Anna Akhmatova was the preeminent Russian poet of the first half of the 20th Century. She was censored and her works banned from publication, through a party resolution by the Russian government, twice, from 1925-1939 and 1946-1956. Short-listed for the Novel Prize, she may be the best poet you've never heard of.
I recently read a selection of her prose, from letters and diaries primarily, in "My Half Century" and have shared a selection of quotes from that book.
Here is one final quote. A beautiful observation, on the death of a young poet, Nadezhda Lvova.
It is painful when a poet dies, but when a young poet dies it is even more painful. You read the few lines that he has left behind with agonizing concentration, greedily scouring the still immature voice and the youthfully spare imagery for the secret of death, which is hidden from us, the living.
Anna Akhmatova was the preeminent Russian poet of the first half of the 20th Century. She was censored and her works banned from publication, through a party resolution by the Russian government, twice, from 1925-1939 and 1946-1956. Short-listed for the Novel Prize, she may be the best poet you've never heard of.
I recently read a selection of her prose, from letters and diaries primarily, in "My Half Century" and wanted to share occasional quotes, here, from that book.
I love these two longer quotes discussing memory and nostalgia and how we can be constrained or hampered by looking back through glasses that are too rose-colored. Of course, Akhmatova puts it in a far more beautiful, as well as severe, manner.
. . .the reader of this book should get used to the idea that nothing was the way he thinks it was, or when, or where. It's awful to say, but people see only what they want to see, and hear only what they want to hear. They speak to themselves "in general" and almost always answer themselves, without listening to the person with whom they are speaking. This characteristic of human nature explains ninety percent of the monstrous rumors, false reputations, and sacredly-guarded gossip. . .I ask those who disagree with me only to remember what they have heard about themselves.
My generation is not threatened with a melancholy return, because there is nowhere for us to return to....Sometimes (when it's so deserted and fragrant in the parks) it seems to me that you could get in the car and drive to the days of the opening of Pavlovsk Station, to those places where a shadow inconsolably searches for me, but then I begin to realize that this is not possible, that one shouldn't bury oneself (never mind in a gasoline tin can) in memory's mansions, that I would not see anything and that I would only blot out what I see so clearly now.
Back for more --- week 5 of my return to writing regularly, here at Warrior27. This is the week that was . . . March 3 - March 9 of the year 2019.
For those new here, this is a look at what I read, watched, listened to, ingested, and osmosized over the past week, in the form of entertainment, with a look at how I might hope to apply lessons or tricks gleaned from these resources into my own writing. And if that convoluted sentence didn't put you off, let's sally forth to the heart of the matter.
VISUAL MEDIA --
SPOILER ALERT........... The Americans, final season:
These last 10 episodes have been a masterclass in writing. The writers create drama from the relationships and the personalities of the characters, using their temperaments and loyalties to guide the choices made by the principal players, which affords the storytelling to evolve in, what feels to the audience, a natural manner. It is exceptional and riveting.
But, they also don't lose sight of the characterizations of the protagonists within the framework of the plot. As an example, in episode 8, "The Summit," Philip reveals to Elizabeth that he has been spying on her for the past couple months. There is a cadre of military generals, back in Russia, who want to bring Gorbachev down and make sure the nuclear summit with the American government is a failure. Philip knows that Elizabeth has been working, unknowingly, for this cadre, at the bidding of the Center He wants her to look at this situation with an open mind, not just take the word of their handler and do the job like some automaton. Elizabeth . . . is furious.
By the end of the episode, she has come to realize that maybe Philip is right. She is having second thoughts about what is being asked of her, in the specific instance of a Russian operative they want assassinated, and discovers that her reports were to be doctored so that she would have full deniability. Elizabeth doesn't believe this operative is someone who has betrayed Russia, and the idea of her reports being changed without her consent doesn't sit well with her. She goes home and asks Philip to get a message to the operative who came here to have him spy on her. She now believes Philip was correct in his assessment of the situation, but the fact he didn't tell her he was relaying information about her work still fills her with rage; she is in no way ready to forgive him.
This is great writing! So often, when something like this happens -- two characters have divergent opinions on something meaningful and one of them is proven right -- the other just falls in line and accepts it without much consideration. But here, Elizabeth acts like a real person. She has accepted what Philip told her is correct, but she is still pissed off he betrayed her. And that is so much more interesting.
