It has been awhile since I have been able to lift up my gaze and look forward rather than simply slipping from study to study, water to trail, adventure to book…the last few months have been full of multiple Ulysses studies, wonderful Proust immersion, perspective adjustment via Adichie’s Americanah and the transcedental space of T.S. Eliot– with a good dose of Virginia Woolf and Greek classics to provide robust foundations.
When the study is happening, the loud world recedes and for some blissful hours, the words and the sparks they set off in our minds is all that matters. To get to that space–and that deep sense of connection between participants and the literature, the work of reading and preparation is necessary– so here’s my stab at regenerating that work.
COMING SALONS June & July 2015 London These will each be single meeting Salon intensives and will include a pot-luck meal
Housekeeping by Marilynn Robinson Wednesday 1st July 6-10 PM
Mountolive by Lawrence Durrell August date to be confirmed
Post-Colonial Voices across Time & Space Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys & The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy : four day intensive study starts Monday August 10th at City Lit in Covenant Garden
The Bear by William Faulkner– One day Salon intensive end of August
Hamlet by William Shakespeare — Two Evening Salon intensive end of August
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner Tuesday afternoons/ Wednesday evenings four week study starting week of September 8th
In Search of Lost Time (V. IV) by Marcel Proust starting week of September 8th –Wednesday afternoons 2-4 PM
Joyce’s Toolbox : The Odyssey, Hamlet and first sections of A Portrait of the Artist Tuesday evenings 6-7:30 September-December at CtyLit in Covenant Garden
The Odyssey and the role of myth in the psychoanalytic study: at the Society of Analytical Psychology in Hampstead: Monday evenings 7-9 PM starting October 12th
Coming Salons 2016
Ulyssesby James Joyce six month (20 weeks) study Wednesday evenings starting mid-January
Finally getting to return to the wonderful home of the Salons and the dynamic Paris community! These two works we have been considering studying for many months– but life kept interrupting– as it does. I hope you are able to join for these incredible works…
“But there is a cure in the house,
and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.”
Thus when I come to shape here at this table between my hands the story of my life and set it before you as a complete thing, I have to recall things gone far, gone deep, sunk into this life or that and become part of it; dreams, too, things surrounding me, and the inmates, those old half-articulate ghosts who keep up their hauntings by day and night; who turn over in their sleep, who utter their confused cries, who put out their phantom fingers and clutch at me as I try to escape—shadows of people one might have been; unborn selves.
The Guermantes WayVolume III of Proust’s masterpiece; weekly meetings Wednesday afternoons starting first week of February
The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot in collaboration with the Society of Analytical Psychology; three meetings starting 9th of March
It’s January..the rain comes and there is the weight of starting the year afresh when my primal self is suggesting naps–moving deep inside and just hunkering down for a bit while the horrors of the greater world explode in through the news…but then a Salon conversation kicks in and we are exploring the nature of perception, the reflective nature of love, the perception of the Other, the realm of the murky interior. These discussions and readings generate hope and possibility: the craft of these great and diverse voices colours daily life and helps me to absorb the traumas of living. I hope this works for you–and I hope to see you in the pages…
A poem for New Years and birthdays:
New Year’s Day
by Billy Collins
Everyone has two birthdays
according to the English essayist Charles Lamb,
the day you were born and New Year’s Day—
a droll observation to mull over
as I wait for the tea water to boil in a kitchen
that is being transformed by the morning light
into one of those brilliant rooms of Matisse.
“No one ever regarded the First of January
with indifference,” writes Lamb,
for unlike Groundhog Day or the feast of the Annunciation,
New Year’s marks nothing but the pure passage of time,
I realized, as I lowered a tin diving bell
of tea leaves into a little ocean of roiling water.
I like to regard my own birthday
as the joyous anniversary of my existence,
probably because I was, and remain
to this day in late December, an only child.
And as an only child—
a tea-sipping, toast-nibbling only child
in a bright, colorful room—
I would welcome an extra birthday,
one more opportunity to stop what we are doing
for a moment and celebrate my presence here on earth.
And would it not also be a small consolation
to us all for having to face a death-day, too,
an X drawn through a number
in a square on some kitchen calendar of the future,
the day when each of us is thrown off the train of time
by a burly, heartless conductor
as it roars through the months and years,
party hats, candles, confetti, and horoscopes
billowing up in the turbulent storm of its wake.
