Memory

Review: Meet Me at the Lighthouse

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Cover image for "Meet Me at the Lighthouse by Dana Gioia

Meet Me at the Lighthouse: Poems, Dana Gioia. Graywolf Press (ISBN: 9781644452158) 2023.

Summary: A collection of poems reflecting memories of people from several generations as well as the places of Gioia’s life.

I’ve suggested to others wanting to begin reading poetry to find an anthology and notice whose poetry you like and explore those poets further. Here, I am following my own advice, having encountered and liked Dana Gioia’s poetry in an anthology. And in this case, it was good advice. There was so much I connected with in these poems.

Many of these are about memories, typified in the opening and title poem, “Meet Me at the Lighthouse.” He recalls an old nightclub, on a foggy pier, speaks to an anonymous friend who has died, urging him to meet him there for one night of listening to some of the greats in jazz–Gerry Mulligan, Cannonball Adderly, Hampton Hawes, Stan Getz, Chet Baker, and Art Pepper. Who of us hasn’t remembered places like this and ghosts of our past and wished for ‘one more time?”

In “Three Drunk Poets” he recalls the crazy things we do in our youth. In this case, he recalls a night where, with two other poet friends in a small town, they challenged each other to keep walking until they ran out of remembered poems. They ran out of city lights before they did poems, with a coyote joining the recitation. At that, they turned around.

“Tinsel, Frankincense, and Fir” evokes memories of the Christmas season. Like many of us, his decorations are old and carry memories of Christmases past–and the ghosts of family.

Gioia evokes other ghosts. One is of an uncle, Theodore Ortiz, who joined the U.S. Merchant Marine, serving until his early death. Another is of the life and death of his great grandfather, Jesus Ortiz, and of the two boys who followed him as cowboys.

He writes several poems about Los Angeles. “Psalm and Lament for Los Angeles” paraphrases Psalm 137, setting it in the demolished places of his childhood. He asks, “What was there to sing in a strange and empty land?” His lament recalls the feelings of revisiting my home town of Youngstown and missing so many of the places of my youth–my house, my school, my church, the department store where both my father and I worked.

He also recalls the hot summer nights and the passions of the flesh so near the surface while another poem recalls the missed chances of romance.

In the final poem, “The Underworld,” Gioia joins the ranks of poets who chronicle a descent into hell. He alludes to Virgil, Dante, Senecas, Christopher Marlowe, Yeats, and T.S. Eliot. He concludes with “Disappointments” what was not there. He captures the nothingness that the Bible calls the “outer darkness.”

I found that there was a lot I could connect with in Gioia. Perhaps what I like as a relative neophyte at reading poetry is the accessibility of what he writes. Familiar verse structures and rhyme schemes. A story line. Perhaps as well in this collection, his remembering provokes my own. He recalls what is both sweet and sad in life and reminds us of how often these come together.

Now to find more of his work!

How Many Books Are You Currently Reading?

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At the moment? Seven in my case. Two are for book clubs of which I’m a part. Then I usually have at least two religious books I read, because I receive a lot of these for review. Then there is one on my Kindle, which is handy to read at breakfast and bed time. I have another that alternates between fiction and non-fiction. Finally, I have a book I can read in short snatches–often essays or poetry or something with short chapters.

I think personally that I have to take breaks from a book rather than read straight through. When I come back, my interest is renewed. I also have an interesting thing happen sometimes where it feels like my books are talking to each other–sometimes literally when one author mentions another, as is the case with the two books I’m reading for book clubs currently.

Some of this is shaped by interest and time of day, and some is shaped by my involvement in reviewing books. I find that I generally finish and am able to review four or five books most weeks (today is the rare exception when I didn’t have a book ready for review).

I posted a variation on this question on social media and was fascinated by the differences among reasons in this regard and the reasons for those differences. There is a group of people who like to read just one book at a time. For many of these people, reading more than one book at a time gets confusing. One person wrote, “I greatly prefer one book at a time. I’m confused enough by single books, and I can’t imagine trying to keep track of multiple plots, different genres simultaneously, etc.” The flip side of this is that some people choose books they can immerse themselves in and they just want to see how it all turns out without distraction. A person commented that you don’t watch two movies in different rooms at the same time (I personally suspect that there are some who try but I also think movies are different).

The picture seems to be more complicated for those reading multiple books at a time. Some are like me–they like the change. One person proposed that “A change is as good as rest.” They felt they could read more at a sitting if they switched off. Others mentioned getting into the habit of reading multiple books during their school years and never got out of it. For some, it is a question of the time of the day–more challenging material when one is fresh, more engaging or exciting material when they are tired and so they have different books for different times of the day. Some also read in different media–a printed book during a quiet moment at home, an audiobook while driving or working, an e-reader while commuting if not driving or on vacation or in bed. Others like to have a different book in different rooms in their homes to have a book available anywhere. One person reads multiple books because “I don’t have the self-control to finish one before starting another. I get too excited to see what the books have to say.”

I honestly don’t think there is a “right” answer to this question. In this as in other aspects of reading, I go with the axiom, read as you can, not as you can’t. Attention and memory seem to be two key aspects. For some, attention wanes if they go on and on in one book without a break; while for others, a book’s not worth reading if they cannot immerse themselves in it–perhaps reading all night to finish it. Some seem to have no problem remembering the plot or key ideas of multiple books while others can’t keep multiple books straight in their minds. We’re all wired differently, and the best thing we can do is understand what works for us.

Bottom line? It’s not a competition, no matter how many reading challenges are out there. You do you.

