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11 March 2015

A few books I've enjoyed

I have family in town, and unlike the stereotypical disaster that proposition holds for some, I love having them here.  This is because they are not only good people and extremely funny, but because they are readers.  A few days ago I was asked what books and authors I've really enjoyed lately.  Here is my response:


Some favorites

Poetry

Songbook by Umberto Saba
Canti by Leopardi
Love poems by Pablo Neruda

Fiction

Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
My brilliant friend by Elena Ferrante
The Maias by Eça de Quieros
Club of Angels by Luis Fernando Verissimo
Maidenhair by Mikhail Shishkin
Ways of going home by Alejandro Zambra
My Struggle [vol.1] by Karl Ove Knausgaard
Nada by Carmen Laforet
Swann's Way by Marcel Proust 
Piano Stories by Felisberto Hernandez
The Insufferable Gaucho by Roberto Bolaño 
All Souls by Javier Marías


Other:

The consolations of philosophy by Alain de Botton
The architecture of happiness by Alain de Botton
A time of gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Between the woods and the water by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Danube by Claudio Magris
The story of art by E. H. Gombrich
Soccer in Sun and Shadow by Eduardo Galeano
An intimate history of humanity by Theodore Zeldin
The art of happiness by Epicurus 
Wind, Sand, and Stars by Antoine de Saint-exupéry
Cosmopolitanism by Kwame Anthony Appiah
The art of travel by Alain de Botton







26 February 2015

Back in the saddle.

In the last five months, I have been battling cancer and neglecting this blog.  The cancer remains and I keep fighting, but I think it is time for me to start blogging again.  Out time is finite, and I can think of very few things I would rather do thank be with my family and talk about literature here with friends.

Posts are coming.  Cheers to all.

07 October 2014

And the Nobel will go to...


Thursday the Nobel Prize in Literature is announced, and so I continue my tradition of failing to pick the winner.  My record is 100 percent at not being even close to reality.  So, here we go again.  Play along at home.

First, five I feel deserve to win (the certain kiss of death to winning chances, sorry Javier):

  1. Javier Marías
  2. Cesar Aira
  3. Pascal Quignard
  4. Mikhail Shishkin
  5. Karl Ove Knausgaard

Next, three likely to win:

  1. Haruki Murakami
  2. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o
  3. Adonis


And three who could win but should not:

  1. Haruki Murakami
  2. Peter Handke
  3. Philip Roth


And you? Who do you pick?

24 September 2014

a poem for September going into October


The little white death is coming.
Nothing existential or forever,
just the first snows

that blot out the tired grass
and the golden carpet of leaves
that have surrendered themselves

as messiah-like sacrifices to the future,
so that all might live and rise
again in the Spring.


26 August 2014

school is in session

My little princess is ready for her first day of second grade.



A historical poem of sorts


The Road to Rome








It's August 26, AD 79.

A young boy walks the road to Rome, his feet calloused and his ears now broken by the horrific blasts he has heard. Never again will he hear the sounds of birds or of other little boys or girls. He will never again hear his mother's voice, because he is now deaf, and she is now dead. His world is a pillar of smoke. Just a week before, he laughed as his father read him a dirty poem carved on a stone wall as they both went to the market. His strong father, a merchant, was building a future for the boy, a future of prosperity, a future undercut by total death.

Horses pass the boy, and he cannot hear the voices of the soldiers and engineers who have been sent from Rome to assess the scope of the catastrophe. “Boy,” they shout. “Boy!”

The boy shuffles on, emotions and awareness now as buried as his home. He has escaped with a few other stragglers.

“Forget him,” one soldier says. “He's like the others we've met. On to Pompeii.”



a poem for a Tuesday




My words are about you, about your taut skin
and the seaside blue of your eyes and the heat
pulsating from my cathedral, your body.

My words are about you, my greatest desire,
my poor words, impoverished and dependent
on adjectives, nouns, verbs...trifles.

My words are about you, they are calloused ropes
set to ensnare you, to halt time and rip space
and hold you steady and immortal.

My words are about you, and so about me
and my futile attempts to work base metals
into refined gold.

