Reading the latest issue of Saveur, I found a review of an anthology called Man with a Pan, subtitled "Culinary Adventures of Fathers Who Cook for Their Families." I wanted to read this book so badly, so I did what I always do: abebooks.com and the cheapest price I could find among the booksellers there.
I must not have been paying attention at the time. I only wanted the book, and I clicked on the cheapest price, $12.45, including shipping, never noticing the seller.
UPS dropped off a package just now, and on the box, in a red oval is "NEW YORK CITY", and below that in bigger letters, "STRAND", and below that, "18 MILES OF BOOKS".
Oh my god! THE Strand! I've heard about this magical place! I've dreamed of going there one day, maybe making a stop in New York City after visiting the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, as part of my life's goal to visit every presidential library in the nation.
18 miles of books. Well, if there was ever a combination of words to turn me on, those are it. And this is a fresh copy of Man with a Pan, too. No corners bent, no pages smudged, no spine separation. I imagined that the Strand cares greatly for books, and it's evident here.
I know that the Strand will keep on living, and it had better so I can see it for myself. There's no way it could die anyway, not with all it has to offer, not with appearing to love books as much as I love them.
And I just opened the book and found between the cover and the title page something I will treasure and make sure it never gets bent: A Strand bookmark. I will never lose it.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Look for One Book and Find Dozens More to Crave
Upon reading the descriptions of food in Oliver Twist in Literary Feasts: Inspired Eating from Classic Fiction by Sean Brand, I impatiently tore through the rest of the book and then rushed to my room to look for Oliver Twist. I thought I had a copy. I swear I did.
I plunged a hand through teetering stacks of books, to the boxes which contain more stable stacks and serve as makeshift bookshelves. I found Hard Times, Great Expectations, Bleak House. No Oliver Twist. I wanted to read Oliver Twist right away, still do, and moved on to nearby stacks, knocking down many books in the process and giving me cause to reorganize some of them. (I just went to the back door in the kitchen to open it for Tigger to come in from the patio, and on the way back to the computer, I sneezed from some of the dust in my room. It's not overwhelming, just a minor irritant.)
Books about Richard Nixon fell, and so did every single novel by Joseph Finder that I bought in the hope of reading all his works, having been so impressed with Paranoia. An accessible thriller writer is the best kind of writer for that genre and especially crucial when so little seems to be surprising anymore.
Amidst restacking the stacks, I still didn't find Oliver Twist. And there's no chance that it'll appear, because I just remembered that when I was at Barnes & Noble in Burbank late last year, looking to suck all the money out of the two gift cards I received, I went for Bleak House because of the miniseries that starred Gillian Anderson, and Hard Times and Great Expectations because I was curious about them. I looked over Oliver Twist, but decided on the others.
The Valencia library has three copies, at least of one edition, so I hope Meridith will let me check it out on her card, because mine's full and will remain full when I check out more books after returning what I need to return in order to get Dick Van Dyke's and Betty White's new books along with others, and I really want to read it today.
In the midst of the search, I found paperbacks of Playing for Pizza by John Grisham and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I had wanted to read more of Angelou's works a few months ago, and especially wanted to reread I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Sometimes I buy these books and then forget that I had bought them. What a happy instance of it!
I plunged a hand through teetering stacks of books, to the boxes which contain more stable stacks and serve as makeshift bookshelves. I found Hard Times, Great Expectations, Bleak House. No Oliver Twist. I wanted to read Oliver Twist right away, still do, and moved on to nearby stacks, knocking down many books in the process and giving me cause to reorganize some of them. (I just went to the back door in the kitchen to open it for Tigger to come in from the patio, and on the way back to the computer, I sneezed from some of the dust in my room. It's not overwhelming, just a minor irritant.)
Books about Richard Nixon fell, and so did every single novel by Joseph Finder that I bought in the hope of reading all his works, having been so impressed with Paranoia. An accessible thriller writer is the best kind of writer for that genre and especially crucial when so little seems to be surprising anymore.
