justin

Why do I dream of a city? Why don't I dream of the pond with its dark trees, its shifting surface?

I had to pick up someone at the train station in Kingston late one night. Arriving with time to spare, I stopped by the Borders, though I didn't really think it would be open so late. Imagine my surprise at finding it not only brightly lit, but full of pre-teens dressed in Goth attire. It turned out to be a midnight release party for some YA vampire book.

I took the opportunity, though, to pick up this book, which Moira had recommended when I told her about my dreams—that I often dream about being in this city, the same city, its streets and shopping malls as familiar to me as those of Towson or Kingston for that matter.

Yet it is a city that—waking—I have never seen.

Well, twice. Once in Lyons, France, when I went to visit Ilya and Jasmine. We were on our way to this restaurant on Presqu'Isle where we would sit at a long table with other patrons, sharing food and listening to music provided by the owner's Romany brother-in-law who just happened to drop by.

Anyway, Lyons was all lit up and we passed by this plaza a few steps above street level and surrounded by brilliant white buildings. In one corner, a young man was recklessly dancing to music only he could hear, and I recognised the plaza as one I had often passed while walking in my dream city.

The other time was in Yokohama, Japan, where our hotel, tall and foursquare with a connecting shopping mall snuggled against its feet was in fact the hotel and mall from my other life. Oddly, I seem to have frequented them much more often than I ever have such places in my waking life: late for a conference at the hotel's meeting room or stopping for coffee in one of the mall's shops. So to see the place standing there in the middle of Yokohama, to walk its corridors in this life, was eerie.

I don't know what to think about all this. Part of me doesn't believe in dreams and part wonders if the dreams led me to these places.

Note that I'm not talking about the book. It's remarkable. But I can't talk about it. You just have to experience it. Moira asked me which was my favorite of Calvino's cities. Maybe Euphemia where stories and memories are traded. Or Zobeide, the white city, which was laid out according to paths followed in dreams. Or Eusapia with its identical city of the dead. But really, all of them.

I love the inventiveness of these brief descriptions, like Ersilia where the houses have been removed leaving just the labyrinth of strings that once stretched between homes and offices to show relationships. I love the reversals or the turns at the end that add another layer of understanding.

Why do I dream of a city? I think because cities are where people come together. Where we have a chance at achieving the unity Forster wrote about. Where we knock off each other's rough edges and learn to get along. Where we tell each other our stories, even if it is only under dark suburban trees, their shadows holding us and keeping us separate from the silent, slumbering homes.

Despite the laudatory comments on the covers and its self-proclaimed best-seller status, I found this book to be deeply flawed. It is a love story, the story of Lou and Toby Maytrees. The two meet in Provincetown in the 1930s, fall in love and marry, but that is just the beginning of their tale. I usually feel frustrated reading stories that end with marriage because the whole chasing-catching-marrying thing is much less interesting to me than what comes after the wedding. So I was pretty happy that Dillard concentrates on the long life after the cake is cut and the dishes washed.

However, I was less happy about the self-consciously poetic style of the book, jumping around in time, providing an impressionistic narrative that I sometimes found difficult to follow. The structure was quite odd: both a preface and a prologue that together constituted a third of the book, and then three uneven sections. I was also less happy with the labored attempts to come up with original imagery. Sentences like “Twice a day behind their house the tide boarded the sand. Four times a year the seasons flopped over” would get a less-famous writer laughed out of the room.

I was astounded by Dillard's first book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which seemed a whole new way of writing about the natural world, mixing humor, reflection, and emotion. The few of her later books that I've read haven't reached that acme, but have had moments of gorgeous writing. Here, too, are some lovely bits, especially about Provincetown and the way of life there in the middle of the 20th century.

Yet the story as a whole rings false to my ears. The young couple decides that free time is more important than possessions, so they choose not to work. It helps that they have inherited a big house in town and a shack on the beach. And somehow, with no money, they never seem to have a problem with taxes or food or heat or medical bills for the baby that soon arrives. Perhaps I am just not poetic enough, but I can't help wondering how the heck they get by.

In their later life, Toby does actually work and money becomes a bigger factor in his life. Lou, on the other hand, appears to be the epitome of a Zen monk, open to the world, unencumbered by self, desires, etc. Easy enough to free yourself from desires, I can't help but think, when you're getting a generous alimony check and free housing. It's hard to be open to the universe when you can't pay the heating bill.