My words are about you, poor offerings from a poor beggar,
the only thing I can give you since you already
have my beating heart.

My words are about you, and I sing them like a bird
freed from the cage sings a song carried
aloft on white tufts of cloud.

My words are about you, and now I listen
as you cast forth the spell of your words,
and our words are about us.

RR Shea

20 August 2014

Paragraphs from friends

Behold:




Here are a few passages written by some of you.  I've excluded names and included artwork.  Misspellings and errors in punctuation are probably my own, and I do apologize for any I have made in retyping what you have sent me.  Enjoy!





The woman on the bench liked her coffee dark and sweet - I could smell as much from where I was leaned against a tree, occasionally pretending to try to read. Heading to the park to be away from distraction always seemed like a good idea beforehand, but much like dry-shaving or having just one more drink, it never ended the way one would hope. There were always kids or lovers or homeless or cops enough to keep me from settling in to even the most gripping novel, and as soon as I'd slogged mindlessly through a few pages (which would have to be re-read), I'd re-realize my folly, pull up camp, and head back home, the whole round trip wasted. This time the catalyst for my capitulation would end up being her coffee. I hadn't had any yet that morning, and my envy noisily churned my gut. I shoved Kafka back in my bag and turned the attention he'd been getting, and then some, to the Lady of the Mug. She held her orange, pear-bottomed mug with her palm against the bowl, hand threaded through the handle. Her index finger traced the small arc of the lip that it could reach, back and forth as if pacing. She was unperturbed by tendrils of her hair whisking across her face, and I envied her composure, tucking the few strands that had been courting my nostrils back behind my ear. Between the metronome-like arcs she traced above her coffee and her absolute stillness, I was almost certain that she was meditating - another thing that I, as twitchiness personified, seemed incapable of doing. Contemplating my shakey hands, I noticed that her mug didn't even have a lid on it! How, I still wonder, had she gotten it from home to the park bench without spilling? Just as I was adding her to the long list of people who have all the peace I will never attain, I noticed a bitterness flit across her face, as though she'd taken a sip, only to find all the sugar filtered out. A mix of schadenfreude and concern kept me watching, and the look reappeared a few more times, like the shadows cast by a herd of small summer clouds. I walked over to the bench and sat two butt-widths away from her, willing her to look over so that I could smile.









A Green Line Connects Everyone Girl in a short red skirt and a stripped black and white shirt, too nervous to sit. Instead she stands awkwardly with her bike, wondering if anyone is looking in her direction. A couple have a loud conversation in plain view of everyone around, without making a sound, just a fluttering of fingers. Happy, kissing, staring, without a care in the world. A black man with a shiny bald head staring out the window as the people and buildings and vehicles roll by us rolling by, biting his fingernails, button down white shirt, lost in random thoughts The person behind me, back to the wall, not moving not talking, trying to be unnoticed. A black shirt, a black hat, a look not to be trifled with The middle aged man enters on his phone, talking business, and more business, eyes constantly on his phone because to to be doing nothing is a waste of time The old man in the blue shirt, tucked into his pants a bit too far, carrying a book but never opening it, confused by technology but out in the world none the less Two twenty something Indian sisters full of smiles, making plans, big and small, into the city full of endless possibility.






Her head on his shoulder,
A glass of Tuaca in her hand;
It is late and she gazes off
With a faraway look until
Someone speaks
and she comes alive
blonde hair, ponytail
young and pretty
her head nestled
on my son’s shoulder.






She is up with the sun and now sits on my bed, her legs dangling over the edge, golden hair in tangles and the color of wheat in high summer.  Her skin is more golden, enriched by the the sleep of the previous night and by dreams and by her blood, which is partially my blood, replenishing her cells.  She buries her little face in the thick and furry neck of her beloved dog, an early morning intruder who has also taken up residence on my bed. The dog opens his eyes a brief moment, ascertains the situation, releases a sigh of obligation to the girl who adores him, closes his eyes and fades back into sleep. I have put my book down and now watch this morning scene play out. The birds sing outside and, if I listen closely enough, I can hear the hum of the city as it begins to wake, as cars begin to depart for their morning destinations and I begin another day with my girl. Only the empty space where my wife slept last night, abandoned much earlier this morning as she too went off to work, besmirches this gorgeous landscape. It is morning. It is glorious. It will come again.








