Some Penguin Classics, as I’ve noted before here at Stevereads, feel like they’re a long time in the making, and the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi more than most and in two different ways. Not only has this sprawling tenth century Persian epic waited a long time for an attractive, affordable paperback edition in English, but this particular text, a prose translation by Dick Davis that Viking brought out ten years ago, has waited a long time to become a Penguin Classic.
This Penguin Classic is an expanded edition of that Viking hardcover (which was mighty pretty in its own right), and it’s also a slightly larger size than the standard Penguin trade paperback. It’s got the black spine with the elegant white script title along it – a graceful new Penguin Classic of a book not enough Western readers know anything about. I remember vividly when it first arrived at the bookstore where I was working; I was stunned and immediately took a hardcover copy to the store’s two most veteran and wide-ranging readers – and neither of them had ever heard of it. Over the next few weeks, I tried hard to interest my most literary regular customers in the book, to no avail. When the unsold copies were returned to the publisher (nobody bought one – not even me, since the hardcover cost what was then a full day’s pay for me), I was the only one in the store who noticed or cared.
I don’t expect things are any better here in 2016, but at least I no longer have a ringside seat! I’m free to enjoy this Penguin edition in a peace and quiet broken only by the gentle, arhythmic snoring of a basset hound.
Of course, the Shahnameh is a big book in many more important ways than its thousand-page length. The action spans hundreds of years; the cast encompasses hundreds of characters; this is a national epic on the grandest scale, closer in tenor to The Tale of the Heike (also a beautiful Penguin Classic) than to Homer’s Iliad. The frequent action scenes read like the headiest possible combination of The Mahabharata and the Old Testament:
With his heart freed from this anxiety, Ardeshir paused at the fire-temple of Ram-Khorad; there he prayed earnestly for God to guide him, to give him victory in all his undertakings, and to allow the tree of greatness to flourish for him. Then he returned to his pavilion, where his officers and men awaited him. He distributed cash to his troops, invoking God as he did so. His army was now like a valiant leopard, and he advanced against Bahman, the son of Ardavan, to give battle.
As the two armies approached one another, each side formed ranks ready for battle, with lances and Indian swords grasped in their hands. Then they fell on one another like warring lions, and blood was spilled in rivers. So they fought until the sun turned pale, and the air was filled with dust, the ground with corpses.
As you can see, the translation is smooth and vivid, and I can attest that the reading of it over hundreds and hundreds of pages is almost uniformly gripping. It’s true that in this case I could have done without some of the more condescending comments in Davis’s Introduction:
My aim is translating the Shahnameh was not to produce a text for scholars, but to make it available to a wide non-specialist audience. I hesitate to say a popular audience: perhaps no medieval literary artifact, from any culture, can have a truly popular existence now. We prefer our medievalism to be derivative and ersatz; The Lord of the Rings rather the Beowulf, Camelot rather than Malory or Chretien de Troyes. Nevertheless there is still a world of readers, especially relatively young readers, who are not scholars, who might try Beowulf or Malory, and it was them I aimed to reach with my translation. I translated not for scholars, who after all have access to the original text, now in relatively good editions, but for that radically endangered species, the general reader.
… but despite the drippiness of that “derivative and ersatz,” Davis has most certainly produced a translation for the general reader. I’m hoping copies of this particular Penguin Classic end up in classrooms all over the country.
Our book today is The House on Ipswich Marsh, a lovely 2005 meditation by William Sargent on the “Pink House” at Ipswich on Boston’s North Shore (the title an obvious nod to Wyman Richardson’s great 1947 book The House on Nauset Marsh). Sargent received a grant to study ground-nesting birds that lived near the house, and he brought a camera and a journal to the task, keeping notes through all the seasons, starting with his rapturous first impressions of the house itself:
A carpet of the most brilliant red poppies nodded their heads by the front door; foxglove and hollyhocks swayed in the English-style cottage garden out back. Wisteria draped from the eves and sparrows darted in and out of pink Victorian birdhouses above the portal. A thousand rosebuds bobbed above a white picket fence that wrapped halfway around the front and corner of the house.