Maybe I'm being too picky. I heard Dillard interviewed at the International Authors Festival in Toronto a few years ago and was appalled by her behavior. She refused to sit in the armchair provided, insisting on standing behind it. She deliberately upstaged the author interviewing her, forcing him to turn his back on the audience. When he tried to come level with her, she moved further upstage. She made fun of his questions and treated him with disdain. I don't know if she had a beef with that particular author or if she is that rude in all of her interviews, but I do know that I've never seen a grown person behave like such a brat. I try not to let what I know about the author influence my reading, but I'm not always successful.

In the end, despite the moments of lovely description, the story was simply too light and unrealistic to hold my interest for long.

This memoir opens with the murder of Theo Van Gogh in Amsterdam in 2004 by a Muslim outraged by a film Van Gogh had made with Ayaan Hirsi Ali. I remember my horror at Van Gogh’s murder, despite my years in Baltimore with its high murder rate, because it happened in Amsterdam.

I had been spending a good bit of time in The Netherlands where I delighted in what seemed to be the nature of Dutch culture: calm, practical, tolerant. I felt that I had found my spiritual homeland. All the more shocking, then, this assassination in a land where reason rules.

The film Van Gogh and Hirsi Ali made was called Submission and explored the treatment of women in Islamic culture in connection with the actual verses from the Quran mandating such treatment. After this introduction, Hirsi Ali goes back to her childhood in Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Kenya, and Ethiopia to show how a devout Muslim girl could grow up to question the beliefs that structure and define her world.

Of course, I have read a good deal about women’s lives under Islam, but the accounts have been inconsistent, even conflicting. In this memoir, Hirsi Ali discusses the differences in the practice of Islam in different countries, and how the more repressive strain from Saudi Arabia came to dominate. Islam is more than a religion; it is a guide to daily life, prescribing men’s and women’s roles.

There are politics here, but in the form of stories: stories about her mother, her sister, her friends. A way of life is built up that is completely foreign to me. There are atrocities here too. I’ve read about female circumcision—excision, as Hirsi Ali calls it—but hadn’t grasped the full horror of it until this first-person account made it impossible to flinch away.

However, the biggest shock for me in this book was the short shrift Hirsi Ali gives to tolerance, that virtue I prize so highly and aspire to in my dealings with others. Having come of age during the Civil Rights movement in the U.S., I try to respect and value differences of culture, ethnicity, appearance, gender, etc. But the latter part of this account, when Hirsi Ali moves into Dutch politics, actually being elected to Parliament, blows away my comfortable—perhaps smug—perspective. She demonstrates that tolerance can become an excuse for inaction. Some things we should not tolerate, such as girls being mutilated, wives beaten at a husband’s whim, women murdered because they have been raped and are therefore impure.

Religious belief does not trump the law, at least not in The Netherlands. Nor in the U.S. But what about in a Muslim country? I struggle now to reconcile my consciousness of the abuse of women with my respect for other cultures. I don’t want to force my religious beliefs on anyone else, nor my form of government. Yet by advocating equal rights for women, including Muslim women, I am doing just that. I don’t have any answers at this point, only questions.

I found these diaries very difficult to read. I haven’t read any of White’s novels yet, though I know that her Frost in May was one of the initial “lost” women’s masterpieces rescued by Virago Press in the 1970s. Apparently, the diaries were not written to be read by outsiders. Instead, they seem to serve mostly as a place where she can work out just what is going on with her.

She doesn’t use the diaries as a writer’s notebook, with character sketches and plot vignettes. Nor does she use them as a memory box, with descriptions of friends and happenings. She alludes to many friends and lovers. In fact, the number of people cited in these snippets left me floundering, even with the help of the biographical sketches in the back. White certainly knew a lot of interesting people, and I would have welcomed more information about many of them, such as Julien Green, George Barker, and Graham Greene, but they are only mentioned in passing. There are a couple a brief references to World War II starting, but nothing else of the interesting times that she lived through.

Of course, she wasn’t trying to write a narrative with these diaries. Or perhaps she was: the story of her life. More than anything else, she writes in the diaries in order to understand herself and her experiences. Born in 1899 as Eirene Botting, she came of age in the wild years after the Great War, with three marriages and a number of lovers, two daughters, and a nervous breakdown.

