An update--more generosity of spirit

I wrote a post on March 3 about generosity of spirit (A New Yorker in Oslo: Generosity of spirit (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). I had experienced that in connection with my book about growing up in Tarrytown New York--A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley. The administrator of the Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow: We've Lived and Loved There Facebook page where a notice had been posted about my book praised the book as great and meant that I was a fabulous author. It's nice to hear that as I wrote in my post from March 3rd, because if you think a writer hears that a lot, you'd be wrong. His generosity of spirit gave me a real boost in spirit (self-confidence, motivation, perseverance). Writers need that from time to time. Heck, everyone needs a mental boost from others from time to time. We're human after all. It keeps us going.

Since that time, I've heard from other people who've bought the book; one man wrote that he 'devoured it' and that the book contained wonderful memories. I've heard from a man who works at the Warner Library in Tarrytown that the library has purchased a copy and will make it available for loan to library users. And someone associated with The Tarrytown Historical Society told me that they will buy a copy of the book. All of this is wonderful news and makes me quite happy! I've also contacted several local bookstores in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow to hear if they will carry the book. We'll see what happens.

There is much to be grateful for in this life. I am grateful for this attention at present. I know it's likely to be my fifteen minutes of fame. I know it won't last. But it's a nice fifteen minutes. Writers don't get rich from writing books; very few do. That's not why most of them write. At least it's not why I write. But it's nice to know that something I wrote hit a nerve among folk who lived and grew up in the same town as I did. I thank them for the verbal support and for buying my book. I will pay it forward, that's for sure. 

Generosity of spirit

I recently published the paperback version of my book, A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, and have been trying to promote it, along with another book that I published last May (The Gifts of A Garden). Both books are available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop.org, among other online booksellers. 

Publishing a book is only the start of the huge job that looms ahead--marketing a book. Writing a book pales by comparison, although it is the most important job that the writer can do. But getting your book out there, getting it seen and read by others, that's important too. After all, writers write books that they hope people will read, even if the number of people who read them is small. What matters is that you've shared something you wanted to share, with others. There isn't always a huge audience for all books, nor should there be necessarily. But if no one sees your book at all, that can be frustrating and ultimately creates feelings of futility concerning writing. 

I've often written about the challenge of being creative and the internal tug-of-war between wanting to share the results and being afraid to do so. Sharing means exposing yourself not only to normal criticism (which is fine), but to destructive criticism on the part on internet trolls. There are so many of the latter whose sole aim is to tear down, not build up. But ultimately wanting to share wins out over the fear. Don't hide your light under a bushel basket, to paraphrase the biblical saying. I've interpreted this saying to mean that one should not hide one's creativity from others, if you truly have something to share. But goodness, kindness, and generosity can be substituted for creativity. If we are good people, we are asked to step up to the plate. And so it goes with talent as well. If God has given you a particular talent, make the most of it and share the results.

However, even if you haven't hidden your talent, even if you've spent a lot of time marketing your book on social media and personal websites, etc. it still isn't enough. You can't do the job completely alone. Authors need help from readers who liked an author's book and who post a positive comment about it on Amazon or Goodreads or social media. That happened to me recently--a rare and treasured experience of generosity of spirit on the part of a man I don't know who had read my book and who happens to be the moderator of a Facebook page about Tarrytown & Sleepy Hollow. I messaged him to ask if I could post a little notice on the page that I had published my book about Tarrytown, and he wrote back to say yes. So I posted it, and he followed up with a photo of the book's front cover and some amazing words about the book and about me. He wrote that 'Paula is too modest. She is a fabulous author and this book is great'. He also wrote 'Such great memories in your book'.

His generosity of spirit and his words made me happy. If only people truly understood how words can influence your feelings and thoughts, about yourself and others. I have some wonderful friends and loved ones who read my books; Jean, Trond, and Brendan (who passed away a few years ago) are/were my most faithful supporters and have read everything I've written. Knowing that they like my books has given me the motivation to keep writing over the past years. The praise from the Facebook moderator likewise gives me needed motivation to continue writing. 

I've often written about the world of academia and its lack of generosity of spirit. Very few people wish their colleagues well; that has been my experience at least. The competition for grant funding is fierce and those who 'win' are often ignored by those who 'lose'. I used to congratulate those who had gotten funding; after all, they did a good job and were recognized for it. In all my forty-odd years of research work, I've been congratulated perhaps twice when I got funding, once by someone who didn't think I was good enough to get funding, the other by a former boss. Among peers, almost never, and I have no idea why. I stopped caring after a while. It costs nothing to open your mouth to praise someone else and to wish him or her well. But that type of generosity of spirit is rare, at least in my experience.

More generally, how many times have you experienced wanting to share a small success or happiness, e.g. a particularly nice photo that you have taken, only to hear from the other person you showed it to that they have taken photos that are just as nice. They veer the conversation over to themselves or to something that they have done and for which they want praise. They don't want any attention focused on you. It's a spirit-crushing feeling when you realize that you are the recipient of envious and petty behavior. So I am grateful to those people in my life who have shown me that generosity of spirit when I have shared my creative pursuits with them. I am grateful for those who wish me well and who can celebrate the small successes that I occasionally experience without their feeling envious or resentful. I pay it forward and for the most part always have. I can say this much about myself; I am not afraid to let other people know that they've done a great job. So it's nice to hear from others when I've done a great job as well. 

A Servant to Servants--a poem by Robert Frost

A Servant To Servants

I didn’t make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine–
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so–
It’s rest I want–there, I have said it out–
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them–from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through–
Leastways for me–and then they’ll be convinced.
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live–ten miles from anywhere.
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do–
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.
He’s into everything in town. This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once–yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea–the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives–
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n’t kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,–
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm–all of his clothes.
Cruel–it sounds. I ‘spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play–
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time–I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say–you know, half fooling–
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”–
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while–but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I’m past such help–
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him–it’s not sure enough.
I ‘spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground–
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do–there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I shan’t catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

On writing and why I write

I've been writing this blog since 2010, and every once in a while I stop to reflect on writing it and on why I continue to write it. Those thoughts lead me down the path toward writing in general--why do I write poetry, short stories, and novels (both fictional and non-fictional)? 

