Flesh and Blood by Michael Cunningham, 1995

For the mature reader, by which I mean adult and not a child, ‘Flesh and Blood’ is a literary romp. The themes that Michael Cunningham explores are heavy, complex themes: incest, infidelity, drugs—the enormous struggles of sexual identity. And while these are certainly not new themes, here they are presented in striking prose. I was startled (and pleased) to discover vestiges of Steve Erickson nested inside the book. There is a familiar dour elegance that I’ve read in Erickson’s novels. And like Erickson, Cunningham’s prose is by turns muscular and supple, graceful and compelling.

‘Flesh and Blood’ spans one hundred years in the life of the Stassos family. The book chronicles the lives of Constantine and Mary Stassos, and their children and grandchildren. The author approaches the story from each character’s viewpoint, so that even though we are repulsed by Constantine’s relationship with his daughter, his abuse of his gay son, and his betrayal of his wife, we can empathize with Constantine because we know the struggles and fears he has faced through all the decades of bringing up a family from nothing. We empathize with Mary when she begins to steal small things from stores, even though she doesn’t quite know why she does it. We empathize with Susan when, having attempted so long to become pregnant, she is reduced to illicit encounters with another man.

We empathize because the characters are real; they are human, and their struggles are real struggles. Their hopes and desires are our own. Their accomplishments and their failures. But just as with individuals in real life, we see that Constantine is not completely devoid of decency: he has redeeming qualities. We see that the nebulous region between good and evil is much broader than we are often led to believe.

In ‘Flesh and Blood’ we find all the vicissitudes of modern life: the good and the bad and the ugly. There is a heavy sense of loss expressed throughout the book, which resonates strongly, especially in our age of wealth and material possessions. If there is a general theme found in the book, it might be the bankruptcy of an unfulfilled life. That life is a solitary journey and through the lens of solitude, of deep and habitual reflection, we discover meaning in the world, in our friends and our family. The final chapter seems to punctuate this idea when Jamal leans forward and tells his son that he must be alone to pay tribute to the memory of his father.

I happenstanced upon ‘Flesh and Blood’ last week while pulling down random books from the library shelves and glancing at the dust jackets. ‘So, Billy, what’s the best way to find a good book?’ By going to the library and judging a book by its cover, obviously.

Elementary, really.

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903-1908

Reading this book is like opening up the Bible and reading an epistle from one of the apostles. There is that kind, avuncular benevolence toward the reader, as well as the fierce ring of an experienced mind addressing that of a novice.

I loved this book. Rilke offers a cornucopia of sage advice to the young poet, and, consequently, to all poets. And one gets the strong impression that Rilke is, in fact, himself a sage. His tone is humble, infused with echoes of a very gentle soul. Each page contains a number of aphorisms, or some other illuminating observation about the world.

Primarily Rilke serves to encourage the young poet, though I believe in counseling the younger man, Rilke is also solidifying his own views on poetry and life, in general. First, Rilke exhorts the young poet to be patient in his journey to become a poet, that ‘being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that summer may not come.’ Rather, Rilke writes that the young man should ‘have patience to everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language.’ This is a startling new perspective on dealing with the struggles and uncertainties in life, and the more I ruminate on Rilke’s words, the more they begin to have meaning.

In another letter, Rilke addresses the issue of our mundane experiences, particularly our jobs, which are often ‘saturated as it were with the hatred of those who find themselves mute and sullen in an insipid duty.’ Again Rilke articulates so masterfully human emotions, and, even better, he goes on to offer bits of wisdom on how to cope with the conflicting passions raging in the mind.

The motif that appears throughout all of Rilke’s letters—the idea that links them all—is that of solitude. For Rilke, solitude is paramount. It is Ahab’s whale. ‘For ultimately, and precisely in the deepest and most important matters, we are unspeakably alone.’ In the lonely arms of solitude, we discover and rediscover ourselves each day.

I recommend this book wholeheartedly. It is a very slim little volume, and can be read in a single sitting.

The Soul Thief  by Charles Baxter, 2008

I wonder what Charles Baxter meant in fashioning a tale about a man who, by slow and subtle degrees, completely subsumes the identity of another person. ‘The Soul Thief’ takes a popular motif (i.e. identity theft) and varies it in an altogether new approach. The result is an eerie—if not surreal—portrait of a contemporary American psyche.

Nathaniel Mason, the protagonist, first meets the enigmatic Jerome Coolberg while in college. Coolberg strikes Nathaniel as somewhat ludicrous. Later Nathaniel realizes that even Jerome Coolberg’s name is ludicrous. There is an affected element to Coolberg. The way he quotes from books that don’t exist, how he engages in pseudo-intellectual banter. But Nathaniel also perceives something frightening about Coolberg, something deeply unsettling. Like how Coolberg knows about aspects of Nathaniel’s life than none could possibly know about.

The appropriation of Nathaniel’s soul begins with a few stolen articles of clothing. Then, as more of his things disappear, Nathaniel feels something unnatural tugging at his life.

What unfolds is a fascinating novel. An absorbing literary feat.

We’ll Always Have Paris by Ray Bradbury, 2009

It is difficult to believe that Ray Bradbury will be ninety years old in two years. Still more difficult to believe is that Bradbury’s latest creative manifestation, ‘We’ll Always Have Paris,’ is as absorbing and delightful as anything Bradbury put forth in his prime.

Here are twenty-two pieces of the imagination. The story that struck me with the greatest emotional force is the one entitled ‘The Visit.’ It is the story of a young man who has recently received a heart transplant. One day he receives a phone call from a woman he does not know, but after a few brief exchanges he quickly understands who she is. Reluctantly he agrees to allow a visit from the woman, who, we discover, is the mother of another young man who recently died, having decided to donate his organs to medicine. The meeting between the mother and the young man (who is carrying her dead son’s heart) is truly cathartic and is classic Bradbury.

In fact, this story itself somewhat typifies Bradbury as a writer and as a person. Unquestionably, Bradbury’s true province is the heart. He writes from the heart and not the intellect. Almost twenty years ago, as a young boy, I first picked up ‘The Martian Chronicles,’ and in doing so I immediately knew that I had discovered a new and startling territory. And though I was hardly able to fathom the details of the stories, only what my limited experiences as a child allowed me to grasp, I recall so vividly the poignancy of each story, the pathos that Bradbury wove into each tale.

In my head Bradbury is positioned firmly at the forefront in the pantheon of great American writers. He doesn’t offer us a pivotal new style of writing or a bold new school of thought. No single volume of his is necessarily a great American novel, but rather each piece combined together reveals a mosaic that is much grander than a great American novel. What Bradbury does offer—where he makes startling revelations—is in the sphere of the human soul. He seizes hold of us and plunges us headfirst into the labyrinthine corridors of the heart, showing us wonders, showing us horrors, but always with compassion and humanity.

Since my first experience with ‘The Martian Chronicle,’ those twenty years ago, I have revisited it at least half a dozen times, and each time I feel that I am changed. There is a feeling of renewal after closing a book by Bradbury, which, I think, must be a side effect of awe. Bradbury reminds us of our capacity to marvel, which is the true gift of literature.