Here sits an old woman, perhaps a grandmother, perhaps a long lost lonely lover, a teacher or just a surviving housewife. She wears very traditional clothing in accordance with an orthodox church of times past. A long, dark brown skirt, cut just below her ankles as to show no skin. She wears a once-white long sleeve blouse with a floral pattern, but tinted an off yellow color, indistinguishable due to the use of the shirt, the water it is washed in, or just a reflection of the age of the woman wearing that blouse.
On her head she wears a dark reddish brown scarf, to protect her ears and hair from the dust and to keep her fragile body’s warmth in. For warmth and tradition, the same reason she wears black sox and sandals. Next to her feet rests the end of her cane. The cane very much matching her looks: dry, weathered, and worn out. This is what I see as I walk towards this old woman sitting on a bench in the parking lot outside of her apartment complex.
She just sits and watches time go by.
For at that age is there anything to think about besides what deceptive input comes in through one, two, or all of the senses at once? Being overburdened by stimulus, once something is grasped it has already slipped away in the river of input that is constantly bombarding the aging processor. Thought is better left to be done in places such as the quite stillness of church, or the personal privacy of the water closet, where disturbances are infrequent and not interrupting at best, and thoughts can link together through the ambiguity of synapses. Here, as she watches time pass and perhaps unknowingly observes the sense of detachment she feels from what once she knew to be real; she lashes out at the fledging pigeons that walk on her sidewalk in front of her bench or behind her, on her weeds and her garden. She protects what she can with her extension of arm to keep time from taking what she can grasp for now, as real.

19 August 2014

Paragraphs coming

Thank you to everyone who sent me their descriptive paragraphs.  I plan on putting them up today or tomorrow, and if you still wish to submit one, I'll take it.  If I've already uploaded the paragraphs, I can add it in an edit.  Cheers, all

15 August 2014

Would you like to write desccriptive paragraph?

A writing challenge for all who are so inclined: in the next day or two, observe someone - a stranger if possible - in public, describe them, what they are doing, what you think they are thinking about. Just a paragraph or two. Send it to me an email and I will put all of them on my blog without any names. It might be interesting, and being anonymous might give you a little more freedom in your writing.

09 August 2014

The upcoming novel by Javier Marías






I haven't found much about this in English, but the Spanish papers and blogosphere are abuzz with news of a new novel. “So Bad Begins”, the new novel by Javier Marías, comes out in the Spanish-speaking world on September 23, 2014, published as usual by Alfaguara.



Javier Marias states this about his new novel: "It's a book about desire as one of the strongest engines in the lives of people, which sometimes overrides any loyalty, consideration and even respect in the treatment of others. Another theme of the novel is the impunity and the arbitrariness of forgiveness and no forgiveness. The idea of ​​justice demands that people sometimes have much to do with the act itself and that does and does not affects us.”

Please note that translation errors from the Spanish sources are entirely my own.


06 August 2014

you carry a sword

In a world of text message embraces
And social media heart-to-hearts
You carry a sword

At your side

And you hold a flower in your hand,
The flower of peace and strength
For your friends

And the gleaming sword...

The words of so many people
Are like claps of thunder
From a receding storm,

Meaningless reverberations.

But your words are the blade of your
Flashing sword, cutting true and noble
Into the wall of suspicion,

The barrier I have built.

For we lock ourselves in our own prisons
Waiting to be freed, not strong enough
To sever our own chains, needing

A sword of comradeship.

Let us leave the imperfect
To the imperfect,
And sally forth,

our heads held high,

Our blades at our sides
And our hearts true and ready
In friendship

Flowers in our outstretched hands.

29 July 2014

poem after watching my daughter swim




She skims like a swan across the water
as fear evaporates into a dark cloud
and is blown away and scattered.

The white dresses of passing feminine time
loom in the distance, one possible
harbor on her adventures.