I've been writing since I was fourteen years old, inspired by my high school teacher Brendan who encouraged each of us in my sophomore year class to keep a creative writing journal. We did, and he was interested in reading what we wrote and critiquing it. That started the process for me, because prior to his class, the activity I hated the most was having to write short creative essays on exams, which was not uncommon practice in grammar school. Perhaps because we only had one hour to get it done. For the life of me I couldn't be creative on demand, nor could I write anything of interest in the space of one hour. Luckily the latter is no longer true; however, I find it impossible to be creative on demand, one of the reasons I have always hated brainstorming meetings of any kind together with colleagues. They became very popular during the last fifteen or so years. I'm simply not a team player in that respect, nor did I ever aspire to becoming one. I'd say one of the main reasons I enjoyed being a scientist was because I could retire to my office and think for myself. I could come up with experimental designs and plans on my own. At that point I could share them with others if I wanted to, but I had no desire to hash out experimental designs and plans at meetings. My brain simply could not tolerate the chaos associated with trying to take into account everyone's opinions. Some scientists enjoy that; I'm not one of them. That may have been detrimental to my scientific progression. No matter. 

Writing is a solitary activity, and I enjoy it for exactly that reason. Now that I'm retired, I awake each day and look forward to my writing time in solitude. It may be one or two hours each day, but whatever time I manage, I'm grateful for it. It's time well-spent for the most part, especially when I complete a blog post or a poem and am happy with the result. Writing novels is more difficult, but when the words 'flow', the process is rewarding. I love reading about the creative process as described by other writers; I like knowing that they struggled with many of the same thoughts and feelings as I do when it comes to being creative. 

Writing is a 'private room' that I choose to enter each day. There can be noise around me, people talking, or the tv, but I don't hear them in the same way when I am inside my room. It's about having a focus and staying focused. Do I get distracted? Yes, at times, especially if I end up on the internet for one thing and then lose track of time while I meander the internet universe. But as I write my blog posts, I'm grateful for what the internet has given me--information at my fingertips. If you use the internet wisely, you won't lose your focus. 

I write because I feel that I have something to say and writing is the best way I know how to express it. I've never been very good at verbally commanding attention from others in a roomful of people. I'm not an extrovert; I feel more comfortable away from the crowd. I find that creativity manifests itself best when I am alone, unencumbered by the demands of daily life. The latter will always be there, but they can be put on hold for a few hours. I write in order to learn about the world but mostly about myself. The unconscious is a large part of our brain, but mostly unreachable/untapped. I believe that writing allows me to access my unconscious mind, which houses forgotten memories and repressed feelings, among other things. Or perhaps better put, my unconscious mind sometimes provides my conscious mind with a thought or feeling that I end up writing about. The unconscious mind tosses up tidbits of interest that I can write about if I so choose. 

Interestingly, the existence of a  'collective unconscious' has also been postulated. The term was coined by Carl Gustav Jung, who theorized that the unconscious mind consists of two layers--the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. The latter according to Jung is 'the deepest level of our psyche', and is 'the whole spiritual heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain structure of every individual'. In other words, it is inherited through the generations (see Wikipedia for more complete information). I find this idea very appealing; it means that the collective unconscious can also influence us creatively. When I was younger I used to envision the collective unconscious as a 'ring' (not unlike the ring(s) around Saturn) swirling about above my head, containing the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of all of humanity. Sometimes I saw the faces of poets and literary figures swirling above me. I thought that if I reached my hand upward, I could pluck some of the knowledge from that ring. I knew the ring would go on forever and that it would grow ever larger the longer mankind lived. 

I've kept a dream journal for years. Some of my dreams have been quite startling and have become poems. I'd never really had what one could call nightmares until recently. I cannot shake some of the images from those dreams, so perhaps they will find their way into new poems or short stories. The following poem started life as a dream; when I remember writing this poem, I can see the images in the dream very clearly:

Confrontation            

Seated at a table on a grassy knoll
Odd people milling about me 
Talking frenetically the clocks toll

Standing then upon the table
Large coyotes all around me
Marvel at the deception they enable

He loves you he loves you she whispers in my ear
But he does not oh this I know
She may be sure of it but no

How many times I’ve wandered
From this battered table to the door
Of this old house abandoned

Once inside, light all around me, glass doors
Between the rooms, large windows
Unencumbered views of crocodile-infested shores

Turn to face the crocodiles and coyotes
Tracking me at all turns
Turn away unsure of what they want from me

Uncover what it is that must be faced
Appease the predators take them on
Make peace with treachery and move on

(from Quantum Bloom, published in 2014--Quantum Bloom: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781505211160: Amazon.com: Books) 

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

Perhaps it isn't possible to fully know why a writer writes; the writer may not know either. That is part of the mystery of creativity. The results, when they are good, remain in the minds of the people who read the words that make up the fiction, non-fiction, dramas, and poetry collections that are cherished, often for generations. 

The miserable lives of the literati

I picked up Carmela Ciuraru's new book Lives of the Wives: Five Literary Marriages last week and finished it today. It details the real-life stories of five literary couples who tormented each other 'til divorce did them part' (at least in four of the marriages; one relationship was ended by death). The presentation of the couples is as follows: Radclyffe Hall and Una Troubridge (British writer and translator/sculptor respectively); Alberto Moravia and Elsa Morante (Italian writers); Kenneth Tynan (British theater critic) and Elaine Dundy (American writer); Kingsley Amis and Elizabeth Jane Howard (British writers); Roald Dahl (British writer) and Patricia Neal (American actress). I haven't read the works of any of these authors except for Roald Dahl's, nor was I aware of their chaotic and often miserable lives. All of these couples lived their adult lives before my time; Radclyffe Hall and Una Troubridge were born in 1880 and 1887 respectively; Alberto Moravia and Elena Morante were born in 1907 and 1912 respectively; Kenneth Tynan and Elaine Dundy were born in 1927 and 1921 respectively; Kingsley Amis and Elizabeth Jane Howard were born in 1922 and 1923 respectively; and Roald Dahl and Patricia Neal were born in 1916 and 1926 respectively. When I was a child, I vaguely remember hearing about Patricia Neal having had a major stroke and Roald Dahl's helping her back to a normal life. I've also read that the Italian writer Elena Ferrante (one of my favorite writers) lists Elena Morante as a major influence. So Ciuraru's book brought me up to speed on the bizarre doings of these literary elites.