“What are these people? You tell me, Jesus. What are they?” Stamp Paid, pg. 180, Beloved by Toni Morrison
Stamp Paid has just found a red ribbon stuck to the bottom of his boat (that he uses to ferry escaped slaves across the Ohio River). The ribbon’s color attracts his attention; his horror comes on closer examination: ‘ he tugged and what came loose in his hand was a red ribbon knotted around a curl of wet wooly hair, clinging still to its bit of scalp…’
Morrison’s artistry involves using precise images and moments of apparent beauty that reveal the horror of slavery just beneath the surface in deft, astonished responses. Stamp paid is trying to understand—we are all still trying to understand—what makes people enact unspeakable violence and injustice based on skin color. I have had the privilege to think—just to think—about the complex structures of racism in the last few days since the Ferguson decision on Monday night. I have watched the riots in response to the complete acquittal of the police officer who shot an unarmed black teenager and read the agonized posting from friends all over the world. I have also read the backlash against the protests and outraged responses of injustice and I think again: ‘What are these people?’
Of course, these are my people—well, at least we share skin color and a nationality. How vehemently I do not want to be grouped with this mentality—with these people whose understanding stops at their own white fence. But this is what racism does—it creates groups based on a superficial commonality—and my agony at being connected to white racists gives me a glimpse—a small glimpse from a position of privilege—of what it might mean to daily, constantly be aware that your skin color inspires fear and revulsion in the ignorant. But o, how powerless I feel to respond in any meaningful way to these institutionalized and historic injustices.
I crawl back to my favorite works that explore the effects of racism on human relationships—seeking answers or at least perspective.
When human behavior becomes inexplicable—what else can we do but turn to the best products of the human mind—the art—the modes we have for trying to explain ourselves, for offering up what is most beautiful and hopeful in the human spirit…
As I am writing out these thoughts, I learn that a former colleague and friend—he hosted my going away party when I moved to Paris—we all ended up in a hot tub together—that’s how the best parties end in California—was shot and killed while hiking in one of the most beautiful parks in the Oakland hills.
I have some time to sit quietly with this news—though all I want to do is run down the streets screaming.
“What are these people? You tell me, Jesus. What are they?”
Yes, I know the human race has always been astonishing in its appetite for violence—but we have such a capacity for generosity and compassion, we live in an extraordinarily beautiful world that we seem determined to trash, we know more about the mind and the wonder of the human body –and still we behave as though life has no value.
The two person ‘of interest’ (not confirmed, not known, not even identified) in David’s killing are both black men or men of mixed race—and the comments on the articles announcing this crime are filled with a racist vitriol that throws itself up against the outrage at the recent lack of conviction of the white police officer who shot the unarmed teenager Michael Brown.
Examples: from http://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/Man-shot-dead-in-Huckleberry-park-in-Oakland-hills-5918503.php
ink_zen Rank 832
A white man killed by two black men. Yet this will not be called a hate crime – no one will go on TV and talk about the injustice of a white man being murdered by two black men. This is just another Tuesday for Oakland. In our society, it has become acceptable for white people to be murdered.
DEPORTthemALL Rank 4762 @ink_zen Where are the REGRESSIVE liberal “leaders” to protest a WHITE man being MURDERED by BLACK men? Where is the 1% of the 1% Dear Leader Barry Hussein, race baiter charleton Al Sharpton? Adulterous race baiter Jesse Jackson? Guess Mr Runzel does “look” enough like them for them to care! Pathetic liberals!
fullomalarky Rank 5945
@ink_zen Yes, Ink, that is exactly right. What about the 4 policemen that were killed in Oakland several years back and the black men/man who did it….well you never saw any white people hit the streets with riots and looting. Says something don’t you think? We seem to be able to control our anger and deal with in a mature manner
No.
No no no—these two murders do not equate. It is tearing me up that David was killed—in a beautiful park, a person of great heart and gentleness was inexplicably gunned down—but the outrage of this tragedy is at a society that so cheapens human life that the rights to be armed trumps all reason. If there is a connection between David’s murder and that of Michael Brown, it is in a society that teaches and shows young black men that their humanity is not valued. Does it not follow that some –a very violent few- would then turn that dehumanization around and reflect it back towards other humans?
Moments like this scratch at my soul: am I doing enough? Am I using my mind and my skills to change the global narrative of despair and injustice? Not enough—it is not enough.
The ability to create and explore the best of human endeavors—the great works of art or music or film or literature—do not seem just a distraction—but a place where hope may be kindled—or injustice and outrage is voiced, explored. So that is where I turn when the narrative of life seems too weighted down with inequality, death, debt, struggle and sadness. I use my language to question and discuss injustice—and express outrage against racism and xenophobia. I look to writers that I admire for help redirecting—and I look to the incandescence of human relationships that surround me to feed this feeble flame of hope. David was one of these writers– and used his gifts to guide others into the beauty and power of language to celebrate the miracle of our living.