But as in all the best of these kinds of books, the ambit immediately widens from bird life to all life in and around Ipswich’s Great Marsh. Sargent is a very quiet writer, a careful observer with a deceptively simple writing style. Even when he encounters something unexpected and amazing while out on a photo-ramble, he mutes his enthusiasm with a bit of whimsy:
As I approach, the fawn becomes even stranger. It has a beautiful reddish brown coat and large soft ears. Yet its ears never twitch and its eyes never blink. Finally I’m sitting beside the fawn and can see her telltale row of white spots. I take several photos, then retreat out of sight to change my film. I return and she is still there. She hasn’t moved a muscle; she still holds her head to the side in a characteristic post. I move in closer to take a closeup and I can almost hear her say, “Damn, damn. What have I done now? Oh, what did mother say? Gotta keep still, gotta keep still.”
One main thread running through The House on Ipswich Marsh that differentiates it from its near-namesake is that while Wyman Richardson concentrated almost exclusively on the happy present, Sargent is continually noticing the past that’s all around him in remnants:
The remains of an old pier stand above the tidal marsh. During World War II this shipbuilding facility employed 600 men, who worked round the clock in shifts to build landing craft and wooden minesweepers in anticipation of D day. Now the former shipyard has reverted to a lonely marsh.
I’ve written many times before here at Stevereads of my love of salt marshes in all weathers, and that love is why I treasure The House on Ipswich Marsh and revisit it regularly, in lieu of the real thing.
Our book today is Inside Benchley, a 1921 anthology of Robert Benchley’s humorous essays illustrated by the great Gluyas Williams. I recently found a paperback copy of the book at the Brattle, brought it back to Hyde Cottage, opened it in order to revisit Benchley’s essays (something I hadn’t done in decades), and reeled back as the cheap paperback promptly exploded into blocks and shards of shoddily-glued pages. I managed to piece most of the book together again, reminding myself the whole time that Penguin paperbacks and sturdy hardcovers, and I spent some time re-acquainting myself with the world of Robert Benchley’s humor.
It’s a humor typically characterized as “gentle,” which is often code-speak for “not actually funny.” In pieces ranging from two pages to six, Benchley offers mild-mannered, fussily bewildered reflections on a wide variety of comfortable suburban 1920s life. Annoying relatives, outrageous children, workplace woes, befuddled encounters with modernity – anybody who’s familiar with New Yorker cartoons from the period (or any period, really) will know what to expect right down to the last detail. You can practically see what the cartoon version of this passage from a piece on trout-fishing would look like:
You can see that imitating a nymph will call for a lot of rehearsing, but I doubt very much if moving in short jerks is the way in which to go about it. I have never actually seen a nymph, though if I had I should not be likely to admit it, and I can think of no possible way in which I could give an adequate illusion of being one myself. Even the most stupid of trout could easily divine that I was masquerading, and then the question would immediately arise in his mind: “If he is not a nymph, then what is his object in going about like that trying to imitate one? He is up to no good, I’ll be bound.”
You’re supposed to chuckle politely and then move on, and to give Benchley his due, those chuckles still happen. Anybody who’s ever suffered the ordeal of visiting the dentist’s office, for instance, will nod in sympathy while reading “The Tooth, the Whole Tooth, and Nothing But the Tooth,” even while noticing Benchley’s padding and temporizing:
Too often has the scene in the dentist’s waiting-room been described for me to try to do it again here. They are all alike. The antiseptic smell, the ominous hum from the operating-rooms, the ancient Digests, and the silent, sullen group of waiting patients, each trying to look unconcerned and cordially disliking everyone else in the room – all these have been sung by poets of far greater lyric powers than mine. (Not that I really they they are greater than mine, but that’s the customary form of excuse for not writing something you haven’t got time or space to do. As a matter of fact, I think I could do it much better than it has ever been done before).
The main thing I was reminded of while reading this cheap, exploded paperback was that every time I’ve ever owned this book and read around in it, the thing I was actually enjoying was the fantastic Gluyas Williams artwork that shows up throughout. His artwork likewise tells predictable easy New Yorker-style stories, but unlike in Benchley’s prose, the line-work of these illustrations have no excess, no dithering, no wasted effort. I’ll save them from the wreckage of this edition before I throw it away.