The careers of these couples coincided with the advent of the women's movement and the societal changes of the 1950s, 60s and 70s. None of the couples' lives could in any way be described as conventional, as might be expected when the lives of writers/artists are in the spotlight. None of them were poor, once the early struggles for fame and fortune were won. They had money to travel, move around, and own several homes. They attended many parties and social gatherings, and took lovers when it suited them. Some were suicidal; others took abortions and regretted it later on. Their children were often raised by nannies. But the men especially were conventional (for that time) in terms of their expectations of women and wives. As husbands, they were not at all willing to put their wives and family first. Most of them could not cook, do laundry, pay bills or shop for groceries. Many of them considered that type of work to be servant's work. They could be rude and their rudeness went unchallenged; they were rude to their wives, children, servants--sometimes anyone with whom they came into contact. Some of the wives had first been mistresses to the men they married. But the mistress, once captured and made a wife, was no longer as exciting. So the men began to seek out new conquests; they felt that was their right. Many of the women at that time, brilliant in their own right, were far too willing to sacrifice their intelligence and independence on the altars/shrines of these 'brilliant literary men' they had married. At least at first. Once married and saddled with all of the responsibilities of running a household and raising a family, with no time to write or to pursue their talents, they understood that they had become imprisoned (by choice). But some of the women gave as good as they got; they had affairs, fell in love, separated from their husbands or made their husbands' lives hell, and generally took revenge where they could. Even Radclyffe Hall behaved abominably toward Una Troubridge; lesbians both, they were exclusive until Una became ill and Hall fell in love with the nurse hired to take care of Una. Then they became a threesome, despite Una's protests. Hall felt that she was entitled to pursue her new love, not unlike the behavior of some of the husbands in the other relationships. 

The wives who were good writers (or actresses in the case of Patricia Neal) in their own right found that their husbands resented their success. As long as they wrote/acted but didn't become more successful and/or make more money than their husbands, that was fine. When the balance of power shifted, all hell broke loose. I don't know how it is with modern couples where one or both are writers; I would imagine that one or the other experiences envy if one of them becomes more successful than the other, or if one of them becomes successful and the other does not. Bitterness, jealousy, resentment and envy are all human feelings, independent of any particular era in history.  

Ciuraru's book includes ample descriptions of spoiled, privileged, selfish, petulant, whiny, cruel, alcoholic, narcissistic, adulturous, abusive (physically and psychologically), childish, sexually-perverse and irresponsible spouses. It's hard to say which couple emerges as the worst, but Kenneth Tynan/Elaine Dundy and Kingsley Amis/Elizabeth Jane Howard are good contenders for that title. The hellish lives of the literati--that's putting it mildly. The literary world can be an elite and closed world where the inhabitants breathe rarefied air. In that way it is similar to the academic research world, an elite world if ever there was one. There are the top echelon players who make the rules that keep everyone else out (the riff-raff); in other words, the rules that exclude those people they deem inferior or for whom they have no use. This being British society for the most part, they had their old boys' clubs and social gatherings and parties, all conducted with the highest degree of decorum. But underneath they were rotten to the core. The lives of these writers seemed to be defined by excessive narcissism; writing came first and everything else a distant second. 

My overall reaction to most of what was presented in the book was how the the poor children of these couples must have suffered. It must have been a nightmare to have been the daughter of Kenneth Tynan/Elaine Dundy, for example. Ciuraru's book is good, gossipy and interesting by turns. I will check out Elena Morante's books after reading what Ciuraru wrote about her, also because Elena Ferrante recommends her. 

A Town and A Valley, now in paperback

Victorian Vampire Stories

It's rare to come across a collection of short stories that is so engaging as the collection I am reading now. Of course one must be an aficionado of vampire and horror stories to truly appreciate them, and I am. The only other collection of short stories in the horror genre that I feel the same way about was the one I read back in 2020--H.P. Lovecraft's horror stories. They were individual masterpieces for the most part and I wrote a post at that time about his stories and how much I enjoyed them: A New Yorker in Oslo: The creepy and engrossing stories of H.P. Lovecraft (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com)

The collection of vampire stories I am currently reading is entitled Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories, edited by Michael Sims (available on Amazon at Dracula's Guest (Connoisseur's Collections): Sims, Michael: 9781408809969: Amazon.com: Books ). The Victorian Era extended from 1837 to 1901 and was an era filled with social change and political reforms, despite being described as a repressive era, especially sexually. The stories in this collection were written/published during this time. You might think that the Victorians, being the straight-laced repressed people they are often described as, would not be writing (or reading) these types of stories. You'd be wrong. The writing styles are at times verbose and overly-descriptive, but the plots are engrossing, strange, and often creepy. There are stories about entire families that become vampires (The Family of the Vourdalak--quite scary if you can visualize it as an eventual movie, as I could), one about an invisible vampire (What Was It?), one about a very old woman whose younger companion, a male doctor, supplies her with young blood to keep her alive (Good Lady Ducayne), and one about a man who remarries after his first wife dies but who wishes that his first wife could live again (Wake Not the Dead). There are many others that are similarly strange and engrossing, so I recommend buying the book to read them all.  