Yet, other paths open up and an archipelago
of unpredictable futures stretches out along
the horizon. Each stroke of the swim

Moves her closer to the bounty of her choices
but as she glides, the opposite edges of the island
chain become harder to steer toward.

Progress cuts off possibility, but still she swims,
the swan out on the sea, traversing her life
toward her awaiting destiny.

On which island will she land and how long
shall she tread upon the sea?
Swim, my swan, to destiny.

26 July 2014

Luis Fernando Verissimo

Luis Fernando Verissimo writes amazing books.  Here is a great interview with him from the CBC.

21 July 2014

poem 21 July 2014


A soft flow of sweet milk drips down
from the vault of the sky,
from the stars

Onto the dry crust of thirsty bread
that is the baked earth,
the land.

I have kissed her cheek and her hand
and with my own hand
carressed her face

And numbered and named the celestial
bodies just to see the corners
of her pouting lips

Raise up like unattended balloons
with strings cut by jesters
and without anchors.

Then the drip of milk becomes a trickle
and the bread of the earth
cracks and crumbles

But the stars in the sky persist,
the stars forever flowing
and her lips rising.


RR Shea

20 July 2014

A little Sunday Saraceni


Here are Four works to contemplate for a fine Sunday evening, all of them by Carlo Saraceni. The Getty has a good blurb on the artist:

Carlo Saraceni  
b. about 1579 Venice, Italy, d. 1620 Venice, Italy
Painter
Italian
Carlo Saraceni dressed in French clothes, spoke French fluently, and had French followers, but he never visited France and his jewel-like painting style was most influenced by German and Italian artists.

After training in his birthplace of Venice, Saraceni settled in Rome in 1598. He had joined the Accademia di San Luca by 1607. In the early 1600s, Saraceni painted small-scale biblical and mythological subjects on copper, then a relatively new support in Rome. German artist Adam Elsheimer's style inspired the vast landscape settings that Saraceni began using so frequently and so well; their paintings were regularly confused.

After Elsheimer and Caravaggio died in 1610, Saraceni seems to have inherited their market. Primarily occupied with public commissions, he painted numerous altarpieces in and around Rome. He grew increasingly interested in Caravaggio's art, painting larger figures, subtle light effects, and momentary actions. Elsheimer's influence remained equally strong: Saraceni continued creating Elsheimer-inspired poetic landscape backgrounds.





And the works:

Mary Magdalene Reading








St Cecilia and the Angel






The martyrdom of St Cecilia







Icarus Burial





16 July 2014

What will my daughter need to read?


I find list-making, especially as it applies to reading lists, to be simultaneously soothing and infuriating. I am happy that English departments at places like Oxford University often eschew a list and instead encourage applicants to read widely and much. That advice in hand, it is still true that the dons and tutors expect their incoming English students to have read Jane Ausen, a good amount of Shakespeare, and the Brontes. The canon remains, though it is in need of constant revision and update. I wonder: when my daughter gets ready for college in 11 short years, what will she be required to have read, and what will she have read to make her ready?

I'd like to provide two lists here of a dozen literature books I want her to have read, probably in her last few summers before going off to school. The first will be rather obvious, but it will exclude such items as “Hamlet,” for I would hope that between her excellent school , our private book collection, and parenting, she will have the basics down. “Pride and Predjuice,” Shakespeare, and some Chaucer are givens. Not all works are originally written in English, but most are.

The second list is mostly literature in translation, some of it is well-known, and I believe all of it is criminally under-read by both students and adults.

And so:

The obvious list:

  1. Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne
  2. The Inferno by Dante
  3. Selected writings of John Ruskin
  4. Dubliners by James Joyce
  5. Don Quixote by Cervantes
  6. Candide by Voltaire
  7. Swann's Way by Proust
  8. The Bacchai by Euripides


And now the more ecclectic and, in my opinion, interesting list:

  1. The Maias by Eça de Queirós
  2. A Heart So White by Javier Marías
  3. The Leopard by Giuseppe di Lampedusa
  4. A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr
  5. A Time of Gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor
  6. The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman
  7. Songbook by Umberto Saba
  8. Canti by Leopardi
  9. Dom Casmurro by Machado de Assis
  10. Labyrinths by Borges
  11. Palace Walk by Naguib Mahfouz
  12. Stories of Anton Checkov

Lists aside, it is a pleasure every day to see her delve into books, to swim in the pages of some great story, or to be able to read aloud to her or to watch as my wife reads to her. Reading can be an act of love, one of the most pure.