WRITTEN MATERIAL --
My Half Century:
I finished Anna Akhmatova's "My Half Century," which is a selection of prose from the Russian poet, much of it in the form of letters or diary entries, but there is also a section dedicated to some of Akhmatova's thoughts and analysis of Pushkin, particularly his final story, "The Tale of the Golden Cockerel." Admittedly, I've never read Pushkin before, but after reading this book, and being introduced to the fact that, alongside her poetry, Akhmatova was regarded as an authority on Pushkin, with major works devoted to the analysis of his poetry, I am more than ready to seek out his work.
Despite little more than a recognition of names and a personal lack of knowledge surrounding Russian history, both political and creative, I found this book to be fascinating. The early sections utilizing Akhmatova's diary entries included many entries that evoked strong images and insightful opinions, thanks to her facility with the written language. There were a number of quotes I pulled out to share here on the site, and there are a few more I plan on sharing in the coming days.
I cannot recommend this highly enough, if you are someone who loves language and, in particular, loves poetry. Seek out the work of Anna Akhmatova (I read a book of her poetry last year, which led to this book). And if you're also a lover of history and, in particular, early 20th-century Russian history, then this book is for you.
Black Science vol. 1, by Rick Remender & Matteo Scalera:
I read the first volume of this science fiction comic series, from Image Comics, and it was pretty great. An obsessed scientist, Grant McKay, has discovered how to successfully traverse parallel dimensions in the Eververse, but the machinery is immediately damaged, continuing to regularly jump those within the proper vicinity to other dimensions but without the ability to navigate where it takes them. Through the course of these first six issues, the group, which includes a bodyguard, assistants, the antagonistic head of the project, and McKay's two children, one a pre-teen and one in high school, jump from one harrowing experience to another, with a few of their numbers meeting a fatal end.
I was impressed with how quickly the story moved along, and how ruthless Remender was about his characters. He is more than willing to kill a character to throw up more dramatic roadblocks to the protagonists's desire to get home. It makes for good drama and engages a reader, spurring me to ask, how the hell is he going to get them out of this fix?
The art from Scalera is a wonderful complement to the story Remender is telling. Similar in style to Sean Murphy, Scalera's ever so slightly loose linework overlaying a photorealistic approach provides an appealing base that is infused with a franticness that mirrors the narrative. Also on display are Scalera's design chops, asked to create strange alien creatures for some of the parallel dimensions, while "dressing" others in distinctly "futuristic" costuming, when the denizens of a dimension closely resemble the humanity we are all familiar with. And all of these creatures and settings are brought to wonderful, chromatic life by colorist, Dean White. His color palette for this series is sharply distinct and makes the images pop, when needed, or become somber and disturbing when the story calls for it. Overall, this is a fun series, and I can't wait to read more.
Southern Bastards, vol. 1 by Jason Aaron & Jason Latour:
On the other end of the scale, we have Southern Bastards from the two Jasons. A story set in a small town in Craw County, Alabama, revolving around a former high school football star, Earl Tubb, who was son of the local sheriff and has returned, after too many years, to settle things, since his father died. The football team is now coached by Coach Boss, who seems to have a stranglehold on the town, like some Mafioso in a 70s crime film. Tubb comes into conflict with a couple of Coach Boss's minions, after an old friend he runs into winds up dead. Violence and dredged up memories ensue.
This is a raw, mean comic, with art from Jason Latour that fits perfectly. With Aaron's dialogue and Latour's jagged lines, the audience is offered a window on the harsh reality of this small southern town. This first collection only includes the initial four issues, and they breeze along at a quick pace, but it whets the appetite and sets the stage for the hard knocks, and inevitable bloodbath, that is sure to come. I'm looking forward to reading the next collections.
INSPIRATION(s) --
Scott Morse -- comic book creator, Pixar animator, overall nice guy who is hugely talented, Morse is one of the people on my personal Mt. Rushmore of comic creators. The man's a genius. I just wish he had more time to focus on comics, but I suppose a day job at Pixar isn't a bad trade-off for the man.
Anyway. One of the biggest lessons you can take away from Morse's work is his ability to craft stories about serious subjects -- suicide, depression, the loss of a child -- and still make it entertaining without it being too heavy. A lot of it comes down to the man's cartooning style. His work is very stylized, almost cute, which can be disarming for a reader when he throws the heavy stuff at them. But it works, and it works extremely well. It's this juxtaposition of cartoony, cutesy characters with adult themes and scenarios that makes his work resonate, long after you finish the book.