Ultimately, the best we are is in our love for each other. Let it shine.
Happy Thanksgiving.
A Settlement by Mary Oliver
Look, it’s spring. And last year’s loose dust has turned into this soft willingness. The wind-flowers have come up trembling, slowly the brackens are up-lifting their curvaceous and pale bodies. The thrushes have come home, none less than filled with mystery, sorrow, happiness, music, ambition.
And I am walking out into all of this with nowhere to go and no task undertaken but to turn the pages of this beautiful world over and over, in the world of my mind.
****
Therefore, dark past, I ’m about to do it. I’m about to forgive you
for everything.
I know it isn’t spring, and it does not feel possible to forgive the dark past–especially the recent past killings of Michael Brown nor David Ruenzel nor any of the others who have died from fear and ignorance, but damn we need some mercy around here.
Going on four days in sharp throat and mouth pain…tonsillitis diagnosed (and re-diagnosed three times before diagnosis discarded—‘your tonsils are the only thing not infected’ says the definitive Dr…) and so started on antibiotics Thursday—the incredible relief of a diagnosis and drugs—then the sinking feeling that this is not working as I slipped out of my faith in modern medicine. My mood grew bleaker as I realized that it was not enough that I had gone a week without my favorite stimulants—running, cold water swimming, coffee, a crisp Sancerre at the end of a rollicking Salon but now food was no longer an option and I had to convince my mouth to swallow, gritting my teeth against the pain—sleep was harder as I had to wake up hourly to try to sip a bit of water and uncrack my throat and I couldn’t talk. I did manage to teach Thursday and Friday morning—and those darn kids!! If it wasn’t the most focused, attentive class I have ever had with my 10-11 year olds—they would ask me questions as we went through the initial verses of the Odyssey and I would write running responses on the projected computer screen. I should teach silently more often…
So its Sunday now and after our third phone consultation with NHS I mentioned that besides no improvement in throat pain & swelling, my chest was feeling tight (I am also starving and growing increasingly unpleasant to be around—crying at the sight of Andy enjoying food I can’t eat—but we didn’t share that—we spent so much time convincing the advising nurse that Ebola was not an issue we had lost all sense of perspective by the time we hung up). Each time we had spoken to NHS, they suggested an urgent care apt—but I resisted with my horror of the timelessness of a weekend hospital visit and the inability to control my environment when I was in so much pain…but suddenly the choice was no longer ours: that little detail about the chest tightening? BAM. 9:30 AM and we are off to the Whittington—as in Dick Whittington’s cat don’t you love it?
Suddenly immersed in the emergency room twilight of frightened young parents with crying babies, old men waiting quietly alone and last night’s drinking casualties looking ready to vomit. Went from urgent care into A & E in the blink of a blind hour…the intake Dr mentioned throat abscess and I cried as she probed. You know how last week we were so excited to see images of Comet 67P? It has nothing on the contours, blisters and swellings in my mouth and throat—I am disappointed every time a medical professional approaches and does not want to gaze into my mouth so they can oooh and ahh in appreciation.
The A & E intake club is a step up in drama as we wait to get a an examining room, there is a disembodied voice calling out to every passerby—‘I need some RELIEF! This gas (phwffff) is killing me! Nurse, please, some drugs!’ I watch a family come into to get news of one of their members: ‘Yes, I was the consulting physician, well, we had to let her go; she was dangerously inebriated when she arrived but had sobered up enough to walk out…’
Three hours later after pumping me full of steroids and antibiotics, lovely Dr Yasmine determines to send me to a specialty ENT hospital; Andy asks for directions and she says ‘O no- this is a full service trip- she goes by ambulance.’ Even in my starved and weakened state, I find this news exciting—never ridden in an ambulance before….
But first I am shuffled off to a decrepit back room where the moans and pleas of the man in the cubicle next to mine no longer reach me. Andy goes home to deal with dog and Mads and I feel forgotten, unknown and lost as the hours tick by…Suddenly a beefy chap and lovely green suited young woman fill the doorway: ‘ Ready, love? We’re taking you for a ride…’
Of course I can’t talk but he keeps up his end of the conversation admirably.
‘How did you get yourself into this mess?’
‘Probably I talk too much…it’s sort of my occupation….’ I whisper.