Last week, in addition to being pleasantly surprised by the “Last Days of Superman” storyline unfolding in the DC’s various Superman comics, I was equally pleased – though not surprised – by issue #51 of Batman, a story titled “Gotham Is,” written by Scott Snyder and drawn by Greg Capullo. The reason I wasn’t surprised to be pleased by this issue is because the team of Snyder and Capullo has been delivering utterly fantastic Batman adventures since the first “New 52” issue five years ago. I’ve come to expect that this comic will be really good.
I’ve been a fan of Capullo’s artwork for a long time, since his short run on Marvel’s Quasar back in the early 1990s, and it’s been thrilling to watch him steadily improve over the years. When his run on Batman started, I was unsure how his style fit the character, but he quickly won me over. Snyder is a harder sell for me, and nothing in this long run on Batman has changed my mind. He’s great at fashioning gripping moments and single scenes, but he can’t long-term plot worth a damn, with the result that time and again in his Batman run, he plotted himself into a blind corner from which he could only extricate himself with logical contortions and absolutely massive blocks of exposition.
So his first arc introduces a character named Talon and then buries the reader in prose about whether or not the guy is Bruce Wayne’s long-lost brother, to the point where those readers won’t really care one way or another. Or a super-villain will gain control over a mutating virus … and then drop the ball even though on the grounds Snyder himself set out, his villain would be unbeatable. Or, in the worst possible case, he orchestrated a plot where the Joker returns, attacks the now-sprawling family of Batman’s friends and allies, has all of them entirely at his mercy, and then … doesn’t do anything to them except talk – because Snyder didn’t think out his plot past the point of its dramatic climax.
But issue #51 is a standalone thing, a self-contained story in which Batman, riding into Gotham City for his nightly patrol, sees the entire city go completely dark in a massive blackout. He and his faithful retainer Alfred immediately start looking for the reason, even as Batman speeds to Arkham Asylum in order to contain a breakout by the super-villains incarcerated there. But the prisons backup generators kick in, and, oddly enough, the rest of Gotham seems equally peaceful and orderly.
It’s a “night in the life” story, and Snyder handles it very well, making beautiful parallels with his very first issue, five years ago. And Capullo’s artwork is superb, especially in a terrific two-page spread of Batman swooping over a darkened Gotham, glimpsing the lives of all the Gothamites as they make do during the blackout (they’re all oblivious to his presence, except little children, who aren’t afraid and happily wave).
I loved the issue, and it reminded me of how often I’ve loved the Snyder/Capullo run on Batman – as I pointed out five years ago, this was one of the only “New 52” titles that was an unqualified success right from the first issue. This was a fine send-off to that run, and coming up right beyond it is yet another DC re-invention. We can hope to be this lucky again.
As I’ve noted in the past here at Stevereads, I take a peculiar interest in the slight but often fascinating book-coverage you can find in the “lad mags” like Esquire or Men’s Journal or GQ. It’s always strange to me, the efforts the editors of these magazines (arrogant SOBs almost to a man) to find some way, any way, to make books feel interesting or relevant to their target demographic of swaggering, over-monied, pea-brained 20-something business drones. Magazines like Esquire and GQ know that demographic’s stupidity and biddability to the last decimal place, which is why these are some of the only major magazines still in circulation in the West that feature both embarrassing objectification of women and page after page of adds for cigarettes, cigars, and chewing tobacco.
Books are always going to be a strange element to add to such a brainless bro-centric mess, so I girded myself when I recently encountered a short feature in Esquire called “The New Books for Men” by Benjamin Percy, an egregiously overpraised young writer who here comes up with a list of books that have spoken to him in various ways as he’s ripened into the wise old guy he is today (according to Wikipedia, Percy is well shy of his 40th birthday). I went in hoping for one person’s account of what reading has meant to him, but Percy takes hardly any time before he’s made things a good deal more ponderous than that:
The older I get, the more I read to upset and challenge the man I’ve actually become. Reading is now less aspirational and more instructional. I cracked open Cormac McCarthy’s The Road at eactly the right time: the year my son almost died … The Road may take place in a postapocalyptic wasteland, but ultimately it’s a story about fathers and sons, about the terror of keeping your children safe from harm and teaching them to protect themselves in a world that sometimes seems bent on ruining them. The book helped me better understand and manage my own fears and sense of responsibility.