How to apply this to my writing: infuse my drama with humor; infuse the funny bits with some pathos; make sure to craft complex characters who aren't merely 'good' or 'evil'; and try not to write at a single tonal level -- the joy and the verisimilitude are found in the idiosyncrasies of humankind.
For more of my thoughts on Morse, check these earlier posts out:
Took another page from Warren Ellis's book (or, more accurately, from one of his recent Orbital Operations newsletters). He listed the podcasts he currently subscribes to, which includes a number of ambient and experimental music podcasts. These are always great for writing, so I added a couple to my own collection of podcasts, and this week I listened to AMBIENT ATOMIC ORBITALS, while writing, and it was great. Definitely check it out, if you're in the mood for some mood music.
ON WRITING --
I wrote a piece about details in my writing, why I try to add a good number of details in the beginning of my stories and how, aside from adding verisimilitude to my narratives, they can often benefit me as I approach the climax of a story. Check it out here.
Also kept to my daily writing and equaled my previous best streak of consecutive days of writing -- 34. It helps that I've started revising the first draft of novel#2. In the first few days I took the opening 2996 words and whittled it down to 2017. As I stated on twitter & FB, there sure was a lot of chaff in them there words. But this is a good thing. As I seek to have my first novel published (still waiting to hear back from one agent who requested the full manuscript), it's necessary that I offer books that run to under 100,000 words, which is a general rule of thumb to help increase first-time authors' chances. The first draft for this novel came in just shy of 140,000. So, I have a bit of work to do. In my experience, my second drafts always come in at roughly 75% of my initial drafts, so this shouldn't be a problem. But it's nice to see that my tradition of piling on in the first draft continues -- much of this comes from trying to figure out what the novel is, as I'm writing, with much of what eventually becomes subtext or backstory, and unnecessary for the readers to know, being on the page in the opening draft.
So, the work continues, and, so far, it's been fun. Hoping the next 137,000 words are just as fun.
Until next week, keep pressing forward, make time to do something you like, and let those important to you know that you love them.
Week four of recommitting to this weekly check-in on what I've been reading, what I've been watching, what I've been writing, and how it all interweaves into a seamless whole of creativity and inspiration. (see, when you're the one in charge of the writing, you can make anything sound good, even if the truth is a bit more . . . messy). That's enough for a preamble, let get to it:
VISUAL MEDIA:
Columbo: Murder by the Book --
I introduced my 11-year-old son to Columbo this past week, and it was glorious. (possibly more glorious for me than for him). This is the classic episode directed by Stephen Spielberg and written by Steven Bochco. Ken Franklin (played by Jack Cassidy, who starred in several Columbo episodes) is one-half of a writing team, famous for the series of mysteries starring Mrs. Melville. His partner, Jim Ferris, has decided to end their partnership. So, Franklin kills him, while carefully laying the groundwork for it to look like a mob hit. It's an intricate plan involving luring his soon to be former partner away from the office, to come to his cabin a couple hours south, while convincing Ferris to call and tell his wife that he's working late, without letting on he's with Franklin. It's a masterful plan.
But Columbo knows, right from the jump, that Franklin is the one who did it, and tiny inconsistencies pop up as he hangs around and drops in, uninvited, on Franklin, using his aloof manner to play the part of a doofus, while putting together the puzzle laid out for him. In the end, Columbo enlists Ferris's wife, imploring her to talk extemporaneously about her husband's writing and his partnership with Franklin, hoping that some minor detail will clue him in to how he can catch the killer.
And it works, because it always does, because he's Columbo.
This is a different Columbo, though, not quite the character he became, that we know and love so much. Falk is still shifting from the initial pilot's characterization, which had him berating and admonishing the murderer. It's closer to the unassuming, quiet detective he becomes, but there's still a bit of assertiveness and forthrightness, particularly in the scene with Ferris's widow, toward the end, that feels like a bit of a hangover from those first, slightly faulty steps. It's not a bad thing, and not even anything that would be unwelcome in the character; it's just a characteristic to which fans of Columbo might be unaccustomed.
I love this series, and this episode, in particular, is certainly a high point for the series. The smartness of the plot, the timing from Columbo -- with his "gotchas" after setting up the murderer to incriminate himself by answering a previous, seemingly innocuous, question -- is priceless. There's a ton I can take away from this episode and this show, to improve my writing.