I want to break that down: explain I am an innovative educator and that my self-criticism points to flaw in my pedagogy as I believe the learning moment ultimately should be more in the hands (voices) of the participants…but my words can’t come to the surface.
He chuffs and answers: ‘Talk too much? You must know my wife then…’
As we climb into the back of the ambulance I point at the lights: ‘Can we…?’
‘Sorry love, we only use those for life & death emergencies.’ Fair enough. So they buckle me into the gurney and off we go through central London to the wrong hospital.
I know, right?
They brought me to the A & E ambulance in-take port at UCH. I recline dazed and starving on a gurney surrounded by fresh hospital drama…suddenly here is the beefy chap with a look of chagrin: ‘Sorry love, wrong hospital…we need to load you up again—just down the road a tick…’
So off we go again—he leans back towards me : ‘better buckle up dear, we need to use the lights and sirens now, the doctor is waiting (so that’s a life & death emergency!)…’ Finally I get my dreamed for medical/celebrity dash through central London: scattering tourists in the dusky drizzle lining up outside Mme Tussauds (well, geographically improbable but nice image). Next stop is the ghostly reception of the Royal National ENT—no one there. The ambulance driver looks at me:’ Where do you think we go?’ Sorry, mate no idea and I can’t talk anyway. A bit investigation and wandering empty corridors finally leads us to Ward C with actual people- a few. Here I meet Dr Goh who promptly decides sticking a tube up my nose will be the best means to figure out what is going on.
One thing that really stays with me from this whole experience is the incredible diversity of the staff: Drs, nurses and all attendants represent all nations, ethnicities and genders: diversity represented across the medical hierarchy. And kindness—if, of necessity, very brief and attentive kindness—dealing with drunken idiots and histrionics and mopey, mute me…
So Dr Goh is about to insert a scope into my nose and just then my knight in scruffy red polar fleece rides in as she—ever so gently—rams the scope up my nose and down my throat. Andy notices that I am turning a rather unnatural shade of yellow whilst simultaneously answering the phone to a shrieking Madeline who has arrived home and become DISTRAUGHT because she left her computer open on the couch and now it appears that Scout has wandered over it and it now reads: ‘ Re-Set to factory settings complete’. “ All my GCSE work is on there—and my pictures!!!!” She wails as Dr Goh reaches further and I turn more interesting shades of yellow. Poor Andy.
Examination completed and I am directed to a bed for a night or so while I am rehydrated and pumped full of all sorts of exciting drugs—and finally, praise Jesus- some food. The most AMAZING dehydrated but eminently slidable cream of chicken soup. When the two sides of your throat are battling for control and any food must squeeze between them there is so little that can be ingested. Yoghurt is too acidic, even rice pudding is too painful—the husks of the rice scrape—and Andy’s gorgeous homemade squash soup is astringent—but this soup! Three bowls and I have my own TV where I stumble on the recent film version of King Kong that I have been wanting to see as some friends have leading roles—I never realized what a powerful imperialist critique the story portrays.
Strange night in this huge old room alone—reminds me of the hospital room in the Madeleine story—with blotchy flower art and Ebola warning signs. They give me a welcome pack that include ear plugs—ear plugs!! I have been dying for a pair of these as I think this is the key to my galloping insomnia issues. But I find some technical difficulty inserting them—the plugs imitate those sponge capsules that bloom into animal shapes when you add water. Suddenly I have Bonsai tress sticking out of my ears though I forget they are in and when the nurse comes in the middle of the night I am pretty sure I have traded off the agonizing pain in my throat for a more thorough hearing loss and at the moment, that seems fair enough. I can not sleep in spite of the misshapen plugs because my mind whirls all night with everything I need to get done—probably a sign I am getting better. I still need to wake every few hours to crack the coating at the back of my throat and swallow—I feel as though I am at war with my body.
Mads’ computer turns out in the end to be okay: Scout had thoughtfully signed in as guest before resetting to factory settings. After a few days, they let me go home—as soon as I can talk and swallow without pain. The time in hospital allows me that magic available when the range of the mind is set free in a secluded environment with all bodily needs accommodated. I notice the impact of my writing from weeks submerged in Proust—and touched by Miranda Hart. Mads sweetly prepared me a bag of goodies for the hospital –including nail polish—and her favorite funny writer—along with my more absolute needs of Proust, Joyce and Durrell. Proust reminds me how characters contain such contradictions and multiple sides that the reader must accept these as whole characters (we expect consistency). Though these contradictions are the true form of humanity—if we examine ourselves or truly known loved one: we must admit to the endless array of shadings and inversions.