I found reading the short descriptions about the authors almost as interesting as the stories themselves. Leo Tolstoy's brother, Aleksei, wrote The Family of the Vourdalak; he was a talented writer in his own right. Good Lady Ducayne was written by Mary Elizabeth Braddon, considered to be a premier sensation novelist (one who wrote nerve-wracking and thrilling, sometimes titillating novels). Other stories were written by the romantic poet Lord Byron, and Anne Crawford (who came from a family of artists and writers). These writers may not have described everything in explicit detail, but there was no need to. Readers understand what is said and what is implied, and that is sufficient. These writers were in no way repressed; far from it. 

Exploring connections and the Southern Reach trilogy

I'm currently reading the Southern Reach Trilogy by Jeff VanderMeer, which consists of three books--Annihilation, Authority, and Acceptance. I read Annihilation after I had seen the film of the same name directed by Alex Garland, who has admitted that when he made Annihilation, he was influenced by the film Stalker, which was directed by Andrei Tarkovsky, who in turn was influenced by the book Roadside Picnic written by Arkady Strugatsky and Boris Strugatsky. These types of connections are what I enjoy so much about the creative world; there's a kind of flow from one genre or creative art form into another. Sometimes that flow is successful, sometimes not. But it doesn't matter to me, what matters is that the author, filmmaker, or songwriter took a risk, stepped out of his or her comfort zone. That's what matters, in the end. There will always be people who love what you did, and those who didn't. Some will even hate the finished product. Does it really matter? Life goes on, creativity goes on, the flow goes on. As an artist, you know that you will have touched someone's soul, and that someone will remember that touch for life. I know that's true for me. I can list up books that I read as a teenager that touched my life forever; the stories have stayed with me for so long, that's how powerful the writing was. 

Authority is the weakest book in VanderMeer's trilogy, but I understand why he wrote it. He wanted us to really get to know Control, the new director of the Southern Reach. Control is a troubled soul, a middle-aged man who really doesn't know what he wants. He's a loner for starters, the son of a domineering mother and an artistic father. His mother is part of the organization, Central, that Control works for. His mother pulls a lot of strings, including for him. You could almost say that she is the puppeteer and he the marionette. They have a strange relationship, very difficult to define. The book is difficult to categorize overall, but it has its creepy, hair-raising moments. As I wrote in my review of the book on Goodreads: 

There are whole passages in Authority that are downright creepy, e.g., when Control discovers what Whitby has been doing and where he has been doing it. The description of his meeting in the 'secret room' with Whitby will make your hair stand on end. Or when the building wall dissolves, and the former director shows up. I live for those moments in these kinds of books. VanderMeer has a way of building up the anticipation of something bad that's going to happen, even if it doesn't at exactly that time, as when Control visits the director's house. But you know disaster is coming. When he writes like that, this book is at its best. But there are also whole sections that are too drawn-out; I suppose VanderMeer wanted to enforce the idea that Control was a pawn in Central's bureaucratic game (and in his mother's as well). But this means that there are long descriptions of bureaucracy and chain of command, and of events that are illogical at best, e.g. why Lowry was the Voice. But in a place like Southern Reach, it would perhaps be hard to expect anything but irrationality and chaos. VanderMeer is a very good writer, but the book could have been shorter without losing any of the 'atmosphere'. I am currently reading Acceptance and hope that the mystery of Area X is explained satisfactorily. 

After I finish reading Acceptance, I will read Roadside Picnic. I'm looking forward to reading the book that led to the films Stalker and Annihilation. And after that I will watch a few more Alex Garland films, although I've already seen 28 Days Later and Ex Machina, both of which are excellent. If you haven't seen them, I recommend them highly. 

My blog posts about My Brilliant Friend

For those of you who are just now discovering the HBO series My Brilliant Friend, I can say that you are in for a real treat. I've watched all three seasons to date; the fourth season has been announced and production is underway, with new actresses to play the parts of Elena and Lila. I'm very much looking forward to the new season. The series is directed by Saverio Costanzo, Alice Rohrwacher, and Daniele Luchetti. And if you want to start with the books by Elena Ferrante on which the series is based, you can find them on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. 

Here are two posts I wrote in 2019 and 2020 about the books and the series respectively; I'm posting them again today: 

A New Yorker in Oslo: Elena Ferrante's brilliant Neapolitan quadrilogy (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com)

A New Yorker in Oslo: My Brilliant Friend is a brilliant HBO series (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com)

The World I Live In by Mary Oliver

A beautiful poem by Mary Oliver......

I have refused to live

locked in the orderly house of

     reasons and proofs.

The world I live in and believe in

is wider than that. And anyway,

     what’s wrong with Maybe?

You wouldn’t believe what once or

twice I have seen. I’ll just

     tell you this:

only if there are angels in your head will you

     ever, possibly, see one.

A quieter way of life

 This is how I've viewed life for many years now. 

What to say to a writer

Nothing else to do but laugh when I read this. I can imagine it's like this in some literary arenas where the air is rarefied, if they're anything like the good ole boys' clubs found in academic circles. Mutual admiration societies, and if you're not part of one, oh well. Too bad for you.  

Men who leave and men who stay

We're back in Elena Ferrante territory today. Apologies to her for paraphrasing one of the book titles in her Neapolitan quadrilogy--Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay. I finished Days of Abandonment today; it was written in 2002, prior to the Neapolitan quadrilogy. The latter books are more riveting than Days of Abandonment, but Days of Abandonment has its riveting moments as well.