Oh, and though I'm certain my son would tell you, now, that watching this episode was "boring," he was totally into every turn of the screw, while we watched. So, there's that, too.
Babylon 5: Chrysalis (season 1, episode 22) --
I finished up season one of Babylon 5. It, too, was great. I'd forgotten about the subplot around Garibaldi being shot while pursuing a tip that someone was out to kill the Earth Alliance President, which leads to the successful assassination of President Santiago.
This episode is where everything changes. Delenn performs a ritual that puts her into a chrysalis and will change her physical appearance, going forward, which will come with a renewed outlook on her race's role in the universe and how they relate to humans, specifically, and other races, in general. Garibaldi is shot by one of his own, which will make him even more paranoid. Londo unwittingly enlists the Shadows to destroy a Narn military base in a disputed area between the Narns and Centauri. G'Kar will leave the station to look into this. And with the Earth Alliance President dead, his VP, Morgan Clark, steps in and immediately announces a retrenchment and refocus on Earth and its priorities (not unlike the current U.S. regime under Trump, as well as other right-wing, nationalist political figures ascending across the globe). As Kosh states, toward the end of the episode, "And so it begins." Indeed it does.
One thing I've always kept at the back of my mind, in reference to this episode and to my own writing, is a statement from the commentary track by J. Michael Straczynski. The bits surrounding Commander Sinclair in this episode are, for the most part, quiet, at least in the opening half of the show. He and his on-again, off-again lover, Catherine Sakai, are getting a chance to spend time together, and Sinclair decides to pop the question. She says yes. This is followed by a nice dinner (for a quick moment, anyway) with Ivanova and Garibaldi, announcing their plans and asking these two to be their Maid of Honor and Best Man, respectively.
As JMS points out, this was intentional. The best way, he said, to lay the foundation for a big shake-up, as happens in the latter half of this episode, is to start with some quiet moments, to allow for a stark contrast between the quiet and the loud, allowing the impact of the dramatic events to be heightened by this contrast. It's something I try to have in my "bag of tricks," but after watching this episode again, I realize it's something I need to be more aware of, when I'm writing dramatic scenes like this.
WRITTEN MATERIAL:
Anna Akhmatova: My Half Century --My reading of Anna Akhmatova's prose continues. I've moved into a section where she writes about Pushkin, for which she became quite well known. It has me intrigued to read his work now.
Akhmatova's prose continues to be engaging, whether writing matter-of-factly or poetically, and her incisive intellect is very appealing. I have shared a few more quotes from my reading, on the site. Links below:
I was particularly taken with the second link above, where Akhmatova talks of the village where she spent some of her early life, Slepnyovo. She likened it to an arch in architecture, where it seems small at first, but it gets bigger and bigger until you find complete freedom, once you walk through. It's a wonderful metaphor for life, living in a small village or a small town, as I did, but it also works with the mechanics of the words: arch being the first, smaller section of architecture, a much larger word and idea.
INSPIRATION(s):
Moebius, always inspirational.
MUSIC:
Went back to a musician Warren Ellis introduced me to, through one of his e-newsletters, Kemper Norton. Part ambient, part electronica, the music can be soothing one second and then become completely overwhelming, with harmonies vying for dominance and failing, while the collective pieces merge into a whole that is almost otherworldly. His work is wholly distinct and great for writing. Here's a sample:
WRITING:
I've mentioned before that I track my writing. Used to be, I logged the number of words written per day, shooting for 1000 words a day. Now, I log whether I have written or not, and right now I'm in the middle of what I am certain is my second longest streak of unbroken days of writing - 28. Not bad. 6 more and I match my personal best of 34.
This week I completed final revisions on a short story "Tommy & Marc," which acts as a prelude to the novel I need to do a heavy rewrite on, which is next in the queue. The short story was a way for me to get a better feel for the main characters of my novel. At the time, I'd already written up roughly 25,000 words of background material on them, as well as the setting and plot and such, but I still didn't really know how they might talk or act -- specifically, I needed to better understand what made the two of them different, and writing a story set during their first year of high school seemed a good way to do that.