It should almost be needless to say that going to novels for “instructional” reasons is fundamentally wrong-headed. It reduces not only the novel but the novel’s readers. What, after all, according to Percy’s view here, happens to the readers who come to (sorry, “crack open,” like a brewski) The Road without having their young sons in the hospital? (Not even delving into the fact that The Road can somehow be enjoyed on a visceral level even by women – in the view Percy puts forward in this piece, women not only don’t read but can’t read) Percy goes through a list of books in a similar vein, each one named in conjunction with some nuts-and-bolts life lesson to which it can give operating instructions. Every work named (all popularly well-regarded; the list of titles alone pretty clearly hints that Percy doesn’t himself read books, ever, if he can help it) is given a narrow, one-topic point, a precise life-problem it can solve once its bro-reader picks it up, gropes it open, and begins mouthing its words to himself. And all of it is designed not as an end in itself but rather as one more notch on the money-clip of the World’s Most Interesting Man:
You look back on your life and the books you’ve read and you know you’re better off for having a large and varied and sometimes uncomfortable appetite for experience, for having lived widely, strenuously. Getting upset, leaving behind what’s familiar: That’s the point. The most interesting guy at the party isn’t the one who only surrounds himself with friends.
Whenever I come across a short piece like this in a lad-mag, I always feel a split reaction: on the one hand, I’m happy to see any mention of books in pages full of ads for $85,000 wrist watches and “recreational” products with a hundred-year record of causing lung cancer. But on the other hand, it’s irritating to see books and reading so smugly simplified – here’s how this Tolstoy guy helped me to play some catch with my dad – it’s the intellectual equivalent of strip-mining, and it’s depressing to think of all the young money-bros out there who’ll encounter Percy’s article and think reading William Styron or T. H. White is some kind of highbrow close equivalent to figuring out a sheet of IKEA instructions; “I’ve got a boss who’s absolutely obsessed with our quarterly reports … I better crack open this “Moby-Dick” book …”
But I’ll hold out a bit of stubborn hope anyway. Maybe next month’s issue of Outside …
I ventured into the comics shop recently, which is something I don’t do all that often anymore, for two main reasons: first, as I’ve lamented several times here at Stevereads, the bloom of most comics went off the rose for me a few years ago when DC Comics – the mainstay of my comics world for decades – conducted a company-wide reboot of its characters and continuity, taking a broad and colorful and most especially grand tapestry of superheroes and transforming them at a stroke into a batch of grim, flak-jacketed, hateful misanthropists. These beings didn’t stand for truth, justice, and anybody’s way but their own. They punched, growled, and screwed with equal petulance; they had the names as the great characters they replaced, but their natures were completely, almost sadistically reversed from anything I grew up reading and liking.
And as evil chance would have it, my favorite DC character was one of the hardest hit. Superman has always been a source of insecurity for some comics creators – the less imaginative among those creators see his moral purity and vast array of superpowers and thought these things precluded interesting drama. The best Superman writers over the decades have seen the enormous opportunities offered by the very things that dismayed those other writers, but in “The New 52,” Superman became The Watchmen‘s Doctor Manhattan, only with hair. When he was talking to mere mortals, he floated a little above the ground with his arms folded across his chest. When is romantic soul was stirred, the woman in question wasn’t the thoroughly human, grounding Lois Lane but the battle-armored “New 52′ version of Wonder Woman.
In short, this version of Superman was exactly the kind of cool, monstrous alternate-reality version of the character that the old Superman, the one I read for decades, would have fought, outwitted, and then banished back to his own dimension.
But old habits die hard, and I was so accustomed to reading DC comics that I more or less limped along continuing to do it, despite only very seldom actually enjoying what I was reading. Eventually I started shifting my reading to graphic novels and away from the weekly issues that kept appearing at my comics shop. And even though I’ve recently noticed DC writers gradually drifting their concepts of the characters back to their pre-New 52 incarnations, I still stayed away from buying individual issues – for the second of my two reasons: DC recently announced that the summer of 2016 will see yet another company-wide reboot, this one dubbed “Rebirth” and featuring Gawd-knows-what further changes to these characters. Buying individual issues seemed doubly like a waste of time.