The influence of her resulting years of pschoanalysis is evident in these diaries, as she records her dreams and explores her memories of her parents. Even towards the end of this volume, when she is in her fifties, she is still going back over childhood events, trying to work out their effect on her life. There is much about her financial difficulties and writer’s block. She complains about how her pen works, the way the light falls, feeling depressed.

What I valued most was her bluntness. I may have found it hard to like her when she goes on about how much of a burden her children are and how finally, after many years, she might be starting to love them a little bit, yet I appreciated such sentiments much more than a pretense at more conventional maternal feelings.

On the other hand, her reconciliation with the Catholic Church in 1940 made for sticky reading. Between talk of making God the center of her life and breast-beating over the conflict of the church’s teachings with her “over-sexed” nature, I was tempted to put down the book entirely. Then there was the bizarre relationship with another convert, with the two of them trying to out-Catholic each other and fighting over White’s oldest daughter, Susan.

Another difficulty I had with the book is that has been edited by Susan herself. Since much of the second half has to do with Susan—analysing her personality, admitting to jealousy of Susan’s beauty, lamenting their falling out—I began to question the editing that went into producing this volume. There are many ellipses in every passage which appear to mark excised phrases rather than being White’s writing style. I couldn’t help but speculate about what was missing. A comment on the end flap (I always read the end flaps last) leads me to think that the other daughter opposed the book, making me wonder what sort of book might have been produced by a less biased editor.

And what kind of picture of White might have come out of a different selection. This book makes her seem completely self-centered, thinking only of herself and her needs, trying to dominate former husbands and lovers even after leaving them, ignoring her daughters except to complain that they don’t love her enough. Perhaps she was an insufferable egotist, but surely she was also a victim of changing cultural mores, struggling to balance the strictures of her parents and the church against the sexual freedom and spiritualism of the years between the wars. And White, like Elizabeth Smart, another single parent, obviously struggled to find the emotional and intellectual energy, not to mention simply the time, to write. Was it the writing that made her a bad mother, as Alice Walker’s daughter has famously accused? Or is the writing just a convenient scapegoat?

Last week I wrote about reading Cheever’s stories and journals at the same time. I’m always curious about how other writers use their journals. I’ve written in this blog about Elizabeth Smart’s journals and how she used them in creating her novels. Based on these extracts, Cheever seems to have used his journal occasionally as a sketchbook for his stories but primarily as a place to have a conversation with himself about himself. And while it was fun to see the original sketches that became characters and bits of plot in the stories, it was far more interesting to see him exploring his experiences and thoughts and emotions in ways that fed into the stories in a more subtle manner.

I was surprised that there not much about writing. Very rarely he would refer to another writer—a brief reference to Phillip Roth or John Updike—but not much beyond a note of praise for that author’s work, no recordings of discussions with any other writers. So it came as a surprise that, when a reporter falsely informs him of Updike’s death, he is shattered by the loss of this (now we find out) close friend.

And there is nothing about his own writing. Once or twice he cites his success at achieving his goal in writing, but never explains what that goal is. Of course, the journals were not written with an eye to publication, so perhaps he didn’t need to state it. I need to keep reminding myself of my goals and what I am trying to accomplish—it’s a method I use to stay on track and not get distracted by all the intriguing branches down which I could wander.

Nor does he, except in the last few months of his life when his mental and physical powers were waning, talk about the physical act of writing, the difficulties and satisfactions of getting words down on paper.

In the early years, he occasionally mentions financial difficulties, but I have to say that this is one area that completely baffled me. I was amazed that he could make a living, a good living, just from writing stories. Yes, it was a different era, and yes, the New Yorker bought a lot of his stories, but how in the world did he maintain a wealthy suburban lifestyle for himself and his family with just his writing? His wife didn’t have a job. Nor did he, apparently, other than writing.

His relationship with his wife dominates these journals, as he tries to puzzle her out or recounts the ways that he has betrayed her despite his best intentions. I was surprised by the consistency of his concerns. He came back again and again to the same preoccupations, fears, and laments year after year. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, because I’m well aware that my own journals circle back over the same ground repeatedly. I like to think that I’ve progressed, but often find that I am having to learn the same lesson over and over.