15 July 2014

little yellow bird


You feast on seeds, little yellow bird,
as the sun melts into the ground
and the cool winds pick up

to stir in drops of moonlight
in tonight's black dance
of passing time.

Tomorow you will flit again
to the feeder standing sentry
in the midst of the yard,

unaware of the passage of comedies
and tragedies in the lives
of the people who put out the feed

and observe your carefree flights
with a mix of youthful joy and the sure
knowledge of lived age.


13 July 2014

Some Sunday Italian artists.


For fun, I thought I would list a trio of modern Italian painters of interest, provide wiki bios and links, and show a few examples of their work. Then, I'm going to spend the day with my precious little daughter, because as much as I love art and literature, it is the love of my wife and daughter that keeps me going every day. They are true treasures.




Here we go

Mario Mafai:
(from Wikipedia)

Mario Mafai (12 February 1902 – 31 March 1965) was an Italian painter. With his wife Antonietta Raphaël he founded the modern art movement called the Scuola Romana, or Roman school.

Mafai left school very early, preferring to attend, with Scipione, the Scuola Libera del Nudo, or free school of the nude, of the Accademia di Belle Arti di Roma. His influences in those years were Roman galleries and museums, and the Fine Arts Library at Palazzo Venezia.
He met painter and sculptor Antonietta Raphaël in 1925, and they married. In 1927 Mafai exhibited for the first time, with a show of studies and maquettes organised by the Associazione Artistica Nazionale in Via Margutta. In 1928 he had a second exhibition, at the XCIV Mostra degli Amatori e Cultori di Belle Arti, as well as a collective with Scipione and other painters, at the Young Painters Convention of Palazzo Doria in 1929.
In November 1927, Mafai and Raphaël moved to 325 via Cavour in Rome, and made a studio there. Within a short time, it became a meeting point for writers such as Enrico Falqui, Giuseppe Ungaretti, Libero de Libero and Leonardo Sinisgalli, as well as the young artists Scipione and Renato Marino Mazzacurati.



A few paintings:












Emanuele Cavalli
(Frrom Wikipedia)

(b. 1904-d. 1981) was an Italian painter belonging to the modern movement of the Scuola Romana (Roman School). He was also a renowned photographer, who experimented with new techniques since the 1930s.

Son of Apulian landowners, Cavalli moved to Rome in 1921 and there he became a student of Italian painter Felice Carena, also attending the local art college. In 1926 he exhibited some paintings at the Biennale di Venezia, where he would continue to exhibit regularly.
From 1927 to 1930, Cavalli attended some expositions together with painters Giuseppe Capogrossi and Francesco Di Cocco, also travelling to France (1928), where he was introduced by his friend Onofrio Martinelli to the circle of Italiens de Paris (i.e., De Pisis, De Chirico, Savinio and others). He exhibited at the Salon Bovy of Paris with Fausto Pirandello and Di Cocco, then in 1930 returned to Rome where he joined the Scuola Romana.
In a series of exhibitions Cavalli held from 1931 to 1933, the artist began elaborating Tonalism, a pictorial and aesthetic style that will find in him one of its best and most refined interpreters, even from the theoretical point of view. In these exhibitions he received the support from important art critics and collectors, as well as from renowned Italian author Massimo Bontempelli, the uncle of his friend Corrado Cagli and the promoter of "Magic realism", a literary and artistic movement which had many similarities with tonalistic painting.
In 1933 Cavalli, together with Capogrossi and Melli wrote the "Manifesto del Primordialismo plastico" (Manifesto of Plastic Primordialism) defining the Tonalist Creed, with special emphasis on the style's spiritual and abstract side. In 1935 and 1943, Cavalli exhibited a group of paintings at the Quadriennale di Roma, developing the theme of painting-music relationships: he displayed a series of feminine figures of different tonalities, and explained this work within the terms of "contrapuntal sensitivity", comparing it to a "collection of preludes and fugues in major and minor tones".[3]
Other important exhibitions were held by Cavalli at the Leonardo da Vinci Gallery of Florence in 1939 and at the Zodiaco of Rome in 1945, the latter crowned by the appointment as professor of Painting at Accademia di Belle Arti Firenze. He thus moved permanently to Florence with wife Vera Haberfeld.[4] In 1949 Cavalli was affected by a deep crisis, increased by his professorship not being renewed and his close friends' change of style towards abstract art.[5]
Cavalli continued to paint for the rest of his life, alternating it with photography and innovative imaging,[6] receiving important commissions from public and private organisations.[7]