And yet, I missed going to my comics shop and buying individual issues! And recently, a storyline was announced spanning the whole family of Superman-related comics, a storyline said to be revolving around something called “The Super League.” It intrigued me, so I let it play out for a few installments, then I went to the comics shop and bought three or four of those installments, starting with Superman #51, which features a very dramatic cover by Mikel Janin with the legend “In the Heart of the Sun … the Super League is Forged!”
The issue opens equally dramatically: a full-page close-up of a Superman so young and pretty that the old Curt Swan/George Reeves Superman, my Superman, wouldn’t have recognized as any variation of himself. And this younger, prettier Superman says, “I’m dying.”
It turns out that several recent events in Superman’s life have combined to fatally weaken his body. He’s run every kind of test he knows, and he’s certain: he’s dying, and there’s nothing that can be done about it. He sets about telling his loved ones – in this issue, he first tells Lana Lang back in Smallville, then he goes to Lois Lane, who quite simply says she’s missed “talking to my best friend every day.”
In the next installment, in DC comic that used to be called World’s Finest and is now drably called Batman/Superman, Superman goes to the Batcave and tells Batman, who protests that they have to fight it, that there must be a way to save Superman’s life. Superman assures him that there’s no hope.
The next installment I bought was the latest issue of the drably-titled Superman/Wonder Woman, with great artwork by Ed Benes. In this issue, Superman breaks the bad news to Wonder Woman. And because this “New 52” version of Wonder Woman is a stupid, petty, brawling blockhead, her main concern is that Superman told Lana Lang, Lois Lang, Supergirl, and Batman before he told her. Fortunately, Superman is still healthy enough to shut her up by kissing her.
The thing that surprised me most about these three issues (I skipped an installment that mostly concentrated on Supergirl, whose New 52 incarnation is so tooth-grindingly boring that I can’t really stand reading her even in small doses) was how much I enjoyed them. The interactions between Superman and Batman, between Superman and Lois Lane, especially between Superman and Lana Lang, all felt immediately authentic, very little like the bulk of the New 52 run. And at one point there was splendid double-page spread of Superman simply going about his job, selflessly saving the day. The story had a great deal of heart.
Must have been a donor heart, of course, since the one thing completely missing from these issues was any plot involving a “Super League.” Indeed, the term “Super League” is never even mentioned in any of these issues, which are part of a story called “The Final Days of Superman.” No idea where this “Super League” business comes from, but I finished these issues feeling something DC’s New 52 lineup has virtually never made me feel: eager for the rest of the story.
I don’t miss the irony, of course, that I’m feeling this just as the New 52 itself is about to undergo a major disruption. Given the almost uniform series of bad decisions involved in the New 52, I’m going into “Rebirth” expecting the worst. But before that, at least I’ve got this neato story to enjoy.
Our book today is a doozy from 2010: it’s the 75th Anniversary Poster Book of DC Comics, a lavishly oversized thing put out by the good folks at Quirk Books in honor, as its title hints, of the 75th anniversary of DC Comics and its venerable roster of comic book characters (the three most recognizably venerable – Wonder Woman, Superman, and Batman – are represented on the books cover by their famous chest emblems, just as they were recently represented on the big screen by their BDSM leather body-suits and constipated scowls). With snarky and often quite insightful commentary written by Robert Schnakenberg, the book takes a grand-sized tour of some of the icon cover illustrations that have sold DC issues from newsstands for almost a century. Fans who were eagerly buying those issues for a goodly chunk of that time will find this poster book an irresistible browner’s paradise (although a slightly perilous one: Quirk Books decided to give readers the option to detach and use any one of these oversized cover reproductions as an actual poster, so every page is perforated).
Virtually every iconic DC cover image is represented here, from Superman hefting a car over his head on the front of 1938’s Action Comics #1 to the sight of two different Flashes running to the rescue on the cover of The Flash in 1961. And although Schnakenberg is too polite to crow about it, one fact becomes glaringly obvious as the pages of this book turn: DC covers tended to get better as time passed. Catchy became gripping, and the cover as an artistic statement started to come into its own. Certainly there’s very little in the company’s first forty years to match the visceral directness of the cover Neal Adams drew for Green Lantern #85 in 1971, about which our guide has this to say:
In this issue, the Emerald Archer has his mellow harshed when he finds out his squeaky-clean sidekick Roy “Speedy” Harper is secretly a heroin addict … Notable for its sympathetic portrayal of junkies as victims of addiction, Green Lantern #85 represented a high-water mark for [writer Denny] O’Neil and Adams’ two-year run on the title, and for “relevant comics” in general. It earned a letter of commendation from New York City Mayor John Lindsay, which was printed in the next issue.