Beyond the content of these journals, the simple experience of reading Cheever’s prose is delightful. These sentences, presumably dashed off casually before beginning his real writing, are as exquisite as the finely crafted sentences in the stories. Between the journals and the collected stories, I had a sense of an oeuvre, a lifetime’s accomplishment. I thought, as I did walking through the rooms full of Turners at the Tate: This is a person’s life, this body of work.

It took me a couple of months to read this book, much longer than normal for me even with a longer work of fiction. What I found was that I couldn’t read more than a couple of stories at a time, and that I needed to take time off to read other things in between.

I’d read a few of Cheever’s stories before, but the experience of reading them in bulk was quite different. What drew me to this collection was the opportunity of reading his journals at the same time, hoping to satisfy my curiosity about how other writers transform their experiences into fiction. Also, of course, about anything he had to say about the experience of writing itself.

The stories, at least those in this collection, were written in the years after World War II through the Seventies and describe a single, small segment of society: the upper middle-class suburban culture where men commuted into New York every day for work and women stayed home to keep house, raise children, and volunteer for worthy causes. At one point, he notes with surprise that men have stopped wearing hats and women gloves. Some stories turn on the isolation of a suburban man or family in a foreign culture, and others on the introduction of someone from another culture (an Italian count, a Jewish family, a brassy lower-class wife) into this world.

This is the world that dominated the entertainment media in those mid-century decades: the Petries, the Cleavers, etc. Cheever’s gift is to show the loneliness, fear, and even violence behind the quiet suburban windows, as Grace Metalius showed the sexual games and musical beds. Cheever demonstrates that lives which seem fixed and certain, even boring, are in fact precariously balanced and can tumble down at the slightest cross-breeze. Death haunts these stories, death of the spirit as well as the body. Occasionally, after reading a few of these stories, I’d be reminded of Fortinbras “knee-deep in Danes”, as the song goes.

A few of the stories venture into the metaphysical, and these seemed to me less successful than those that stayed on a realistic plane. One (“Boy in Rome”) even played with the idea of writing itself, a bit of meta-fiction that impressed me: not overdone, not playing for the sake of playing, just enough.

I particularly liked the stories about the role work plays in our lives, such as “The Ocean”, where a man is eased out of his high-level job with a substantial golden parachute, but wants only to find a place to work, an arena in which he can use his skills. He is reduced to driving to the station to meet the evening train, rejoicing in the sight of all the commuting husbands erupting from it to join their waiting wives.

Most of the stories are, however, about love. And marriages gone wrong. These concerns dominate the journals as well. A few stories allude to the difficulties women faced, confined to the home but wanting to work. Having read many such stories from the women’s point of view, I found a man’s point of view revealing.

While the post-war New York suburban culture is not a world that interests me, Cheever’s prose is mesmerizing. I found myself going back after reading a story and looking at the brief character descriptions, the transitions from one scene to the next, even individual sentences, trying to pick apart where the magic happens, how he manages to convey so much emotion with such straight-forward language. What made me keep putting the book down was the sadness of the stories themselves, their desolate tone and bleak philosophy.

Some years ago, when I lived in New England, my next-door neighbor decided to burn the brush he had cleared from his yard. Unfortunately, mixed in with that brush was poison ivy.

Now, I catch poison ivy if you simply tell me that your second cousin had it ten years ago, so I reacted strongly to this smoke. My face swelled to twice its size. It turned beet-red and lumpy, and my eyes were reduced to mere slits. I was lucky, I guess, that I just got a faceful of smoke and didn’t breathe it in; if I had gotten poison ivy in my throat, I would have ended up in the hospital on a ventilator.

As it was, I called my doctor and got her to call in a prescription for a strong antihistamine. Walking around the corner to the drugstore, however, was a more difficult experience altogether. People gave me a wide berth, their eyes flickering to my face and then quickly away again. Even the pharmacist, whom I’d come to know well through my children’s various ailments, looked over my shoulder rather than at my monstrous face.

“I’m still me!” I wanted to shout.

But was I? How much of who we are has to do with what we look like? I’m always intrigued by people whose appearance contradicts their personalities. Take Buster for instance, a huge, husky steelworker whose terrifying demeanor incited newcomers at the corner bar to pick fights with him in order to prove their mettle. But in fact Buster was the most gentle man imaginable and loathed fighting. Or Christine, who worked with me several years ago. A blandly beautiful young woman, with the blond hair, blue eyes, and clear complexion once commonly found in teen magazines. She looked like a ditzy blond but actually boasted a fierce intelligence that she refused to hide.