Amidst restacking the stacks, I still didn't find Oliver Twist. And there's no chance that it'll appear, because I just remembered that when I was at Barnes & Noble in Burbank late last year, looking to suck all the money out of the two gift cards I received, I went for Bleak House because of the miniseries that starred Gillian Anderson, and Hard Times and Great Expectations because I was curious about them. I looked over Oliver Twist, but decided on the others.
The Valencia library has three copies, at least of one edition, so I hope Meridith will let me check it out on her card, because mine's full and will remain full when I check out more books after returning what I need to return in order to get Dick Van Dyke's and Betty White's new books along with others, and I really want to read it today.
In the midst of the search, I found paperbacks of Playing for Pizza by John Grisham and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I had wanted to read more of Angelou's works a few months ago, and especially wanted to reread I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Sometimes I buy these books and then forget that I had bought them. What a happy instance of it!
The Hotel Still Speaks
I've been thinking a lot about the Fairmont Hotel in Newport Beach, about the table next to the breakfast buffet where I met The Wall Street Journal Weekend, but didn't shake hands until Meridith and I had reached the pool chairs, and I began reading. I've also been thinking about Meridith and I walking all the floors of the hotel. Even though they looked like the same design, I noticed that the lower floors were more susceptible to room service, based on how many trays we saw. I also was amused at how on some production line, little glass bottles are filled with ketchup and mustard for hotels like this one.
I've also been thinking about what I could possibly want from the Fairmont Hotel now. I remember it as a day of total relaxation which is possible even if you're not a guest and you're just there because your father is a member of the California Business Education Association (CBEA), and they're holding a meeting there. I remember eagerly checking out the vending machine on every floor, seeing the same drink bottles displayed behind a plastic covering (but the actual vending hidden from view). I remember seeing planes take off from John Wayne airport not only from where we were sitting at the pool, but also as we reached the higher floors. I remember, of course, the girl in the red bikini who had brought a book to the pool and impressed me on both counts. Interestingly enough, she doesn't factor into my creative plans for these memories.
I'm not sure yet exactly what I want to write that would be related to this hotel beyond what I've already written twice in this blog. A play set at that pool would be worth thinking about because I loved how self-contained it felt and how, even though those planes flew overhead often, the hotel still felt like its own world and it was true on the higher floors when we saw it surrounded by small business parks and a school. And the shopping centers across the street from the Fairmont were small enough not to overshadow the at-first foreboding nature of the Fairmont entrance, based first on the high shrubs and the high-end cars parked across from the automatic glass doors.
What about a play or an introspective novel set in one of the rooms? As we walked passed the doors of many of the rooms, there were one or two that were open because the maid service was working in those rooms, and we saw a sliver of the inside. Plus there's photos online and I could certainly transfer my feelings onto those and write something. Or maybe something set in one of those hallways, since that's where we spent the most time, obviously.
I know I want to do something with everything I saw there, especially the Disney air they had, that air from the vents in the hallway that let you know you're somewhere truly different. There is a class divide in the hotel but only if you're doggedly looking for it. The vaguely rich are here, but the cars outside don't entirely indicate that. I think the Fairmont Hotel's greatest talent is not telling the world that there's fresh money here, that those who are here can afford a week on what you struggle to pay for a night. In a sense, it's just there. It's not surrounded by malls selling $500 pairs of shoes. It's interesting in that respect.
I imagine that hotels have been used often in plays, though I'm curious to see how often they've been used in novels. I'm sure it's about the same there, too, but just like that area off the lobby of the Grand Californian on Disneyland property, I feel something that I want to articulate. It'll come to me one day.
I've also been thinking about what I could possibly want from the Fairmont Hotel now. I remember it as a day of total relaxation which is possible even if you're not a guest and you're just there because your father is a member of the California Business Education Association (CBEA), and they're holding a meeting there. I remember eagerly checking out the vending machine on every floor, seeing the same drink bottles displayed behind a plastic covering (but the actual vending hidden from view). I remember seeing planes take off from John Wayne airport not only from where we were sitting at the pool, but also as we reached the higher floors. I remember, of course, the girl in the red bikini who had brought a book to the pool and impressed me on both counts. Interestingly enough, she doesn't factor into my creative plans for these memories.
