{notes on the soul}

Around Glasgow 567 HDR

On Fortuna’s Wheel. Which is apparently in George Square, Glasgow.

A friend sent this along a few weeks ago and I’ve been puzzling over it, bit by bit, ever since. No matter what you believe about souls, this is a gorgeous translation of Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska’s work – a whimsical, exasperated, sideways look at something we neither see nor can pinpoint – but which millions have debated. What are our souls? Do they exist? Are they only borrowed for awhile? Do click through to read the whole thing.

A Few Words on the Soul

by Wislawa Szymborska
~ translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.

Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.

Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.

We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.

Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.

It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.


Born in Bnin, Poland, Wislawa Szymborska won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996.

Stanislaw Baranczak is the Alfred Jurzykowski Professor of Polish Literature, Emeritus, at Harvard University. Clare Cavanagh is an associate professor of Slavic languages at Northwestern University.

After that bit of whimsical exploration, if you know which end is up, head on over to Jone’s Check It Out for Poetry Friday’s roundup. For more happiness, don’t neglect to read Kate Messner’s utterly inspired poem, which I found on Mary Lee’s blogsite. And check out my latest find – zincwhite, which uses recycled typewriters and colored pencils to make fashion and jewelry, and probably will ship outside the UK, but only if you ask them very nicely.

It’s been a heckuva week – got my first review from Kirkus on HAPPY FAMILIES – and it’s quite positive – finally finished the first leg of the long journey on the other SUPER SEEKRIT PROJECT, and am in the death-and-daggers scenes of my mystery. Which is why, of course, I am procrastinating and spending time on the internet looking up types of guns, as if that really matters. Here’s hoping more “finished!” shouts emerging from this direction soon! HAPPY FRIDAY.

{madea}

The other day, my friend L. mentioned seeing pictures of a baptism (Protestant) and seeing someone perched on the corner of the font with a laptop, so that family elsewhere could see the whole thing via Skype. What a strange world, isn’t it? Today, at eleven Pacific is my grandmother’s memorial service. My passport is in the secure hands of the UK Border Agency, so I will attend via Skype as well, a virtual fly on the wall.

When I took down this tribute to my grandmother on the 9th of January, a few people emailed and asked me about it, so today, I’ll put it up again, knowing that today candles are burning and family is arriving, and memories — tidied up for nostalgic consumption — are being shared. Since I’m not there, I’ll also remember Dea’s belly laugh, her interesting strings of palindromic Navy vocabulary (aka swear words), and how she whinged about no one loving her enough to bring her donuts (really, she was the world’s worst diabetic). She was larger than life, and so remains.


My Dear – or Madea – Anita, was my grandmother. Or, rather is; I suppose she always will be. Today she died. I’m sorry you didn’t know her. You would have liked her. She loved…