More straightforward fan favorites get their moments in the spotlight as well, like George Perez’s enticingly cartoony cover for The New Teen Titans #1 in 1980, which comes with a helpful synopsis:
Teen superteams were nothing new in comics. Marvel had its X-Men. During World War II, Captain America’s sidekick Bucky and the Human Torch’s BFF Toro had formed a second-banana-led super-squad called the Young Allies, filled out with four adolescent schlemiels named Knuckles, Jeff, Tubby, and Whitewash. Even DC had tried and failed to get a successful “kid super hero” team off the ground. The 1966 version of Teen Titans, featuring Robin, Kid Flash, Aqualad, and Wondergirl, [sic] ended after forty-three issues. Some blamed its demise on the writers’ overreliance on dated “jive” dialogue (“Did this crazy teen scene!” blared one early cover burst). Less self-consciously “hip” and markedly more successful was the 1980s revival of the Teen Titans. As re-imagined by writer Marv Wolfman and artist George Perez – a master of group dynamics on covers and interior art – the now seven-member team wasn’t a bunch of mere junior- varsity versions of established heroes anymore. They were fully-formed, well-rounded characters who lived with, fought with, and loved each other.
And of course there’s perhaps the single most memorable modern-era DC cover of them all, Frank Miller’s illustration for Batman: The Dark Knight #1 in 1986, which has been pastiched and parodied countless times but still retains its elemental power, according to Schnakenberg:
The era of “grim and gritty” comics began with the publication of Frank Miller’s landmark limited series Batman: The Dark Knight in1986 – a sea change for an industry in which super-hero adventures were typically bathed in garish primary colors. The simple, almost minimalist composition Miller chose for the cover of the first issue – perhaps the greatest application of the “less is more” principal [sic] in comics history – barely hinted at the cluttered complexity of the interior art and story.
Later greats such as Michael Golden, Brian Bolland, and Alex Ross are all represented in the book’s closing pages, and of course DC Comics has in the meantime enjoyed another anniversary, its 80th. And who knows what new gems will adorn the closing pages of the volume I’m hoping will appear in 2035?
Our book today is a little treasure from 1920, Cape Coddities by Dennis and Marion Chatham, dotted all throughout with charming little spot illustrations by Harold Cue. I’ve been pulling this little volume down off the shelf every year when Spring first begins to unfold in Boston; the song-birds come back to the lawns and hedges, the lilac blooms outside the window, and the middays grow warmer and warmer. It’s the time of year that first awakens thoughts of summer, and that turns those thoughts to Cape Cod, where I’ve spend many very happy summers.
It’s still a slow process, this change of seasons; the mornings are still chilly, as are the nights. But little books like Cape Coddities hurry along the process in my mind, especially since the Chathams, like so many writers, can’t resist the lure of describing that hallowed Cape vacationer ritual, the opening of the summer house as soon as possible in the season:
The family reach the house after dark on a Saturday night. The lock readily responds to familiar fingers, the door creaks a friendly welcome as the family grope their way through the hall in good-humored rivalry to see which shall be the first to secure the box of matches always kept on the right-hand corner of the mantlepiece in the living-room for this emergency. Then, as the lamps are lighted, the old familiar objects appear precisely as they had been left, perhaps six months before, with a coating of dust, to be sure, but nothing which a few moments and a dustcloth could not remove; for dust in this region is little known. True, the chairs, or at least such of them as possess cushions, gathered from all hammocks and piazza furniture; but a few deft passes by the fairy godmother of this establishment, and presto, the cushions are distributed and the sofa offers a cozy retreat for the entire party. Otherwise the living-room is livable. A fire ready laid is only waiting for a match and a turn of the hand to open the flue. Such is a cottage by the sea if it has been planned and built as it should be, not alone for summer use, but also for spring and autumn holidays.