Remembering the Books That Have Made Me

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Southworth_and_Hawes_-_Ralph_Waldo_Emerson_(Zeno_Fotografie)

Southworth & Hawes, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Public Domain via Wikimedia

I came across a quote attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson recently that rang partly true. He is reputed to have said, “I cannot remember the books I’ve read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so they have made me.”

I think of this ringing partly true in the sense that I read quite a few books, even in a given year, and part of the reason I began to write reviews on Goodreads, and this blog, is that otherwise, I do forget some of the books that I read. It also seems only partly true, because some of the books were not memorable. I don’t think they became a part of me. After all, not all the food I eat becomes part of me, or makes me!

At the same time, there are a number of books that I’ve read that I do remember. William Manchester’s biography  of Churchill helped me understand the extraordinary greatness and courage of this man. The Lord of the Rings captured my imagination with the idea of ordinary people caught up in a great adventure. Francis Schaeffer was the first Christian writer to demonstrate that Christian thought had any relevance to the wider culture. H. Richard Niebuhr shaped my thinking about how we might engage that culture. Wendell Berry helped me think about technology and the land and community and what it means to have a sense of place and to love that place. The writings of Martin Luther King, Jr. helped me understand the urgency of the civil rights movement, particularly his message, “Why We Can’t Wait.” John R.W. Stott showed me the power of careful study that brings forth the message of scripture. Science writers like Lewis Thomas, Brian Greene, and Stephen J. Gould have instilled wonder as I’ve considered the world around me. All these have shaped and made me, at least my mental furniture.

Still, this quote leaves me wondering. Memory is a funny thing. There are memories not at conscious recall that arise–in a dream, with a smell, or a sight, or a random comment. Sometimes the contribution of some books to my mental life may be no more than a piece of a thought. Sometimes, books simply remind me of what I’ve already understood, like a recipe I’ve enjoyed before and enjoy again. Sometimes a fictional character will stand out in a singular way, and at other times remind me of those I’ve known.

Speaking of Emerson, it strikes me that I’ve read little of him or the other American transcendentalist tradition. From what I know, I probably would not be in entire sympathy. But Emerson has helped shape the American mind, even among those who do not remember reading him. Perhaps it is time to read some of him, perhaps to be made, or to see what I make of him.

Review: The Sense of an Ending

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The sense of an ending

The Sense of an Ending, Julian Barnes. New York: Vintage International, 2011.

Summary: A bequest that includes a letter and a diary forces a man in his sixties to examine the way he has remembered and conceived of his life.

One of the dangers of reaching one’s sixties is that you begin the process of remembering your life. What is often not considered is that the way we remember it, and tell it may be of our “best self” but not necessarily of our true self. We may not even be aware of it, but there are episodes that are edited out, things done and said that we shove in a mental drawer, or hide in a closet. This novel, a Man Booker prize winner by the author of the more recent fictional biography of Dmitri Shostakovich, The Noise of Time (reviewed here) is a finely written psychological exploration of our constructed memories that shield us from knowing our true selves.

Tony Weber is a retired, divorced late middle aged man living in London. The first part of his book is a remembering of his life. He begins with his adolescence in a boys school, and the heady mix of ideas and awakening sexuality that is part of this period. We meet his friends, Alex and Colin, and the fourth who joins this group, the philosophical Adrian. The boys part but stay in touch during college years. Tony reads history at Bristol while Adrian goes to Cambridge. Much of the story here involves Tony’s relationship with Veronica, his encounter with her “posh” family, and the mother who tries to warn him off her while making him eggs for breakfast. Tony and Veronica have a sexually frustrating relationship and only have intercourse after she breaks off with him. This leads to an even more messy conversation where she tries to get him to be real to her, real to himself. Eventually Veronica gets into a relationship with Adrian, who writes him asking leave for them to see each other. Adrian sends a reply that he doesn’t go into a lot of detail about, and then gets on with his life, going to America and traveling around with a girl for a few months and then parting. When he arrives home he learns that Adrian has committed suicide. Tony and his friends puzzle over this, move on and separate. Tony marries, has a daughter with whom he has a decent relationship, divorces Margaret, his wife, lives a reasonably successful life, and enjoys a quiet retirement of trips and volunteer work. Until…

He receives word one day that Veronica’s mother had died and left him a bequest of five hundred pounds, a letter, and a diary. The money he receives easily enough. The letter and diary are in the possession of Veronica, who will not yield them up, at first. The second half of the book describes a number of encounters, often ending with the refrain from Veronica, “You just don’t get it, do you? You never did and you never will.” First she sends a cryptic page from the diary. Then she gives him the letter, which turns out to be a brutally cruel letter, the letter he had written in response to Adrian’s letter, a letter he had white-washed in his mind.

He begins to see that the memory he has constructed of his life doesn’t fit the reality. Yet he is troubled by what he doesn’t get, and this takes him deeper, into his choice of “peaceableness,” of an unwillingness to feel pain or to take a risk to really live and be responsible for his life. I will not give away the secret why Veronica’s mother gave him the bequest or came to have the letter and diary. What it brings him to is a sobering alternative narrative of his life that he summarizes with these words:

“There is accumulation. There is responsibility. And beyond these, there is unrest. There is great unrest.”

This is a book that holds up a mirror to show us the false selves that we construct with our “best self” memories and the danger of a life lived embracing that false self. It seems to me that facing up to the false selves, the constructed memories, as painful as these are, may be better than living cluelessly. If nothing else, it makes us keenly aware of our need for redemption.