  • Her God. She left school in third grade, so didn’t read terribly well, but my earliest memories of her were her long, morning prayers, and silent Bible reading, her mouth working over the words.
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  • Her family. My Papa, to whom she was married from 1942-1993 – from the age of fourteen. Her twelve children, and their myriad grandchildren. All of her grandbabies, and all of her greats and twice-greats. She remembered birthdays, favorite foods, favorite colors, and loved nothing more to have a houseful of squealing, squalling, bickering, eating-her-out-of-house-and-home relatives. She loved family reunions.
  • Her music: she would hum and sing all day long. She had a thin, weak voice that sounded like a child’s singing – she was untrained and slightly off-key, but happy. Perfectly happy. Ella Fitzgerald, old hymns, advertising jingles – it didn’t much matter if she was in the mood to hum along. Sometimes she danced, a slow foot tapping, hips swinging, the odd finger snap. Usually her hands were too busy to stop for too long, and only one foot moved, but she danced her own way.
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  • Her shoes: When I was about nine, I counted thirty-five pairs of pumps alone in her closet (not to mention flats, slippers, or boots), two-toned spectator pumps, the stylishly feminized wingtip types, dyed satin ones leftover from weddings, some with bows, some with buckles. She changed shoes twice a day – along with outfits. The woman was the Imelda Marcos of Patterson, Louisiana. The woman loved her clothes.
  • Her jewelry: I counted her rings once. And then lost track. And there were jewelry boxes she wouldn’t let me play in. There’s a good side to having twelve kids: Christmas. Birthdays. Mother’s Day.
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  • Her country. She happily waved goodbye to all of her sons in the Navy. The one Army son-in-law was looked upon with amusement.
  • Her food: Red beans and rice. Jambalaya. Étouffée. Gumbo. This was not a woman who turned out a loaf of bread – that’s what the Wonderbread factory was for, thank-you. She had other things on the hob – buttermilk biscuits. Beignets. Pecan pralines. Something as simple as grits and eggs would come to you creamy hot and peppered and perfect. She even managed, with furrowed brow, to make vegetarian versions of things, for which I will always love her. She wanted us all to eat.
  • Her hard men: John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Chuck Norris & Claude Van Damme. No, seriously. The woman could watch “cowboy pictures,” and Dirty Harry all day, in between endless rounds of laundry and cups of black chicory coffee.
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  • Laughter: she loved swearing at the squirrels in her pecan tree — and shooting beans at them with a slingshot. (In the country, people eat squirrels.) She loved listening to my Papa telling his rambling stories, aka, lies. She loved listening to my sisters and I argue, because we, with our cushy lives and education, were utterly foreign and nonsensical to her. She thought even our squabbling was funny. She loved her world – the neighbor’s cats, the cow next door, the bulbs rising in the spring, the cherry blossoms.
  • She was Pond’s cold cream, Noxema at night, and Glorious by Vanderbilt on a Sunday. She was tuneless humming, tight hugs, and efficient hands. She was a blessing to this world, and now you know her a little bit.

    All the world’s a stage, and Madea’s show had an amazing run. Onward she goes, to her next performance.

    Anita Allen Francis, 1928-2012. May her memory be a blessing.

{my funny anti-Valentine}

Gingerbread Valentine 03 Gingerbread Valentine 06 Gingerbread Valentine 08

This is another story of how Flat Stanley came to be made.
It does not involve the stork.

Dear Susan

This year, at Valentine’s Day, as always, I remember you.

I’ve washed my favorite black dress trousers and my favorite v-necked black shirt, and am prepared to sail out into the world, forcibly sharing cookies and love with everyone. And making them share back. (Okay, maybe not that last bit, but it kind of goes with the fascism: you have to elevate and impose the idea above the people. And the idea is LOVE, gosh darn it all. BE LOVING OR ELSE.)

I thought of you recently because as well as writing letters of appreciation to people every year, my friend Farida is rethinking Valentine’s Day. To improve myself, I am attempting the letter, but I should probably do that rethinking thing sometime. Instead, I am stuck with the version of me that you met junior year at Rio. Your junior year, anyway. I was a senior, and you were already far cooler than I.

I wonder what you really saw – the geeky girl in badly dyed black jeans, who over-earnestly read your back issues of Sassy and Jane and tried to emulate your dress sense? Or some wannabe trying to Make A Statement about the herd mentality of high school, and the stress-inducing pressure I felt to convey honest emotion on cue, in a prescribed way, on a proscribed day? How funny to me now that I told you that I was mourning the death of saints. I was mourning the death of an idea, too… that I would ever eventually be able to be in sync with the rest of the world.

I don’t know what you saw, but instead of laughing, you went back to your room and changed clothes. And you joined me in the wearing of Ironic Black In Protest every year that I knew you – despite the fact that both of us were nattered at and had eyes rolled at us for being sour grapes about Valentine’s “just because you don’t have boyfriends” (which you did sometimes) or because we were “feminazis” and with all kinds of anti-men issues (and I refuse to justify that stupidity with a response). You stuck with it, and stuck with me. And unlike mine, your blacks even matched, because you are That Cool.

And a thousand years past high school, I still think about you on Valentine’s Day as I pull on my black trou, and step into my black boots, and pull on my black gloves. My opting out becomes less ironic each year, and more of a conscious as I acknowledge the stresses which surround the idea of holidays. Opting out creates a sane space in my head so that I can say, “It’s not that I hate you along with the holiday – it’s just that I’ll tell you I love you tomorrow.” Instead of words, I can offer something which melts on the tongue – a little zingy, a lot spicy, a more realistic reflection of our lives, which are composed of both the sweet and a little sharpness of lemon icing.