Egan’s excellent novel explores these issues around the intersection of appearance and identity. It opens with a fashion model who has been in a terrible auto accident. The resulting reconstructive surgery has left her looking beautiful but different, so unlike herself that even her friends and agent do not recognise her at first. She is also at an age where her bookings had already started falling off, even before the accident, and Egan adds to her examination of identity the dimension of celebrity and how that relects or influences our idea of ourselves.

There is much more to the book, other fascinating characters whose charisma waxes and wanes, plotlines that vary from teen-aged self-discovery to acts of terrorism. It is almost too much. In fact, it is too much for Egan to handle. She does an astonishing job of keeping all her balls in the air, making me think this one of the best books I’d read a long time. But the balls tumble down in chaos at the end of the book. I was so disappointed by the ending, which felt as though Egan simply got tired of writing and stopped, leaving many plot threads dangling. The only attempt at resolution, in an epilogue, had such a different tone that it seemed to have come from another book entirely.

Still, it is an excellent book and well worth reading. There is much to think about here. How and when we define ourselves, or allow others to define us. What consistency we can expect with our past selves. What effect our influence on others has, on them and on us. And how our appearance affects the construction of our identity. I certainly found my monstrously altered appearance prevented any interaction with others. If it had been more permanent, I wonder how my image of myself might have changed.

Molly sent me a copy of her book this week, and I’ve been reading and rereading her poems in the evenings as I sit out on my little porch. Instead of going to the dance, I linger to read and watch the light fade from the sky and the surface of the pond. The water makes no sound, its gentle undulations barely noticeable, until a fish breaks the surface with a little popping sound and sends necklaces of ripples whirling out into stillness.

These poems start out in Alaska, bringing to life encounters with the aurora borealis, brown bears, and local storytellers. I particularly like “Menenhall Glacier”, a meditation on time, anchored by specific descriptions of loons and lupines and mosquitoes and enhanced by surprising but oh-so-right metaphors, such as referring to the glacier as “nature’s giant plow”.

The poems segue into the revelations of daily life: hiding eggs in the spring, meditating on laundry, consoling a friend on his divorce. Sometimes, a quirky sense of humor surfaces, such as in “Song of Consumption” with its self-mockery and “Enumerating” with its playful recounting of the way we count each day. She finds music in the words around us, such as in “Redline” which uses the rhythms in the stops of the T, a rocking rhythm reminiscent of the swaying of the cars themselves.

The people who inhabit these poems are vividly drawn, a marvel of compression that I must continue to study. I felt as though I knew the man with the blue eyes, had seen Billie Holliday myself, walked through the woods with Alice. I found the poems about her mother and father exceptionally moving, especially “Into the Crack of Dawn” with its last waltz.

Molly and I share a dance community, and I am thrilled by the dance imagery in these poems, sometimes in the context of dancing itself, sometimes as a way to understand and approach the rhythms of life. My daughter-in-law, new to dancing, said that she knew she would love it when she first walked in and noticed that everyone was smiling. These deceptively simple poems invite you onto the floor and gently whirl you away, inviting you to explore the complex patterns of your life, leaving you refreshed and—yes—smiling.

Starting with sixth grade, my mother enrolled me in private girls’ school. I didn’t want to leave the public school but was helpless before her determination. One of the requirements of the entrance exam was to write an essay, a term and a form that were new to me. The proctor explained that I should just write a story about the assigned subject, summer vacation, I think.

The school was as awful as I’d expected, snobby and materialistic. Worst of all, the minuscule population (smaller classes! the brochure bragged) reduced to near zero the chance of my finding like-minded friends. Rather than learning to get along with others, I withdrew into myself. It wasn’t until Adrienne Rich came as an alumna to speak at an assembly that I began to believe in my own survival. A published and honored poet, rebellious and outspoken: she took my breath away. If she could survive this school with her voice intact, then I could too.

Ever since, I’ve devoured her poetry and—yes—essays, grateful for the questions she’s asked and the trails she’s blazed. This book of essays and conversations gives us her fierce and intelligent voice discussing poetry, art, women, and her own work. When she mentions that the primary motivation for her poetry is to reveal what is hidden, I am reminded of our school and our neighborhood—she grew up a block away from me—and their suffocating atmosphere of secrecy, their respectable and elite front hiding shame and abuse and prejudice.

