I’m surprised I hadn’t read more about Emily Dickinson before now. She’s definitely my sort of person in many ways. She wore the same outfit all the time (as noted in my previous post, I can certainly get behind that,)she loved to read, was a heathen, had red hair, liked people far away rather than up close and didn’t leave her house for decades. Prior to reading My Wars Are Laid Away in Books: The Life of Emily Dickinson by Alfred Habegger I only knew about the reclusive part. Well now I know loads more and I finally understand a good portion of her poetry. Before, I only knew I liked its delicacy and the way it sounded aloud, but now much of it makes sense.

I particularly enjoyed/appreciated Dickinson’s struggle with religion–she never became a full member of her church even though her entire family was–and her devotion to her work of growing into being a poet. Prior to this book I had some vague notion that Dickinson was rumoured to have had affairs (platonic) with women as well as men, but now I think she overwhelmed everyone she truly cared for in the way she was most comfortable–with words–heaping them upon those she loved with such ardour that no one could completely reciprocate and many took her to be a bit touched. I have a new respect and appreciation for this woman who, though she strove to perfect her art, probably didn’t know the enormity of her impact on the world of letters.

[This post is from a previous blog. Orig. date: March 3, 2008]

Autobiography reimagined as a conversation between siblings, this is a fascinating and inventive account of Gunter Grass’ life and his writing. Fictionalized versions of his children sit down and recall memories of their father-his string of wives and the effect his art had on all their lives. These memories are intertwined with the story of a dear family friend and her (magically captured) camera that could see the truth behind the photos it took. One doesn’t have to be a fan of Grass’ or even familiar with his work to enjoy this captivating blending of fiction and memoir.

One of the books in the series on depression I’m reading is William Styron’s Darkness Visible , which is his account of his own battle with depression. This bit describes some of the phenomena caused by depression:

But my behaviour was really the result of the illness, which had progressed far enough to produce some of its most famous and sinister hallmarks: confusion, failure of mental focus and lapse of memory. At a later stage my entire mind would be dominated by anarchic disconnections; as I have said, there was now something that resembled bifurcation of mood: lucidity of sorts in the early hours of the day, gathering murk in the afternoon and evening.

Styron’s experience of the gathering murk is dissimilar to the typical horrible-morning-fine-evening experience of most depressives.

What I like about this excerpt are the bits and bobs that come along with depression-memory loss, loss of voice, general confusion. It’s not as though depression messes up your life by making you think: Iamdepressed, Iamdepressed, Iamdepressed ad infinitum, therefore rendering all other thought impossible-it’s more of a dense fog, where no matter which way you turn you can’t find your way out. Then, whilst trying to find your way home, someone asks you questions and expects you to engage. I’m sorry, but this fog-as amorphous as it is-requires all my attention.

There’s a fine line between piety and wack-ass obsession…

-Jennifer Traig in Devil in the Details an honest (and surprisingly hilarious) account of religious obsessive-compulsive disorder.