I'm not sure yet exactly what I want to write that would be related to this hotel beyond what I've already written twice in this blog. A play set at that pool would be worth thinking about because I loved how self-contained it felt and how, even though those planes flew overhead often, the hotel still felt like its own world and it was true on the higher floors when we saw it surrounded by small business parks and a school. And the shopping centers across the street from the Fairmont were small enough not to overshadow the at-first foreboding nature of the Fairmont entrance, based first on the high shrubs and the high-end cars parked across from the automatic glass doors.
What about a play or an introspective novel set in one of the rooms? As we walked passed the doors of many of the rooms, there were one or two that were open because the maid service was working in those rooms, and we saw a sliver of the inside. Plus there's photos online and I could certainly transfer my feelings onto those and write something. Or maybe something set in one of those hallways, since that's where we spent the most time, obviously.
I know I want to do something with everything I saw there, especially the Disney air they had, that air from the vents in the hallway that let you know you're somewhere truly different. There is a class divide in the hotel but only if you're doggedly looking for it. The vaguely rich are here, but the cars outside don't entirely indicate that. I think the Fairmont Hotel's greatest talent is not telling the world that there's fresh money here, that those who are here can afford a week on what you struggle to pay for a night. In a sense, it's just there. It's not surrounded by malls selling $500 pairs of shoes. It's interesting in that respect.
I imagine that hotels have been used often in plays, though I'm curious to see how often they've been used in novels. I'm sure it's about the same there, too, but just like that area off the lobby of the Grand Californian on Disneyland property, I feel something that I want to articulate. It'll come to me one day.
Friday, May 6, 2011
A Better Day
I spent the morning and the first half of the afternoon reading George H.W. Bush by Timothy Naftali. His depth of research and his thoughtful style show why he is exactly the right director for the Richard Nixon Presidential Library and Museum, as it requires a careful attention to detail, truthful detail. He gets it.
In the latter half of the afternoon and well into this evening, I read Chester Alan Arthur by Zachary Karabell.
Karabell starts his examination of the life and sudden presidency of Chester Alan Arthur from the perspective of an author who seems like he still hasn't grasped his subject, like he's mulling over everything he's read just to be sure he's got it right, and we're witness to that uncertainty. It seems like that. But then, once that frustration wears off as to Karabell's method (and it disappears quickly), it becomes clear that Karabell is not only exactly the right person to write about Arthur, but he loves the subject and he loves the time period and all that was contained within. He gives context to every movement of Congress in that time, explaining clearly tariffs and the spoils system and patronage. His bio says that he taught at Harvard and Dartmouth. It feels like this book is hopefully what it feels like to attend one of his lectures.
I especially treasure the final paragraph in his epilogue, which is generally rare among presidential biographies:
"For those who want presidents to be heroes, and, failing that, villains, for those who expect them to be larger-than-life figures, Arthur's tenure in office isn't satisfying. The nature of our expectations would have to change dramatically for Arthur to be reevaluated as one of this country's best presidents. And yet, in spite of what Shakespeare wrote, some men are neither born great, nor achieve greatness, nor have it thrust upon them. Some people just do the best they can in a difficult situation, and sometimes that turns out just fine."
In the latter half of the afternoon and well into this evening, I read Chester Alan Arthur by Zachary Karabell.
Karabell starts his examination of the life and sudden presidency of Chester Alan Arthur from the perspective of an author who seems like he still hasn't grasped his subject, like he's mulling over everything he's read just to be sure he's got it right, and we're witness to that uncertainty. It seems like that. But then, once that frustration wears off as to Karabell's method (and it disappears quickly), it becomes clear that Karabell is not only exactly the right person to write about Arthur, but he loves the subject and he loves the time period and all that was contained within. He gives context to every movement of Congress in that time, explaining clearly tariffs and the spoils system and patronage. His bio says that he taught at Harvard and Dartmouth. It feels like this book is hopefully what it feels like to attend one of his lectures.