So home I am now and clawing my way back to my too full life. With appreciation (espc. for the NHS) and a renewed taste for strength and clarity. And reminded that any interesting adventure deserves a good telling. Hope you enjoyed.
Comments on Kentishtowner article: “What exactly is a Literary Salon?”
No it’s not, because Toby really does offer a road into richer enjoyment and broader understanding of the books. She facilitates this with her developed inter-personal skills and gentle leadership. I belong to an excellent book group where we read classy literature but at the Literary Salon we get. as she writes above, a much deeper opportunity to explore, to gain insights into the work(s) on offer, because of the research she has done and the materials (books, photos, print outs etc) on offer.. but especially because of Toby herself. She is a teacher. We are stretched beyond book group discussion experience – it can be a struggle eg with James Joyce, but what a worthwhile life enhancing one. My experience of the Ulysses classes became pure pleasure & my husband and I took our summer holiday in beautiful Ireland. My only problem is with the term ‘Salon’ that to a cynical British ear can seem pretentious. These ‘classes’ are not. –Carol S.
As someone who has enjoyed lots of Toby’s Salons, I’d say they are in-depth but informal, seminar-like discussions. For several hours you sit there and delve into ideas, voice your reactions, be inspired by or disagree with other people’s viewpoints — all the while, Toby guides and structures the threads of conversation with her own questions and observations. OK, it’s hard to describe, but it’s a rewarding, thought-provoking way to tackle a book (especially one as daunting as Ulysses), both reading it in on your own and then coming together with a group of interesting, like-minded people to talk it through casually, analytically. I used to come home after a Salon incredibly gratified! No question that, yes, as with a seminar, it’s worth paying for. — L. J.
It’s more like a intensive class but in a relaxed setting. The joy is grappling with difficult works with others and finding new meaning in the words (and life). I’ve done many salons with Toby and have always left energised and curious to know and read more. Toby’s gift — and it is a prodigious one — is that she guides deftly, sharing her knowledge but allowing the group to push and pull and explore on it’s own. –J. Leonard
A year after stumbling upon Toby’s salons, I can only say that they are less book club, more glittering literary seminar – clever and quirky and cool, but kind and welcoming and considerate too. They’re an adventure for any serious reader: vivid voyages into, through and beyond some of the most challenging yet rewarding pieces of world literature. Expensive? Seven to 10 quid an hour for some of the keenest, quickest thinking outside academia on, say, Ulysses or To the Lighthouse or The Sound and the Fury is a gift. PLUS the wine is gorgeous too. Join us! I. Ramsey
Being a member of the original Parisian Salon, I think that from the other responses posted here, F will have now understood what it’s all about! Certainly nothing to do with a book club, and everything to do with study. And even personal development. And a bargain at the price! D. Larking-Coste
Are there any drinks? -Martin
Salon tradition is that we all bring something to share–sometimes a full table, sometimes just coffee and tea–but some nice wines have been quaffed and when we get really creative, occasionally the offerings match the writer or the work we are studying…innards, or Burgundy for example, with Ulysses. –Toby
If I lived in London I would sign up immediately. Unfortunately I live in the U.S. Knowing Toby I can’t think of a more exciting experience than to participate in one of her Salons –Noel Brakenhoff
Is there a discounted rate for people on a low income? I don’t think studying great literature is necessarily the preserve of the middle or upper classes, but simply cannot afford the £300 for the course. –Chloe
There are a few subsidized places available on each course; please email me directly (toby@litsalon.co.uk) to inquire about availability and details…and I whole-heartedly agree with you: the study of great literature–or anything-should be available to all–and our conversations benefit from the diversity of life experiences and perspectives. Thank you for making this point. –Toby
I’ve been in many book groups, and in many of Toby’s Paris salons.
What I feel compelled to add is that Toby has a singular gift for meeting people where they are — that alone would kick the salons out of the “expensive book club” club. Dave F., Paris
Ditto on Dave’s comment. A fab place for academic and non-academic readers to meet on an equal footing.— Lizzy
from http://healthpsychologyconsultancy.wordpress.com
I have succumbed to the gratitude challenge running rampant on Facebook– and have enjoyed recognising people and experiences and aspects of life that inspire me forward…but even as I was sharing these, I was thinking, what is it about social media that fails to satisfy? I love keeping up with old friends and former students; hearing about the amazing things they are doing in their lives, but there are times when I turn away from scrolling through posts and feel a bit of despair…an insightful friend nailed it. She said, ‘…looking at Facebook is like going through a high school yearbook– you don’t see any of the crap- everyone’s lives look shiny and exciting all the time but no one really lives like that…’. If you are in a moment of struggle, if your adolescent is giving you fits or your bills are overdue, if you are struggling in your relationships, if you feel like time is not on your side or you just have a good case of the blues, it is hard to turn those experiences into a breath-taking photo or a witticism.