“There is no such word as hurry in the bright lexicon of Cape Cod,” our authors write, and they spend a good deal of their book’s 150 pages describing the various kinds of leisure the Cape has always encouraged in those lucky enough to enjoy it. Clamming, antiquing, amateur fishing, relaxed lunching … the Chathams have warm, sentimental words for all of it (and they lament the tyrannical motorcar, whose chugging and churning, they fear, is permanently altering the nature of the Cape). And for those of us who’ve spent a great deal of time inland on the Cape, it’s wonderful that the Chathams included a chapter on “A Fresh-Water Cape” full of rivers and ponds:
To the majority of people Cape Cod spells sea breezes, a tang of salt in the air, scrub oaks, tall pines, stretches of and a large appetite. To the few who know the Cape from more intimate acquaintance there is added to this picture a swelling country densely wooded in sections and spotted with ponds. It is a source of never-ending wonder how these ponds exist in a country where the soil is so porous that a few minutes after a shower there is no trace of the rain.
In recent years I’ve found myself thinking about the Cape all summer long, not just at the beginning and, as I’ve always done, at the end. Many of the quaint elements of the Cape the Chathams describe are long gone in 2016, but the amazing thing about the region is how many of them that remain. The Cape Cod in the pages of Cape Coddities is immediately recognizable even a century later. It fills the reading of the book with smiles.
Some Penguin Classics, as we’ve noted before here at Stevereads, are genuinely impressive works of scholarship in their own right, and I recently came across one of those during a foray at the Brattle Bookshop: The Penguin Book of Renaissance Verse, edited by David Norbook – in this case, the 2005 update to the 1992 original.
This plump volume – 900 pages – has everything you’d want from such a thing: micro-typed End Notes, a huge variety of authors from the English Renaissance (the title’s slight misleading in that way: it’s not exactly that Renaissance), and a long Introduction by Norbook that’s just brimming with fantastic insights delivered with almost staccato speed, including this great bit about the pragmatic side of the literary endeavor (a side it very much had in common with the Renaissance then bubbling in Italy):
The immediate response of an active life for an ambitious young writer lay not in dreaming of Roman antiquity but in serving the Crown. The prospect of an alliance with the Crown was an appealing one for many poets in the period. In adopting the demonstrative rhetoric of the court, writing panegyrics of the ruler and leading courtiers, they could think of themselves as in effect writing the script of the public world, fulfilling the humanist imperative of making their verbal skill serve the State. The resultant compromises with courtly discourse, however, were often uneasy.
The years covered by this book, from 1509 to 1659, encompass a roll-call of writers that can stand comparison with any similar time-frame in history. This was the era of John Skelton, Henry Howard, Thomas Wyatt, Philip Sidney, Edmund Spenser, John Donne, John Harington, Ben Jonson, Andrew Marvell, George Chapman, Samuel Daniel, Robert Herrick, Margaret Cavendish, and George Herbert. This was the time of Marlowe, Milton, and Shakespeare.
And Anonymous, whose work Norbook is a trifle too eager to include. Considering how many giants were writing during the period he examines, readers might perhaps have done without the limp doggerel of things like “On Sir Francis Drake”:
Sir Drake whom well the world’s end knew,
Which thou did’st compasse round,
And whom both Poles of heaven once saw
Which North and South do bound,
The stars above, would make thee known,
If men here silent were;
The Sun himself cannot forget
His fellow traveller.
But 99% of the book glows with a dozen different kinds of genius. You’ll find quite a few of your favorites in these pages, plus, if Norbook has done his job well, plenty of poets whose further acquaintance you’ll want to make, their strengths and their music brought into unexpected highlights by the company they’re keeping here. Thomas Campion’s exquisitely worldly lines on the various entertainments of winter, for example:
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their houres,
And clouds their stormes discharge
Upon the ayrie towers,
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o’erflow with wine:
Let well-tun’d words amaze
With harmonie divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall waite on hunny Love,
While youthfull Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights,
Sleepes leaden spels remove.
This time doth well dispence
With lovers long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All doe not all things well;
Some measures comely tread;
Some knotted Ridles tell;
Some Poems smoothly read.
The Summer hath his joyes,
And Winter his delights;
Though Love and all his pleasures are but toyes,
They shorten tedious nights.