I especially treasure the final paragraph in his epilogue, which is generally rare among presidential biographies:
"For those who want presidents to be heroes, and, failing that, villains, for those who expect them to be larger-than-life figures, Arthur's tenure in office isn't satisfying. The nature of our expectations would have to change dramatically for Arthur to be reevaluated as one of this country's best presidents. And yet, in spite of what Shakespeare wrote, some men are neither born great, nor achieve greatness, nor have it thrust upon them. Some people just do the best they can in a difficult situation, and sometimes that turns out just fine."
Bored Yesterday
I spent all day yesterday and well into the evening reading about President Benjamin Harrison. My intent with the American Presidents series from the Times Books arm of Henry Holt and Company is to not only pull out what little information there might be for what I need for my three books, but also to learn basic background information before I go in deeper through other books.
I've enjoyed most of the books, especially the Nixon book by journalist Elizabeth Drew, as that not only was a complete mind twister, but also made me sympathetic for those who lived through that time. There were depth charges unleashed upon this country all over its collective body by a president and his advisors who thought themselves to be king and court.
I couldn't stand yesterday's work by professor Charles W. Calhoun. Some professors can write great books because they not only know their subjects so well, but they can convey that context and enthusiasm with clarity and thoughtful writing. Most professors have spent so much time in academia that when they do write their books, they forget about the other people in the world that might read them who don't exist solely in a college or university setting. This was one of those books.
I'm not interested much in economics. I skim through the business section of The Wall Street Journal Weekend every Saturday. But I can get interested through good writing and this wasn't good writing. Calhoun's chapters are an accurate telling of how boring Congress can be, but Harrison deserves better than that. Calhoun goes through bill after bill and tracks it through Congress, the fights that went on, the vote count, and who won in the end. There are times when Harrison just disappears.
It took me all that time because I was so bored by it. I couldn't close it and move on because I might have missed something that I needed (Only in his postpresidential life and then it only related somewhat to what I want to write about). Today, I was going to start reading Chester Alan Arthur by Zachary Karabell, but it's about a decade behind Benjamin Harrison, and I need a break. My favorite time period is from FDR to Obama. So next for me is George H.W. Bush by Timothy Naftali, director of the Nixon Presidential Library. I want to see if his writing is as good as his management, as he has made some great improvements over the past few months.
I've enjoyed most of the books, especially the Nixon book by journalist Elizabeth Drew, as that not only was a complete mind twister, but also made me sympathetic for those who lived through that time. There were depth charges unleashed upon this country all over its collective body by a president and his advisors who thought themselves to be king and court.
I couldn't stand yesterday's work by professor Charles W. Calhoun. Some professors can write great books because they not only know their subjects so well, but they can convey that context and enthusiasm with clarity and thoughtful writing. Most professors have spent so much time in academia that when they do write their books, they forget about the other people in the world that might read them who don't exist solely in a college or university setting. This was one of those books.
I'm not interested much in economics. I skim through the business section of The Wall Street Journal Weekend every Saturday. But I can get interested through good writing and this wasn't good writing. Calhoun's chapters are an accurate telling of how boring Congress can be, but Harrison deserves better than that. Calhoun goes through bill after bill and tracks it through Congress, the fights that went on, the vote count, and who won in the end. There are times when Harrison just disappears.
It took me all that time because I was so bored by it. I couldn't close it and move on because I might have missed something that I needed (Only in his postpresidential life and then it only related somewhat to what I want to write about). Today, I was going to start reading Chester Alan Arthur by Zachary Karabell, but it's about a decade behind Benjamin Harrison, and I need a break. My favorite time period is from FDR to Obama. So next for me is George H.W. Bush by Timothy Naftali, director of the Nixon Presidential Library. I want to see if his writing is as good as his management, as he has made some great improvements over the past few months.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A White Guy's Cinco de Mayo
Taco Bell for dinner for us four, gotten by Dad and Meridith on the way home from work.