Men don't come off very well in Ferrante's books. They are mostly sexual predators at heart, constantly looking at other women, faithless, disloyal, and uncaring opportunists. They are not child-friendly nor are they really interested in family life. As Olga in Days of Abandonment says to Mario, who has abandoned her and their two children for a woman almost half his age (Carla), "you are an opportunist and a traitor". Which he is. Unfortunately he is not much more than that as written by Ferrante. The book is really about Olga and her breakdown after he leaves her. She must cope with all of the mess while taking care of her two children Gianni and Ilaria and the family dog Otto. She doesn't do a very good job of any of it and she knows it. Her identity unravels and she is forced to do the work of finding out who she is at the age of thirty-eight. She doesn't particularly like what she sees--a woman who gave up her writing career and her identity to marry Mario and have children. The roles of wife and mother became her identities. She thought her marriage was happy; perhaps it was. Even if marriages are happy, one partner can always be unfaithful and stay in the marriage, or be unfaithful and leave. Mario does both, actually. He starts his affair with Carla when she is still a teenager and leaves Olga for her when Carla turns twenty. He closes the door on one life and begins another. He does not tell Olga where he is or with whom he is living. She doesn't even get to know where he is living and does not find out about Carla until midway through the book. And then all the pieces come together for her. The description of her breakdown is disturbing and uncomfortable, perhaps as it should be, but it dragged on too long for my taste. Otto dies after being poisoned with something he ate that was laced with strychnine while Olga was out walking him in the park. Her son Gianni becomes ill with a high fever. She feels like she is falling apart. But this experience made its point. 'The only way out is through'. By the time Olga has gotten through it, she discovers she no longer loves Mario. It's as though she has stepped outside her own life and become an observer. She watches as her children visit Mario and meet Carla, she listens as they praise Carla, she eventually deals with Mario adult to adult, she reclaims her identity as a writer, she listens to him complain that his children will ruin his relationship with Carla, and she finds that she really doesn't care about any of it. She understands that Mario is an opportunist and a traitor and tells him that. She no longer needs him. In other words, she grew up. She grew out of a stale banal marriage that her husband abandoned years ago in secret. She stepped out from under Mario's shadow. The patriarchal dominance that has ruled her life for so long is gone. She finds that she does not want to date or be social or be with other men, at least not if she has no say in how these events are to happen. But eventually she starts an affair with the older musician who lives below her and that is how the book ends. She is nearly forty and she is writing again. The rest of it is just the life around her in all its messiness and discomfort. She learns to live with both. Days of Abandonment is an angry book, but the anger is directed both at Mario and at herself for giving up so much of herself. No one asked her to do that; she chose the prison of the wife/mother identity and became entrapped. She could have continued writing, she could have insisted that Mario help more with the children. So many things she should have done, but she didn't. She tries to understand why Mario left her, and discovers that she really didn't know him. She constructed the idea of a happy marriage around them; his idea of what their marriage was did not seem to interest her. Or if it did, she ignored his attempts to break free. But in any case, nothing she could have done would have kept Mario from straying. He was a man who leaves, not one who stays. 

There is autobiographical content in her novels to be sure. Exactly where, in which novels, remains a mystery and that's fine with me. Ferrante writes under a pseudonym for reasons that only she alone knows. This places most of the focus on the stories, where it should be. But after having read a number of her books--the Neapolitan quadrilogy, Troubling Love, Days of Abandonment, and The Lying Life of Adults, it seems to me that she has dealt with a number of emotional and psychological issues (traumas?) that have preoccupied her throughout her life, through her writing. Men cannot be trusted to be faithful since they leave their wives for other (often younger) women. Love is mostly about sexual bonding and less about loyalty and empathy. Mothers and daughters have volatile relationships; mothers love their daughters but are also jealous of them, particularly if the daughters have the chance to pursue higher education while they did not. The relationships between mothers and children generally are also precarious; they are fraught with frustration, weariness, irritation and real anger in addition to the maternal bond of love. Ferrante makes it clear that children change everything in a marriage, for better and/or for worse. Her ambivalence about the roles of wife and mother is clear throughout her writing. She has no qualms about bringing up the 'worse'--being chained to these small beings who demand attention and love, the banality of childcare, the reduction of woman's role to wife and mother and not much else. Ferrante is an Italian novelist but her novels are international bestsellers, which is illustrative of just how relevant her themes are on a global level. The interesting thing is that Days of Abandonment was written in 2002; it could have been written in the 1970s, when the women's movement was dealing with many of the same issues--women's identities, self-realization, marriage versus single life, having children or not. It tells me that the issues that women face now are not so much different than those they faced in the 1970s or those that our mothers faced in their generation. Men left their wives and children back in the 1950s and 1960s too, for many of the same reasons as they do now. If you ask them directly, they will answer selfishly. They want a woman who is sexually exciting, who is interested in sex. They want a woman who pays attention to them. What they want is often at odds with what they get from marriage and family, where there is often limited time for both sex and personal attention. And so it goes. As long as couples have children and children become the focus of marriage, there will always be men who leave and men who stay. And perhaps women who leave and women who stay. Perhaps it's worth repeating that one should choose one's life partner carefully and marry a person who is faithful and loving. But how do you know that when you marry? How can you be sure of how the future will turn out? You can't, so you do the best you can and commit to the choice you make. How it turns out is often the stuff of novels. 

In honor of Veteran's Day

We learned to recite this poem in grammar school in honor of Veteran's Day. The first two lines of the poem have remained in my mind even though the rest of the poem has not. The poppy is a symbol of remembrance and hope according to what I have read online. I can remember being given a red paper poppy to pin to my school uniform on Veteran's Day. I always wondered what it symbolized and now I know. We are acknowledging that we remember and support all the armed forces in the world, and that we hope for a peaceful future. 

Poppies grow in my garden; the flowers are lovely but fragile. I'm not sure what type of poppies they are, just that they're red. When the wind blows through the garden it scatters the red petals that are torn off the flowers by the wind. But poppy seeds spread well in a garden and a gardener can end up with a small field of red poppies blowing in the wind. 

In Flanders Fields

BY JOHN MCCRAE

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

 Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

 In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Pushing back against the hype

I have always had a deep mistrust of anything that is hyped, be it a book, a movie, a song or a lifestyle trend. It doesn’t matter what; whenever ‘experts’ use their pulpits to push ad nauseam this or that wonderful book/film/song/lifestyle trend, my hackles go up. I don’t mind reading what professional reviewers of books, movies, and music have to say, but frankly, as I’ve gotten older, I no longer really trust what they have to say. They have a lot invested in keeping the status quo going, and that means promoting the same modern authors, movie directors, and musicians over and over.

