Are you following me?

So last week I had a conference on Jekyll Island at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel, and who do you think I ran into? None other than Mr. Joshua Pulitzer. Not in the flesh, of course (although there is rumor of certain manifestations hanging around the place). Apparently, he was one of the New York elite that helped create the millionaire haven tucked away amongst spanish moss and southern hospitality.

Truthfully, I only recognized him as a result of this bog and my attempt to read a ridiculous number of books. I stumbled across a biography of Pulitzer in the local Island bookstore located in the old infermary. While I was tempted to buy it, I purchased a different book instead: Almost to Eden by June Hall McCash. It is a piece of fiction centered around the Hotel, signed by the auther (bringing my collection up to 4), and I hope to one day be able to read it. Until then, it will sit on my shelf with all the other books waiting for conversation, waiting to be acknowledged. Like old friends you promise to keep in touch with, "We need to get together soon," they wait for me to find the time. Until then, they hold their secrets, mysteries, and kind advice.

Back to work now... Lots to be done for a baby turning one. And then... hopefully there will be time to read.

God might actually enjoy us.

So, I finished Gilead several days ago; only now have I had the time to truly collect my thoughts regarding the novel and write about it. I do need to go ahead and get something off my chest. My main complaint with this book was the length of chapters. And by that, I mean was there weren't any. Not one. I didn't realize how much I realied on chapters to break for food, sleep, etc. While it did have breaks in the text, it wasn't the same.There is a finality with the end of chapter. You can't continue reading until you turn to the next page. I would want to stop reading, but before I could, my eyes would have already jumped the double-spaced break to read the next entry.

I say entry because the book it written as if it were a series of journal entries written by John Ames - a Congregationalist minister living and dying in Gilead, Iowa. At the age of seventy-something, he is writing to his young son, writing things that he would like to tell him had he lived to watch him grow up. Believe me, I am not giving anything away by telling you this. The first sentence of the book breaks the news before you have time to get attached: I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I'm old, and you said, I don't think you're old. And yes, all of that was one sentence.

I found the book enjoyable despite the heavy subject matter. He writes a great deal about death, guilt, and the strong but strange bond between father and son. While I did pick these threads up on my own, they were enhanced by the notes and underlinings of my copies previous owner. My guess would be they had to write a paper (I was excited that they actually read the book instead of reading Cliffs notes).

It is bittersweet, the thought of writing down all of the things you would want to tell your child: I'll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country. I will pray you find a way to be useful. While Ames knows that the old must pass away to make room for the new, he still stresses the history of certain items, hoping their significance will be remembered after he is gone. It makes you realize that it is all just stuff in the end. Something is only important because you made it so.

What touched me the most? I would say it was the following passage:
" it suggests how God might actually enjoy us. I believe we think about that
far to little. It would be a way into understanding essential things, since
presumably the world exists for God's enjoyment, not in any simple sense,
of course, but as you enjoy the being of a child when he is every way a
thorn in your heart."
Perhaps this speaks to me as a mother, but I like to think that this is true. And while, I can't say that I felt "touched by grace just to [have] read it" as The Washington Post said I would, I do think that it made me challenge myself and the way that I view the world, faith and a life well lived.

So what's next you ask? I am actually reading two: The Optimist's Daughter (1973 winner) by Eudora Welty and The Age of Innocence (1921 winner) by Edith Wharton. My husband, Andy, and I are reading The Optimist's Daughter out loud to each other, and The Age of Innocence I am reading on my own. I hope to encourage him to through in his opinion when the time comes.

Until then, happy reading.

Pultizer, The Man, The Legend

I realized that if I was going to dedicate a small portion of my life to the reading of such highly esteemed works, I should know a little bit about the man and the legend. So...

May I introduce you to Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, "the most skillful of newspaper publishers, a passionate crusader against dishonest government, a fierce, hawk-like competitor who did not shrink from sensationalism in circulation struggles, and a visionary who richly endowed his profession." Oh, did I forget to mention the Pulitzer Prize? My bad.

He may not be much to look at, but he is the epitome of the American dream. His is a rags-to-riches story in which he, the son of a Hungarian father and German mother, finds his way to America by enlisted in the U.S. Union Army through a bounty recruiter. Upon his arrival, he jumps ship to keep the bounty for himself by enlisting for a year in the Lincoln Calvery. From there he worked his way to St. Louis, where he worked odd jobs and through himself into the study of English and Law at the local library. A chance encounter with the two editors of the leading German language daily, Westliche Post, over a chess game led to a job offer. The rest, as they say, is history.

I must admit I was pleased to discover that Pulitzer, himself, was an immigrant. How appropriate that the ultimate award acknowledging American life in fiction, life in a nation of immigrants, was founded by a Hungarian Jew! Knowing this, for me anyway, makes what I am doing a little bit more worthwhile.

Happy reading!

92 Books and the American Experience

I have always fancied myself a writer, an award-winning story just waiting underneath the daily chores of living. I have come to the realization that I will probably never discover that diamond in the rough, that Pulizer Prize winning story that has yet to surface. I will probably never publish anything worth more than this free blog. And that's okay. Instead, I have decided to look to those who have won, who have managed to unlock hidden passages of the American Experience and have shared them with the rest of us.

My goal, at the age of 28, is to read the entire list of Pulitzer Prize Winners for Fiction. At the moment, that totals a number of 92 books, 1918 - present. (For those of you doing the math, there were a few years the award was not given.) Sadly to say, at the age of 28, I have only read three: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, and Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. All three were worth the time to read and, in my opinon, deserving of the award.

In committing to read this prodigious list of novels, however, I realize that at some point I will encounter Gone with the Wind. There are thousands of women in the world, I am sure, that imagine themselves as Scarlet O'Hara in the arms of one Rhet Butler. I, however, am not one of them. For vanity's sake, I will endure.

But for now, book number four: Gilead by Marilynne Robinson, winner of the Pulitzer in 2005. The Washington Post claims that it is "So serenely beautiful and written in prose so gravely measured and thoughtful, that one feels touched with grace just to read it." I will let you know how it goes.