Natalia Ginzburg & Beryl Bainbridge, Lynne Tillman

Two of the early essays in Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg are about London in the early 1960s, the melancholy, desolation, lack of imagination, and the depressing food. She admires the get-up of old ladies in evening wear, and otherwise can find nothing to like. 

Beryl Bainbridge in The Bottle Factory Outing speaks for this England. Employees at an Italian bottle factory in London go on an outing: big blonde Freda, mousier Brenda, fumbling Rossi, aloof Vittorio, Patrick who'd fix a leaking toilet. Seediness turns nasty. 

I keep putting the book down. Natalia and Beryl. Even their names fight each other. I read Little Virtues twice on our ten day trip to Portugal, struggled to finish The Bottle Factory Outing. Promise of worse in a seedy world is not the best for spring travel.

The last three essays in  Little Virtues are wonderful. I read them in a strange agony of appreciation, so easily can recognition turn to pain. The best was reading on the beach at Cacela Velha, the second or third time. P was practicing tightrope walking on the sand without a rope but with a balancing pole. The empty beach with very fine sand and a calligraphy of grasses crisscrossed by black beetles making long work of our lunch crumbs, draws in every empty beach I've known, Natalia Ginzburg draws in my thoughts about human relationships and silence. And the sun shines. I've chosen the house over the water where I would stay or live, the oldest of them, nearly buried in pines.

FALLOW

FALLOW   

formal visceral viral philosophical comical botanical  

A READER'S GUIDE

There's a point where reading is no different from writing; there is more reading than writing when you are writing.  I have been reading/writing on the subject of fallow for the last few months. The writing is even sparser than usual, as befits a fallow field. The reading is broadcast across the floor of my room, with concentration around the stove. Salinger, Anne Carson, New Yorker, NYRB. Cabin notes, on my desk, to be reprinted. When I was twelve I was instructed, in the interests of better sight without glasses, to rest my head in my hands and think about nothing. This was the beginning of my acquaintance with nothing. This is why I am adept at walking, reading, writing fallow fields for weeks on end, around dusk.

For Esmé With Love And Squalor

When I was about thirteen this title on my parents' bookshelves, with a lurid Pan cover — completely off the mark — For Esmé with Love and Squalor by J.D.Salinger, caught my eye. I read it the way you read when you need to be reading, for and against the future. At thirteen, Esmé's own age, you use what you have learned so far, in anticipation of more. Esmé is precociously articulate, aware of what fabric this is, this language she can't help performing on a wet afternoon in a café after choir practice. And yet, for all that, there's an honesty, a straightforwardness. She is waiting for her hair to dry to show that it is actually wavy hair. She is looking after her younger brother Charles who chokes over the punchline of his only riddle. What did one wall say to the other? Meetcha at the corner. She wants this American soldier/story writer to write a story for her. Not just for her, she amends, but for her.