Take books alone. Whenever I read about the new ‘hot’ book being pushed by professional reviewers for the mainstream media (often in top-notch publications), I find it on Amazon and read the ‘verified purchase’ reviews submitted by ordinary readers, not those of the publishing houses, media houses, established reviewers or journalists invested in keeping the status quo going. I read the 5-star reviews and the 1- and 2-star reviews. Many people dismiss the latter as the rantings of disgruntled or envious individuals, and while that may be the case sometimes, in my experience it is not the case most of the time. In the same way that not all the 5-star reviews are believable; you get the feeling that this is too good to be true. The 1- and 2-star reviewers are surprisingly honest when they write ‘I couldn’t get into this novel no matter how hard I tried’, or ‘I got to the halfway point and couldn’t get any further’, or ‘I’ve read other books by this writer that are very good, but this one missed the mark’. And so on. I read those reviews because that’s often how I feel when I am reading a book that was pushed on me by the media or by literary pundits. I think to myself, I am going to write a review of this book that I don’t like, even if most readers did like it. And sometimes I do. I mostly post them on Goodreads, but sometimes on Amazon as well. Nowadays it’s difficult to push back against the hype, but sometimes you have to, and I say that as a writer that has gotten reviews that both like and don’t like what I’ve written. As long as the less-than-stellar reviews are not rude or unprofessional, I accept them as being part and parcel of being a writer. You can’t win them all, but of course you hope for stellar reviews. But accepting the negative ones about my own work means that I am also free to write about what I dislike when it concerns others' work. I am free to be negative about a book/movie/song as long as I remain polite and professional about it.

I can’t tell you how many Kindle books I’ve downloaded to my iPad to read over the past decade or so. I persist with some books that I simply cannot abide, merely to finish them so that I can have an opinion if the book comes up in conversation with someone. But I have given up on two or three books in my lifetime; I found them either so boring as to put me to sleep or so chaotic and unintelligible that I simply didn’t want to waste my time trying to sort out the plot or the lack of one. I lost interest, plain and simple.

I am currently reading Joan Didion’s works, and have gotten through Play It As It Lays (fiction) and Slouching Towards Bethlehem (essays). I’m halfway through another collection of essays The White Album. I have not prioritized reading her books earlier. Joan Didion is considered to be one of America’s great writers, an icon as it were. She spent years as a journalist documenting an era in American life (the 1960s and 1970s) where everything seemed topsy-turvy, where conservative values were tossed out the window, albeit by a minority of the population, in favor of free love and a hippie lifestyle. She writes about the hippie lifestyle in California at that time, as well as the privileged life in Hollywood where anyone who was ‘anyone’ hobnobbed with actors, actresses, celebrities, movie directors, agents, and wanna-bes. Her writing is permeated by a sense of anxiety about the meaninglessness of life. She and her husband wrote screenplays for major movies and were quite successful at it. It all sounds glamorous but it isn’t and wasn’t; she makes sure that you know that. She managed to remain outside of all of the nonsense and hype for the most part, documenting it as the keen observer she was during those years. She’s a very good writer, I'll grant that, but what she writes about holds very little appeal for me. I’ve never really wondered about or been interested in most of the lives or topics she documents and I’m not sure what that says about me. I grew up in the era she writes about, but in New York and not California. I remember a lot of unrest and political turmoil from that time, but her presentation of California creates a feeling of hopelessness. It seems to be a wasteland of sorts. I did not like Play It As It Lays because of those feelings of hopelessness and nihilism. What was the real point of the book? It portrays a wasted life in a wasteland filled with wasted people who are wasting their lives, living in a bubble where they think they are so important. We all know they are not. Perhaps that is her point, to show that these people are lost. If so, she succeeds, but I don’t find anything really uplifting in her writing. It could be due to her desire to remain detached, I’m not sure. Her writing comes across as rather flat emotionally, indicative of a depressive state of mind. Adam Kirsch wrote in The New York Sun in 2006 that “She always seems to be writing on the brink of a catastrophe so awful that her only available response is to withdraw into a kind of autism.” That is a very good description of her writing, in my opinion. For all the chronicling of her life and the lives of others, she remains an enigma and that is rather strange considering that she often writes about herself and her life. Perhaps that is not enough to discover who you really are. As a writer, you can hide behind your descriptions of yourself, especially if you don't want to be known. Perhaps the best explanation for why she is who she is can be found in her essay On the Morning After the Sixties in the collection of essays The White Album. She writes 

"We were silent because the exhilaration of social action seemed to many of us just one more way of escaping the personal, of masking for a while that dread of the meaningless which was man’s fate. To have assumed that particular fate so early was the peculiarity of my generation. I think now that we were the last generation to identify with adults. That most of us have found adulthood just as morally ambiguous as we expected it to be falls perhaps into the category of prophecies self-fulfilled: I am simply not sure. I am telling you only how it was. The mood of Berkeley in those years was one of mild but chronic “depression...Only one person I knew at Berkeley later discovered an ideology, dealt himself into history, cut himself loose from both his own dread and his own time. A few of the people I knew at Berkeley killed themselves not long after."

The problem for me is that it's hard to tell if this mood describes many people at Berkeley during that era in American life or just a few. When you are depressed you have a tendency to 'see' that in the world around you. She is honest in saying that perhaps she doesn’t really know what she thinks or feels about a particular situation. Perhaps she says it best when she describes herself as a writer but not an intellectual, not a thinker. When I googled the definition of an intellectual, I found that she is literally correct. The formal definition of an intellectual is ‘a person who engages in critical thinking, research, and reflection about the reality of society, and who proposes solutions for the normative problems of society, and thus gains authority as a public intellectual’ (Wikipedia). Didion observes and writes about what she sees in society in a coolly detached way, but she does not reflect very much upon her observations, which is what an intellectual might have done. She is an observer and a reporter. I miss the reflections and critical thinking. But that’s me. She is an example of a writer that has been praised to the hilt but one that I cannot really relate to no matter how hard I’ve tried, and I've read two essay collections and one novel by her. I find myself just wanting to be finished with the essays in The White Album. I know that their essences will not stay with me because they have had very little impact on me. 