Dear Susan. Thank you for, once upon a time, being my friend.

Gingerbread Valentine 01

{Mom, remember that one thing about Mesopotamia?}

My poor mother.

Not only did I regale her, when I was five and six, with endless stories, when I was a high school sophomore and studying world history, I used to read her from my textbook. Well, heck, I know now it was probably kind of boring, but at fifteen, the stuff was exciting to me. My mother was valedictorian of her high school, however (and Homecoming Queen. And then beget me. Who is neither Homecoming nor valedictorian material. What is up with that?), and had already taken those classes. A long time ago. And sort of just blinked at me and let her mind wander whilst I regaled her excitedly with the mysteries of cuneiform and ancient empires.

I doubt Mom could let her mind wander during the Crash Courses, though. Put together by John Green – and his high school history teacher, natch – these funny, bizarre and informative brush-up courses are so much fun, and I would have probably been a history major if I’d run across them in high school.

I have way too much love for this project. I haven’t yet delved into brother Hank’s courses on Biology, but World History is supposed to be a forty-part series, and we’re already on part 3 – Catch up, next Thursday there’s a new one!

{my posse don’t do history: the case for historical fiction}

Cross-posted at Finding Wonderland

Imagine two best friends, united against a common enemy. It is the pitch of midnight, and they are making a desperate flight across country, to deliver a package necessary to the scrappy resistance fighters desperately battling a corrupt government for their freedom. There’s been a car accident, so they’re the emergency fill-ins. Neither of them are supposed to be where they are. And then there’s another, bigger accident. In a foreign country, neither with any business being there, the girls have to split up and vanish — and those who are caught disappear into the night and fog — for good.

It is the pitch of midnight. And the enemies of truth and right are playing for keeps.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Wouldn’t you be on the edge of your seat reading this book? I know I was…at times feeling quite hopeless and desolate upwellings of terror and the word, “Nooooooo!” pulled from deep within. I could imagine myself there — and making a horrible mess out of EVERYTHING. If you read it, you’d imagine yourself there — and screwing up badly — too.

It’s exciting. There’s espionage, airplanes, parachutes, firefights, and girls hunched in dark places under umbrellas, waiting for safety in breathless silence. There’s fear — bleak terror — great laughs, and the best friends you could ask for.

So, why’d we want to go and ruin it all by calling it historical fiction???

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

For a long time, the biggest concern of the Gatekeepers in our world o’ books was where to put historical fiction in the canon for young people. Was it “edutainment?” Was it fictionalizing history or historicizing fiction, sliding in a character’s fears and hopes and their thoughts where students perhaps ought to be better employed with learning dates and facts? Was it, and could it ever be, authentic?

These big questions were hashed out in historical journals and literary papers and I think it’s safe to say that though some historians remained uncomfortable, the majority of teachers, especially in the middle grades and junior high, where I served most of my time, felt that historical fiction was an important lamp to illuminate some darker corners. Especially with the rise of multiculturalism, some pieces of history that “we” – as in mainstream, dominant culture America – had not realized were part of “our” story needed to be dug out, rediscovered, and explored. Historical fiction was a great tool to bridge the gap with the unknown pasts of a commingled people with the commonality of the human story. Through the insertion of tiny, literal accuracies, historical fiction maintains a sturdy cover story of “true enough,” and more quickly engages young minds with the history before them. For most students, blending stories into a study of history helps to recreate the past as a dynamic place.

For MOST students.

For other students — and for many of the rest of us — it’s an automatic “No.” Seriously. I read through the comments of the people who have talked about CODE NAME VERITY when it was recommended to them. “I don’t usually read war books…” “I’m not usually a fan of wartime historical fiction…” “I don’t normally do historical fiction…” Is it the war? Or is it just the past?

Author and teacher Ashley Hope Pérez responded to a post a few days ago, “I have a kind of knee-jerk recoil from the term “historical fiction,” probably because I know how it would make my kiddos eyes glaze before they even tasted the prose.” Jen over at Reading Rants agrees: “In my experience, most teens won’t even look at hist. fic. unless they have to read it for a school assignment. You know, stuff like My Brother Sam is SO Dead, or Johnny TREmain (as in TREmendously booorrrriiinnggg!).”

