A Literary Ramble

Korean novelist Han Kang recently won the Nobel Prize for literature. I'd never heard of her. That's not unusual. I logged into my library account immediately and placed holds on a few of her works. I was tickled to see that no one else had done so; I was first in line for The Vegetarian—or so I thought. By the next morning I'd slipped to 96th. I guess they collate that kind of data overnight.

Now, many weeks later, the first of the novels I'd requested has come through. The White Book. It's a short book devoted to one- and two-page observations by a woman reflecting on a family trauma that took place before she was born. 

I liked the format. Reading it last night, I came upon the following sentence.

"Were it not the case that life stretches out in a straight line, she might at some point become aware of having rounded a bend." 

Hmm, I say to myself, Is life really like a straight line? Not exactly. 

I've been thinking  lately about how the richness of life is, at least in part, a result of  time doubling back on itself as it moves ahead, compounding impressions and creating a firmer, more intricate, and more beautiful fabric. Anyone involved in a healthy long-term relationship is nourished by the steady stream of echoes, reminders, and shared experiences that make up an average day, often without thinking much about it. And the material culture that many of us surround ourselves with--books, music, posters--serves the same function.

A case in point: Charles Dumond died a few days ago. He composed many of the songs that Edith Piaf made famous, including "Non, je ne regrette rien." Basically, "I Regret Nothing." Some friends were coming over that night and I was looking for a Piaf CD to play at the appropriate moment—though conversation is often  so lively no one cares, including me. During that search I came upon a recording of Darius Milhaud's piano music that Hilary's brother Paul made for me many years ago. I put it on the stereo. I hadn't heard it in years. It was a revelation.

I like Milhaud and occasionally listen to a William Bolcom recording of his piano music, but Bolcom's approach is boisterous, whereas these interpretations were quietly lyrical, almost as if Milhaud had been channeling Mompou. They were simpler and more open, though still pleasantly awkward and adventurous harmonically. I loved them. I played the CD three times. Something from my past had been returned to me, and it was precisely the "space" I wanted to be in.

The same thing also happens with books. After devouring Olivia Laing's The Garden Against Time, I found myself in need of a breather and began to read short books that I happened to spot on the shelves, almost at random, even though I'd read them before. The first, Max Frisch's Man in the Holocene (1978),is about old age and memory loss in the Swiss Alps during a weather catastrophe, though the parts I liked best were about mountain climbing. 
The second, Yasmina Reza's Hammerklavier (1997), was better than I'd remembered. Thirty years ago  I enjoyed the whimsy and the slightly cruel humor but missed the occasional moments of tenderness, honesty, and insight into the fleetingness of time and how hard it is to capture. Then again, the New Yorker wrote not long ago, "Reza is an adversarial writer even in her tender moments, which are infrequent, and she has a gift for derision which Flaubert might have admired."

The fleetingness of time also figures prominently in the third of the slim volumes I happened upon, Eugene Ionesco's Fragments of a Journal (1967). I suspect few readers have stuck with this collection of meditations from beginning to end. Ionesco is obsessed with death, absurdity, nothingness, but in an almost childlike way that resurfaces again and again like a bubbling fountain rather than congealing into an indigestible paste of theory. Along the way he relates sad and charming episodes from his childhood in a French village so small it doesn't appear on a map. You never know what's coming next. For example:

Two possible atitudes:

To imagine, because imagining means foreseeing. What we imagine is now true, what we imagine will be realized. Science fiction is becoming, or has already become, realistic literature.

A second possible attitude to consider: reality as something beyond reality, to be aware of it not as surrealistic but as unfamiliar, miraculous, a-real.

And a page or two later:

"What is life? I may be asked. For me life is not Time; it is not this state of existence, forever escaping us, slipping between our fingers and vanishing like a ghost as soon as you try to grasp it. For me it is, it must be, the present, presentness, plenitude. I have run after life so much that I have lost it."

Plenitude is a good word, I think, but it would be a mistake to associate it too closely with mere 'presentness.' Life is not a straight line. It's squiggly. The lines circle around and overlap. That's what gives life dimension. Memory is the mechanism by which life fleshes itself out, bolsters itself, and lays the groundwork for rounding the next bend--or heading off in an entirely new direction. 

Shared memories are even better.

I step into the den where Hilary is deep into Percival Everett's James, and there, sitting on the stereo cabinet, is the brightly lit, three-foot, artificial Christmas tree we've stored in the basement for her mom for many years, returning it to her for a few weeks every holiday season. Dorothy died in May at the age of 97. A few days ago Hilary set up the tree, took a picture, and sent it around to her brothers. "Anyone want it?"

No one responded. Meanwhile, we've grown to like it. The colored lights are cheery, and as Hilary says, "It reminds me of all the years I used to go over and help mom decorate it."