Other authors who have been hyped in recent years and whose books I really did not like/did nothing for me are Sally Rooney (Normal People), Camille Pagán (I’m Fine and Neither Are You), Andre Aciman (Call Me by Your Name), Dana Spiotta (Innocents and Others), Anna Burns (Milkman), Michael Crichton (Prey), Teresa Driscoll (I Am Watching You), Camilla Läckberg (Gullburet—The Golden Cage), Charles Lambert (The Children’s Home), Matt Marinovich (The Winter Girl), Ian McEwan (Machines Like Me), Stephenie Meyer (Twilight #1), Sayaka Murata (Convenience Store Woman), and Scott Sigler (Infected #1), among others. These are modern novelists, but I am not a huge fan either of some of the ‘classic’ writers who were pushed on us as teenagers and young adults. I think of J.D. Salinger (Catcher in the Rye), Herman Melville (Moby Dick), Philip Roth (any of his books), and others. We had to reflect on the symbolism in some of these books and write about it for class; these books did nothing for me and I found analyses of them tedious.

You can agree with me or not; it’s fine. That’s what makes the world an interesting place—the heterogeneity of individual opinions. You can say that I have eclectic taste, and you might be right. You can say that I’m opinionated at times, and that would be true. But I’m not going to follow the crowds running headlong to overpraise overhyped writers. A number of the modern writers I’ve listed in the previous paragraph are mediocre in my opinion. But they enjoy a huge following and they sell a lot of books. There’s no accounting for taste. But I do know what I like and don’t like. Writing about what I don’t like helps me push back against the hype. It’s becoming more necessary for each day that passes.

 

A poem for today

 A beautiful poem......

Elena Ferrante's The Lying Life of Adults

I begin Elena Ferrante's novels with a mixture of fascination and dread. Fascination, because everything I've read by her has gripped me. Her novels are riveting and her words flow on the pages, moving me along and immersing me in her Italy, her Naples, and her family dramas that she has carefully constructed. Dread, because I know that this immersion will stir up the mud in my own life and memory; it will murky the waters that I think are so clear, and yet when I dive deeper, I know they aren't.

How is it that one person, one writer, can speak to me and to so many people at the same time? She has an uncanny way of getting right to the core of what drives families apart and what keeps them together. She describes the behaviors, utterances and dramas that comprise the push and pull of family life, mostly without judging them, and that is where the fear comes in. Because you know that the behaviors she writes about are real and often violent to the spirit and body. Sometimes she judges them, but only within the contexts of her characters, the ones who want to escape the oppression, claustrophobia, and violence of family life. She allows them to judge, and we follow their attempts to escape, which are seemingly successful, but we know that somewhere down the line, the past will knock on their door and demand its due. At some point, they will face the same situations that they ran from, and come face to face with their early selves—the ones who said that they would never tolerate this or that behavior, the ones who said that they would never behave like their parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents. They experience the human frailties, deceptions, betrayals, frustrations, rage, and even violence (psychological and physical) that can be part of family life. The characters in her books are flawed human beings, like we all are. Perhaps that is part of her appeal. She explains some parts of our lives for us; I know she does that for me. I finish her novels thinking, yes, that helps to explain this or that family member’s behavior, or utterances, or bizarre points of view.

Everyone lies in Ferrante’s novels. Adults lie, but so do children and teenagers. The Lying Life of Adults is really the story of how teenagers become adults who lie to themselves and to others. It is the story of how we become the adults we profess to hate. Giovanna, the main character who is a teenager, is acutely aware of the hypocritical behavior of the adults in her life. She has two friends she confides in, Angela and Ida, the daughters of her parents’ friends Mariano and Costanza. Her attempt to develop a relationship with her hated aunt Vittoria, her father’s sister, has far-reaching repercussions for her parents, her parents’ friends, involved children, and her own life. Vittoria is a destructive force of nature. She is (presumably) the opposite of Giovanna’s educated, intellectual and refined father, Andrea, who hates his coarse uneducated sister (the feeling is mutual), and yet, that is what Ferrante wants to show us, that at their core, both Vittoria and Andrea are the same. They are egotists and liars, they think nothing of destroying others’ lives by wanting what they want (Vittoria wanted Enzo--the husband of her friend Margherita, and Andrea wanted Costanza—the wife of his friend Mariano). They justify their betrayals of spouses and families and lie to themselves about how ‘noble’ their intentions are. Nella, Andrea’s wife, is crushed by his betrayal and their eventual divorce, but tries to live her life following the divorce as best she can. Mariano, who has cheated on Costanza often, is also lost; eventually Nella and Mariano find each other despite Nella’s protests to the contrary. Giovanna is witness to all of these happenings. At the same time, she becomes friends with Vittoria (who worshipped Enzo), Margherita, and Margherita’s children (Corrado, Tonino, and Giuliana). Vittoria dominates Margherita and her children’s lives; she tells them how to live and what to do and not to do. The relationship between Vittoria and Margherita is strange and one I found hard to understand, but for the purposes of the book, I accepted it. But I know very few people in real life who would have become friends with their husbands’ mistresses.

Vittoria brought to the surface memories of my father’s eldest sister Carmela, who was also not much-liked in my family. Unlike Vittoria, she was considered to be good-looking; she was a refined woman with many intellectual and cultural interests. But she was a drama queen, and no family gathering ever ended pleasantly when she was present. She was unhappily married to one of my father’s childhood friends, which didn’t help matters. My father probably felt pressured to take sides, and he took his sister’s side against his friend. My mother and my aunt did not get along at all; my mother found her domineering, controlling, and nosy. Carmela and her husband eventually divorced; she lived alone afterward until she died, but did have a lover whom she could have married but chose not to. After one too many unpleasant family gatherings when we were children, my father and mother decided not to see her anymore, and by extension, we were not to see her either. After my father died, my sister and I made an effort to re-establish contact with her. We found her to be a decent person, but of course by that time she was old and in a different frame of mind. I think she was happy to see us again, but our lives were busy and we didn’t see her often. She died eight years after my father.

