special doggie ice cream she keeps in the freezer.)

Tara Westover, whose memoir, “Educated,” has been at or near the top of the list for over a year, also likes to work near her dog, which she once described as “a little white monstrosity.” (She told The Guardian, “In Idaho they’d call him a fake dog.”) As Westover explained in an interview at Powell’s Books in Portland, Ore., “I have a desk that looks out of a window. The window is very important, so that I will want to spend time there. I have a big chair, that has to be big so there is room for my dog to lie in my lap.”

And Jon Meacham, the co-author of “Songs for America,” No. 5 on the nonfiction list, once wrote in Garden & Gun magazine that he liked to take breaks from writing by following the antics of his springer spaniel in the yard. “From my desk I can watch her spend a good hour or more in wearying pursuit of game in an open rectangle of boxwoods.”

Tina Jordan, nyt

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