It’s baffling, really — no one characterizes, say, The Great Gatsby as historical fiction — or, a better example, The Key to Rebecca, not really. They’re listed as what they are, first – a novel of manners. An espionage thriller. Nothing to do with their setting and time period and everything to do with their plot content. In part, the sticky label of “historical fiction” is a marketing key for parents and librarians to identify the book: Here is something semi-educational to slap into the unsuspecting hands of innocent youth. Fool them into thinking it’s just a good story! Go to it! *cue maniacal laughter* Bwa-hahahahaha!

That, mainly, explains why it doesn’t work.

Oh, come on: how many of us pick up a book of fiction for the its educational aspects? Not me! When I pick up a book, I want a good story, period. Unfortunate, but the label attached to this genre can sometimes shoot even a very good book in the foot. The only thing we can really do about that is to book talk, book talk, book talk. Word of mouth will win the day! Talk up the other aspects of the story – the plot, the characterizations, the types of planes, the outfits, the guns. You can order the story bits by their importance: CODE NAME VERITY is a.) a thriller, b.) a story of the kind of intense friendships that start in a bomb shelter c.) a fast-paced, dangerous tale full of espionage, spies, and double agents d.) a cracking good read, which just happens to be, e.) set about sixty-some years ago.

Y’know, I think we can just leave off that last one.

As an author, I can say that one of the hardest things about writing historical fiction is the tightrope walk the author has to do — between historical accuracy and humanity. It’s important not to infodump dates and names, but it’s also crucial not to veer the characters – and the details of their daily lives – into obvious anachronisms by using more modern tools, language, and attitudes about social tolerance which make the historical accuracy a lie. Further, I know that writing about a war is tough because historical accuracy is a must – the dates have to match up, including when historical people die, and when troops moved in fact, they must move in fiction, too. But people’s characters — their loves and needs and fears and even their grocery lists — are much the same, no matter what era they’re in. Sure, they might swear a bit less or a bit more, wear their hair down, their pant-legs shorter; they might speak another language, but the human animal remains a constant – an important thing to know.

As a (former) teacher, I know that this is the saving grace of historical fiction, or any fiction, really — the people. The characters make the story, and you just have to close your eyes to the fact that since it’s history, you think you already know how it’s going to end, jump in to knowing the characters, and let go —

— you may find yourself on the edge of your seat, in the pitch of midnight, with two best friends, delivering a necessary package, having an accident, and disappearing into the night and fog…


Call it “historical fiction” or “historical suspense” or anything you’d like, the word is out: CODE NAME VERITY is a sensational novel. The Blog Tour is moving along; don’t forget to check out the stops along the way:

* Chachic’s buzzing about Verity; stop by and read her great review, as well as some discussion on starting an All Spoilers, All the Time discussion group so that people don’t have to keep the spy secrets to themselves.

* The Scottish Bookstrust is a fab organization interesting young people in books. Visit them at BookTrust.org.uk for more from Elizabeth Wein about friendship in CODE NAME VERITY. And stay tuned for Monday’s review of the novel, and links to Elizabeth’s interview on the BBC’s Book Cafe!


FOLLOW UP ARTICLE: Further Musings on Historical Fiction, and finally a review of Elizabeth Wein’s novel, Code Name Verity.

{nor any bounds, bounding us}

I know it not, O Soul;
Nor dost thou—all is a blank before us;
All waits, undream’d of, in that region—that inaccessible land.
– Toward The Unknown Region, from Whispers of Heavenly Death, by Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman had the loveliest sense of adventure about death, and so it is with that sense that I – for real this time – break the metaphorical champagne bottle on the ship that takes my grandmother off on her next adventure. I believe that the first leg of the journey is sleep, a deep and restful recompense for all of the years of work and toil and worry…for The Depression. For The Wars. For the peace. And then, when we can all be together, the voyage will continue to …somewhere, where, as Jane Kenyon says, God is, as advertised, mercy clothed in light.

That’s a good thought on which to set sail.

Mull D 95