God only knows what happened to the copy of The Penguin Book of Renaissance Verse I originally bought back in 2005 at Barnes & Noble, but I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until I came across this copy at the Brattle. I anticipate a few happy hours of browsing in it this weekend.
Our book today is The Lady with the Borzoi, a biographical tribute to Blanche Knopf that somehow feels both surprising and long overdue. The book, written with grace and a cheery volubility by Laura Claridge, is the story of Blanche Knopf, the so-called “soul” of the publishing house she created a century ago with her husband Alfred, and although Claridge does a sometimes painfully thorough job of fleshing out the intense frictions that were always a well-known part of the Knopf marriage (it’s a very sympathetic effort, in the end), she’s equally adept at painting the fullest portrait ever yet made of one of the most remarkable women in the history of the publishing industry.
She took to that industry with an avid enthusiasm, and for half a century she was virtually inexhaustible in searching out new and promising authors, keeping their spirits from flagging (and, less publicly, keep their rents from going past due), and keeping the talk and champagne flowing at the famous parties she and her husband threw, which drew all of New York’s literati to the Upper East Side to talk shop and dish dirt (quieter but no less invigorating evenings were often thrown together at the Knopf summer place in scenic Falmouth, Cape Cod).
The fact that Blanche Knopf was inexhaustible in all these literary endeavors is rendered all the more striking in light of how eminently exhaustible she was, not only prone to infections and blue funks but also one of the most spectacularly clumsy women ever to don a fashionable pair of Kerrybrookes pumps. Claridge’s book gives attentive readers some hint of positively vaudevillian number of pratfalls involved, but there’s no denying the results. Blanche Knopf discovered, debut, encouraged, nurtured, subsidized, or otherwise helped a roster of authors that included John Hersey, William Shirer, Muriel Spark, Andre Gide, Willa Cather, Langston Hughes, Elizabeth Bowen, Albert Camus, Simone de Beauvoir, James M. Cain, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and dozens of others. The web of her literary friendships was vast, and her sensitivity to the least plucking of that web was legendary. “Blanche knows everybody,” her friend Edna St. Vincent Millay once said. “And everyone thinks they know Blanche.”
In knowledgeable and bubbling prose (of exactly the type its subject most enjoyed), Claridge conveys the bright, tireless whirlwind of Blanche Knopf’s professional life. Let one brief snippet from 1938 stand as a good general example:
Later in the month, Blanche took off for Europe. She planned to spend several days at Elizabeth Bowen’s Irish country estate, Bowen’s Court in Kildorrey, in County Cork, where, Bowen teased her, she would be forced to unwind. Blanche and Bowen had lots to talk about, and it was surely hard for anyone to imagine Blanche relaxing, even at Bowen’s Court. Before she left port she was already busy organizing an onboard cocktail party for the evening, gathering guests that included the author and rare book collector Wilmarth Lewis; Walter Damrosch, an American conductor and composer; and Arthur Krock, a Washington journalist whom she knew slightly. She hoped to invite one of Krock’s frequent sources, Joseph P. Kennedy, as well, no doubt to suggest he write a book. But he ambassador was impossible to reach. Remembering Blanche after her death, Lewis would say that she “was very hospitable and a little overwhelming.” He remembered publishing his first book with her in 1922, Tutor’s Lane. “To become a Knopf author was already like being asked to join a club,” he said.
After her death in 1966, Jason Epstein remarked that Blanche Knopf stood for “a
kind of publishing which we shall never see again.” It’s a kind of histrionic common at funerals, but there was a truth to it. The Knopf publishing “brand” was always distinctive, a connotation of care and excellence largely willed into being by Blanche Knopf (Claridge is too kind to say outright that Alfred Knopf was the far more ploddingly conventional of the two, but it was nevertheless true). And that brand came under direct fire when the publishing industry as a whole began to be gobbled up by the giant German multinational conglomerate Bertelsmann back in the 1990s. A small publisher in the early 21st century might possibly emulate the smarts, spirit, and discrimination that Knopf showed in the early 20th, but no large publisher any longer can strike the kinds of idiosyncratic and author-encouraging deals that were Blanche Knopf’s lifeblood. In fact, here’s hoping The Lady with the Borzoi earns out for Farrar, Straus and Giroux.