Cheesy double decker taco.
Mexican pizza. (For nostalgic reasons, since I had it sometimes when I was in school, though I'm aware it's obviously not the same.)
Part of a burrito that location offered for free in honor of Cinco de Mayo.
No tequila.
I'm good.
Cheesy double decker taco.
Mexican pizza. (For nostalgic reasons, since I had it sometimes when I was in school, though I'm aware it's obviously not the same.)
Part of a burrito that location offered for free in honor of Cinco de Mayo.
No tequila.
I'm good.
Gone with the Wind: 75 Years Old
NPR posted an article featuring Pat Conroy's preface for a new edition of Gone with the Wind, published to commemorate 75 years: http://www.npr.org/2011/05/04/135990428/pat-conroy-marks-75-years-of-gone-with-the-wind.
My exposure to Gone with the Wind was not as expansive as Conroy's, but it's been no less special to me. I was in 6th grade at Pompano Beach Middle in Pompano Beach, Florida, 1995-1996. I loved the library there because it felt cloistered from the rest of the school. It seemed to vociferously reject the thunder and noise of students' voices simply by the vast silence it contained. But most importantly, its shelves were always inviting. Whatever you found on the shelves would gladly invite you in. If you didn't like what you had, then that book's neighbors would always offer up what they had.
I remember most fondly a yellow-colored edition of Gone with the Wind that had the title in that famous font, and Tara shown below it. Years later, I looked for that edition, because I loved the heft of it, all that promise within its pages, promises that continue to be delivered flawlessly today. The epic scope, the drama, the traits of each character so vividly revealed, and the Civil War rendered so personal through Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. In 6th grade, I could have all this? School was always made better because of that kind of offering.
A few months ago, I went searching for that particular edition. I found it on abebooks.com, but a July 2007 trade paperback edition from Scribner attracted me more because it had a preface by Pat Conroy. I had just read extensively about Pat Conroy's early life with Gone with the Wind through his mother because it had been included in his book My Reading Life. And even though my fond memories lie with that edition from 6th grade, I much preferred an edition essentially blessed by Pat Conroy.
Now Scribner has the 75th anniversary edition out, and thankfully, that NPR article has Conroy's new preface, so I don't have to buy it again. I wouldn't want to. I want to make a new history with this edition. It has the heft, it has the promise. And it has me, at 27. That's how it should be.
My exposure to Gone with the Wind was not as expansive as Conroy's, but it's been no less special to me. I was in 6th grade at Pompano Beach Middle in Pompano Beach, Florida, 1995-1996. I loved the library there because it felt cloistered from the rest of the school. It seemed to vociferously reject the thunder and noise of students' voices simply by the vast silence it contained. But most importantly, its shelves were always inviting. Whatever you found on the shelves would gladly invite you in. If you didn't like what you had, then that book's neighbors would always offer up what they had.
I remember most fondly a yellow-colored edition of Gone with the Wind that had the title in that famous font, and Tara shown below it. Years later, I looked for that edition, because I loved the heft of it, all that promise within its pages, promises that continue to be delivered flawlessly today. The epic scope, the drama, the traits of each character so vividly revealed, and the Civil War rendered so personal through Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. In 6th grade, I could have all this? School was always made better because of that kind of offering.
A few months ago, I went searching for that particular edition. I found it on abebooks.com, but a July 2007 trade paperback edition from Scribner attracted me more because it had a preface by Pat Conroy. I had just read extensively about Pat Conroy's early life with Gone with the Wind through his mother because it had been included in his book My Reading Life. And even though my fond memories lie with that edition from 6th grade, I much preferred an edition essentially blessed by Pat Conroy.
Now Scribner has the 75th anniversary edition out, and thankfully, that NPR article has Conroy's new preface, so I don't have to buy it again. I wouldn't want to. I want to make a new history with this edition. It has the heft, it has the promise. And it has me, at 27. That's how it should be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)