I could relate to those feelings that Ferrante describes—remaining loyal to parents while wondering why we all couldn’t just get along, and feeling guilty for wanting to have some kind of relationship with my aunt. My aunt made an effort to remember our birthdays with gifts and cards, but they were never well-received, and eventually she ceased to make the effort. I remember when my grandmother died, I was around twelve or so. Frustrations and anger came to the surface, people said things they probably regretted, and the war only intensified. It was difficult to deal with all those feelings as a child. But I knew even then that this kind of family life was oppressive and claustrophobic, and I wanted no part of it. And for the most part, I have managed to escape it, but not without many mistakes and poor decisions of my own before I got to a place in life with which I could be comfortable. Reading Ferrante reminds me of my early family life, and it’s a mixed blessing, as I wrote at the beginning of this post—I am fascinated by what she manages to stir up in me, and fearful of it at the same time. Like a moth to the flame, as the old saying goes. I know I will get burned. Unlike the moth, I survive being burned, but it is a strange experience nonetheless.

 

The appeal of science fiction

I'm a diehard sci-fi (and sci-fi horror) fan--books, films, and series. I don't remember the first sci-fi book I read that got me hooked on the genre. Perhaps it was A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle when we were children. The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells was another book that fascinated us as children. My parents were good at introducing us to different literary genres. The Andromeda Strain was published in 1969 and I probably read it around 1970 or so. I also read C.S. Lewis' The Space Trilogy when I was a teenager, and This Perfect Day by Ira Levin. To enjoy sci-fi, one must be able to let go of one's own world and enter into new and unknown worlds created by the authors and accept that those worlds may be nothing like one's own. That was never a problem for me. The appeal of sci-fi is likely different for each person, but there are some common elements. Part of the appeal was likely escapist when I was younger; now the appeal is more a fascination with dystopian themes and with other worlds, unknown worlds, the universe, time travel, parallel worlds--in short, fascination with stepping outside of the natural laws and our world (outer and inner) in order to experience other worlds. Judging by the interest in sci-fi, I think we will always be fascinated by the possibility of doing just that. I think man has always looked up at the stars and wondered what was out there. Or looked around at ordinary life and happenings and asked--what if they were different or changed, or completely unlike what we could ever imagine? Man has always been both fascinated by and afraid of the unknown and of the dark. Monsters and aliens may live there, and they may not be friendly to mankind. Even so, I would love to be able to travel through time to other worlds if I could do so via a transporter or through a wormhole, just as long as I could return to the safety of my own world when I wanted. That's asking a lot, but in the sci-fi realm, anything is possible.  

Some of my favorite sci-fi authors and their books are as follows:

• Ray Bradbury--The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451
• Stanislaw Lem--Solaris
• Philip K. Dick--Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep
• Michael Crichton--The Andromeda Strain, The Terminal Man, Timeline
• Neil Gaiman--Coraline, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, The Graveyard Book
• John Wyndham--The Day of the Triffids
• C.S. Lewis--The Space Trilogy (Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, That Hideous Strength)
• H.P. Lovecraft--The Best of H.P. Lovecraft (falls into the horror fiction genre, but many of his stories would qualify as sci-fi horror)
• Isaac Asimov--Fantastic Voyage, The End of Eternity
• David Lindsay--A Voyage to Arcturus 
• Aldous Huxley--Brave New World
• George Orwell--1984
• H.G. Wells--The War of the Worlds, The Invisible Man
• Ira Levin--This Perfect Day

Some of my favorite sci-fi films and series are:  

• Forbidden Planet
• The Blob
• 2001: A Space Odyssey
• Soylent Green
• Close Encounters of the Third Kind
• Star Wars
• The Man Who Fell to Earth
• Westworld
• Alien
• Invasion of the Body Snatchers
• Aliens
• Blade Runner
• Brazil
• Deep Impact
• Event Horizon
• Jurassic Park
• The Lost World: Jurassic Park
• Men in Black
• Alien3
• Alien Resurrection
• The Day After Tomorrow
• I Am Legend
• WALL-E
• Jurassic Park III
• 28 Days Later
• District 9
• Pitch Black
• Minority Report
• Solaris 
• Another Earth
• IO
• Extinction
• I Origins
• Prometheus
• Interstellar
• The Martian
• Oblivion
• Edge of Tomorrow
• Alien: Covenant
• Arrival
• Ex Machina
• A Quiet Place
• Blade Runner 2049
• Jurassic World
• Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom
• Raised By Wolves (HBO series)

A free Kindle book preview of Survivable Losses

I'm posting a free Kindle book preview of Survivable Losses, the collection of short stories by Francesca Stokes. If you like it, please consider purchasing it on Amazon. Thank you. 

The International Review of Books' review of Survivable Losses

Survivable Losses is a newly-published collection of short stories on Amazon, that is well-worth checking out:   https://www.amazon.com/Survivable-Losses-Selected-Short-Stories-ebook/dp/B08MCRMYSR/ref=sr_1_12?dchild=1&qid=1605035612&refinements=p_27%3AStokes&s=digital-text&sr=1-12

The International Review of Books has written a timely and positive review of Survivable Losses that I wanted to share with you, and has awarded the book a Gold badge of achievement. 

Stokes left me with the uncanny feeling of looking deep into the character’s soul only to see my own reflection. The experience was like looking into a mirror, a mirror that, if I stood before it long enough, threatened to reveal things I hadn’t known were there. 

One is left with the sense of watching a mind travelling between planes of existence................

Stokes' work contains interesting and deep manifestations of the elements of the craft of writing: dimensional characters, a pleasing arc of tension, evocative language and thematic purpose.