And yet I know that some of my best moments connecting with friends have been sharing the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (sorry Hamlet) and through the support or insights or simply shared experiences of others, climbing just a bit out of the black box my mind has made in combination with difficult circumstances.
Significant literature does this well. In a graduate seminar, the lecturer proposed that the universal theme of great literature is struggle. That is it. Simple. And we continue to read and relish the journey of the struggle of characters–not just, I suggest, because of instinctive Schadenfreude but because we feel a companion in the realm of struggle–where we all live.
A recent scientific study bears this out. Last October, Liz Bury wrote about the positive effects of reading a good book on our ability to understand and empathise with each other. She finds that “research shows works by writers such as Charles Dickens and Téa Obreht sharpen our ability to understand others’ emotions – more than thrillers or romance novels.”
Have you ever felt that reading a good book makes you better able to connect with your fellow human beings? If so, the results of a new scientific study back you up, but only if your reading material is literary fiction – pulp fiction or non-fiction will not do.
Psychologists David Comer Kidd and Emanuele Castano, at the New School for Social Research in New York, have proved that reading literary fiction enhances the ability to detect and understand other people’s emotions, a crucial skill in navigating complex social relationships.
The article goes onto to consider the difference between ‘writerly’ and ‘readerly’ literature– interesting premise that writerly (i.e., significant) literature ” lets you go into a new environment and you have to find your own way” while readerly (more for entertainment’s sake) literature dictates the experience of the reader. So I want to go back to Facebook and create a five days of Grumbling tradition…well, no, not really– but maybe it is worth celebrating those books that have helped me be a more generous human being– or at least a work in progress.
Miglos- Ariege, France
August 18, 2014
‘An exquisite, ingenious and limpid jelly…’
Shifts in daily rhythms are the gift of holidays—moving out of the gears of habit, we may glimpse our lives anew or from a fresh angle. Cooking in a unfamiliar kitchen or sleeping in strange rooms, immersed in horizons shaped by unknown rocks and newly-met peaks moves the mind to stand back and reawaken wonder. The current vogue of mindfulness seems more accessible in unshaped days of hiking, swimming and eating when hungry not when the schedule demands. All of these refreshed modes are fattened by reading Proust. A single sentence must be inhabited for open moments—starting, for example, by locating in language the precise nature of how human and domestic smells in an inhabited room converge with memory, the reader must develop an elasticity of attention to glide along the paths of meaning:
These were the sort of provincial rooms which—just as in certain countries entire tracts of air or ocean are illuminated or perfumed by myriad protozoa that we cannot see—enchant us with the thousand smells emanating from the virtues, wisdom, habits, a whole secret, invisible, superabundant and moral life which the atmosphere holds in suspense; smells still natural, certainly, and the colour of the weather like those of the neighboring countryside, but already homey, human and enclosed, an exquisite, ingenious and limpid jelly of all the fruits of the year that have left the orchard for the cupboard…
The Way by Swann’s, p. 52
And that is only half of it.
My daughter asks me why I work when we are on holiday—and I realize that first I must get her to understand that reading and thinking about literature and language is not work but a way of life (I know—I didn’t actually explain this to her but put aside my notes and went to play Ping-Pong). To truly understand what we are and how we come to be creatures of self-knowledge and compassion, art forms that query and capture the life of the mind must have the room (both time and place) to be held in wonder. And to this reflection a gathering of lively minds may bring to light ‘a whole secret, invisible, superabundant and moral life which the atmosphere holds in suspense…’.
I am relishing the delicious luxury of allowing my thoughts to meander in the heavy afternoon sun of the Pyrenees.
Any given moment–no matter how casual, how ordinary–is poised, full of gaping life…
–Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces
Last week in the mad dash before leaving London, I had added events & published the Salon newsletter only to have the website crash inexplicably the morning I flew. With limited access, limited time and much more limited skills, I turned to the technical support friends who have helped me with this difficult work– and so I am re-sending this newsletter with the events back in place… thanks to all for your patience and apologies for the frustrations — please let me know if you have any questions or if anything is unclear…
See you in the pages..