A few paintings:


















Carlo Carra
(From Wikipedia)
Carlo Carrà (February 11, 1881 – April 13, 1966) was an Italian painter, a leading figure of the Futurist movement that flourished in Italy during the beginning of the 20th century. In addition to his many paintings, he wrote a number of books concerning art. He taught for many years in the city of Milan.


Carrà was born in Quargnento, near Alessandria (Piedmont). At the age of 12 he left home in order to work as a mural decorator. n 1899-1900, Carrà was in Paris decorating pavilions at the Exposition Universelle, where he became acquainted with contemporary French art. He then spent a few months in London in contact with exiled Italian anarchists, and returned to Milan in 1901. In 1906, he enrolled at Brera Academy (Accademia di Brera) in the city, and studied under Cesare Tallone. In 1910 he signed, along with Umberto Boccioni, Luigi Russolo and Filippo Tommaso Marinetti the Manifesto of Futurist Painters, and began a phase of painting that became his most popular and influential.

Carrà's Futurist phase ended around the time World War I began. His work, while still using some Futurist concepts, began to deal more clearly with form and stillness, rather than motion and feeling. Carrà soon began creating still lifes in a style he, along with Giorgio de Chirico, called "metaphysical painting". Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, the metaphysical phase gave way to a sombre style akin to Masaccio's. An example from this period is his 1928 Morning by the Sea.
He is best known for his 1911 futurist work, The Funeral of the Anarchist Galli. Carrà was indeed an anarchist as a young man but, along with many other Futurists, later held more reactionary political views, becoming ultra-nationalist and irredentist before and during the war, as well as by Fascism after 1918 (in the 1930s, Carrà signed a manifesto in which called for support of the state ideology through art).[1] The Strapaese group he joined, founded by Giorgio Morandi, was strongly influenced by fascism and responded to the neo-classical guidelines which had been set by the regime after 1937[2] (but was opposed to the ideological drive towards strong centralism).[3]
He died in Milan in 1966.


A few paintings:













To art, literature, and all those we love and cheerish in our lives.

Cheers



08 July 2014

Inspector Montalbano vs. chemo


Nothing beats the cancer blues like my loving family and losing myself in a well-written mystery.  The chemo and radiation have been tough, and I have been very tired.  But, I keep going, and I will continue to keep going.  I'm going to fight and win, and I'm going to live every day.  Despite my current condition, I am a truly lucky man.  Now, on to the book.



My mystery of choice is the Inspector Montalbano series. The prose is light, the descriptions of food are glorious, the inspector is a flawed but thoughtful character, and I find the artwork mentioned to be intriguing. From Angelica's Smile by Andrea Camilleri, here is part of a dialog concerning a burglary of money, jewels and art.  Montalbano is asking an affluent young couple what has been stolen:




“What else did they take?”

“Well aside from the car,[...]and a seascape by Carrá,” the lady concluded, cool as a cucumber.

Montalbano gave a start.

[...]

“And?”

“A Guttuso, a Morandi, a Donghi, a Mafai, and a Pirandello...”

In short, a whole gallery of art wortha fortune.




------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know about Carrá and Pirandello, but I don't know the other artists.. So, I have looked them up and here offer what might be the paintings stolen.

A seascape by Carra:




A Guttuso:



A Morandi:



A Mafai:



A Pirandello:





Not bad at all.

And now, on I read, on I write, on I live, on I love, and on I fight.



Cheers!