She relates this archeological work to the study of silence, a parallel that had not occurred to me before. I’d thought about silences in women’s lives in the sense that Tillie Olsen uses, the gaps in women’s creative lives cause by the harsh demands of women’s roles in our culture. But the thought of digging into what those silences might hide is thrilling.

Rich talks about the difficulty of making poetry out of political experiences, mentioning how she learning from Yeats that it was indeed possible to do so while protesting his idea that the addition of a political dimension would make the voices of women poets harsh.

I love when she talks about how Raya Dunayevskaya’s biography identifies Rosa Luxemburg’s central relationship as being with her work. I’ve found that too many people—biographers, editors, readers—allow women only one story: a romance.

Most of all, I loved Rich’s discussion of translation, having just taken a course where I translated Italian poetry into English. She carries the idea forward into describing the essence of poetry itself: “But poetry is an art of translation, a connective strand between unlike individuals, times, and cultures.” And here she ties translation and poetry into one of my deepest values: that of creating and nurturing communities.

Despite the stereotype of the lone artist, working away in solitude, there is no doubt that the heart of it is communication. And by communicating our different realities, we come to understand and appreciate each other. In a new book club at Ukazoo Books, a group of strangers, one person asked why it seemed that people who read lots of novels tend to be liberal politically. It seems to me that the reason is precisely this appreciation of experiences foreign to our own, undermining our self-righteous conviction that everyone could be as successful as we are if they would just try a little harder. Rich says: “Art is our human birthright, our most powerful means of access to our own and another’s experience and imaginative life. In continually rediscovering and recovering the humanity of human beings, art is crucial to the democratic vision.”

Rich is still my model and my inspiration, just as she was when I was in school. These essays help me understand why.

King’s first book about Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes was The Beekeeper’s Apprentice which I finally read, despite my misgivings. I’ve come to dislike stories that use real people as characters or characters created by other authors. It doesn’t seem fair somehow, even if they are out of copyright.

Milan Kundera’s book Immortality made me think about public images and how little control one has over how one is remembered. More than just celebrities haunted by paparazzi and grotesque tabloid stories: even those who have chosen private lives may be affected. It is terrifyingly easy for a rejected lover or malicious sibling to spread false stories about a person and change the way that person is perceived by others.

And of course, the internet increases the range of the problem. Consider the dog poop girl, a young woman on the subway in South Korea who refused to clean up the mess her dog made and was rude to people around her who asked her to do so. A bystander snapped her picture and posted it on the internet. Others quickly tracked down her personal information and shared it on the network, shaming her family, forcing her to drop out of school, and causing her to be known for the rest of her life as the dog poop girl—surely a disproportionate punishment for her rude behavior. Daniel J. Solove’s The Future of Reputation explores this story and others like it, raising ethical issues about privacy in an age of internet vigilantism.

Well, I’ve wandered from Mary Russell, but these concerns have kept me away from such books. However, rave reviews from people whose opinions I trust finally sent me to the first book in the series. While I found it absorbing and well-written, I winced every time Holmes’s name was mentioned, which somewhat interrupted the flow of the story, and I decided not to read any more in the series.

But I have. Mog asked me to return this book to the library for her, and there it sat, saying Read me . . . Read me . . . until I finally gave in. Again, absorbing and well-written. Again, the wincing, though perhaps a little less because Russell and Holmes operate independently during long stretches of the book. Here, on their way back to England from India, they decide to stop in San Francisco to enable Russell to deal with her inheritance. Her intention is to sell the properties that have languished since the tragic death of her parents ten years previously.

As they near port, however, Russell experiences three different recurring dreams, disturbing dreams of flying objects and faceless men, causing Holmes to wonder if they could be related to the death of Russell’s parents and the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906, although Russell maintains that she and her family were living in England at that time. Holmes and Russell's separate and mutual investigations probe issues of memory and identity, of the role that places and possessions play in anchoring our sense of self and providing the continuity we expect to find in our personalities.

Several recent books have looked at the effect of learning you were mistaken about some critical event in your past: Atonement by MacEwan, The Sea by John Banville. Understanding and correctly interpreting your past seems to be a task of middle age: looking backward in order to determine the best way forward. I keep getting distracted, but I meant to say that King is an excellent writer, and I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Except for the wincing.