It was something I'd not done before, but which I had read about, from other writers, as a good way to delve into characters before embarking on a longer story with them. It helped. Though, obviously, writing 4000 words didn't give me a full picture of these characters, but it did help get things started and propelled me into the novel, which, at its first draft length, runs to about 120,000 words, and that experience, in turn, hopefully helped inform the rewrites for this story.
I know these short stories aren't always written, by others, with the idea of publication in mind. They're more an exercise, something to fill out the backstory while remaining in the crevices between paragraphs. But I like what I wrote, and it stands well on its own. So, now, I need to start looking for places where it might be a good fit. But not until I fix the ending, which I realized, after getting it written, didn't work. Or, didn't work as well as I would have liked. I tried to be overly flowery and profound, when I all I need to be is direct with the writing, especially since I already know exactly how the story ends up. This is something I struggle with -- though I find myself better able to recognize it, now -- attempting to overreach with my prose when all that's needed is a blunt directness. So, I'll polish that up, start looking for journals to submit it to, and begin the task of whittling down 120,000 words to around 90K. Oh, and I need to rework my query letter again for the first novel.
That seems like enough to get me through another week of writing, without a break. If so, I'll be back here next week, touting my new personal best streak of consecutive days of writing.
Anna Akhmatova was the preeminent Russian poet of the first half of the 20th Century. She was censored and her works banned from publication, through a party resolution by the Russian government, twice, from 1925-1939 and 1946-1956. Short-listed for the Novel Prize, she may be the best poet you've never heard of.
I'm currently reading a selection of her prose, from letters and diaries primarily, in "My Half Century" and wanted to share occasional quotes, here, from that book.
For me Slepnyovo is like an arch in architecture.... It's small at first, but then gets bigger and bigger. And finally--complete freedom (if you exit).
Slepnyovo is the village in Russia where Akhmatova lived with her first husband, Nikolai Gumilyov, and their son, Lev. Having grown up in a small town in Maine, I understand completely what Akhmatova is saying with this quote, and empathize fully with her. Akhmatova knew, or felt, there was something bigger out there, if she just went out and got it. And, in exiting Slepnyovo, she discovered complete freedom, though that freedom did come at a price.
It's also fascinating to see how Akhmatova compares Slepnyovo like an arch (small at first) in architecture, especially when one realizes that "arch" is the first, and smaller, part of the word architecture.
For other quotes I've shared from Akhmatova's "My Half Century" see below:
Anna Akhmatova was the preeminent Russian poet of the first half of the 20th century. It's likely you've not heard of her. Between 1912 and 1921 she had five collections of poetry published, to critical acclaim. But when her first husband, Nikolai Gumilyov, was killed for wrongly being accused as a counterrevolutionary, Akhmatova and her son Lev were also implicated. By 1924, critics panned her verse as simplistic and anachronistic, and a party resolution by the Soviet government essentially banned her from being published, though she continued to write poetry. Stalin intervened in 1939, allowing for a new publication of verse, but by 1946 another resolution censored and censured Akhmatova, leaving many of her most realized works, such as "Requiem" and "Poem Without a Hero," unpublished. But she still wrote and would share her work with confidantes, who would memorize poems and circulate them orally, so they would not be lost. Shortlisted for the Nobel Prize in 1965, not until 1988 was the resolution banning her poetry in Russia rescinded, allowing for a new and better understanding of this important 20th-century poet.
I am currently reading a "My Half Century," a curated collection of Akhmatova's prose, much of it taken from her diaries and letters. It's a fascinating book, and I wanted to share some quotes from it, through a series of posts here.
Remember Rousseau, who said: "I only lie when I cannot remember."
These both stood out for me because they speak to the heart of what it means to be a writer, particularly a fiction writer (and poetry would certainly fall under this, as well). The first is about the primary job of a fiction writer --- lying. Fiction authors lie for fame and money -- or, at the very least, to be heard by an audience of one -- but it is also about trying to get at the truth, a great truth than just the facets of a narrative. Great, and even good, fiction must be about something. And very often the fictions crafted by writers come from something in their past, whether directly transposed to the page or morphed into something more dramatic (or possibly less close to reality), and I believe that when they cannot remember, they lie.
Sometimes I unconsciously recall somebody else's phrasing and transform it into a line of poetry.
The second quote makes me think of an anecdote from Harlan Ellison, whom you may have heard of if you've read a few of my posts here on the site. One of his best-known stories, and one of my personal favorites, is titled "Jeffty is Five." It's a tragedy about a young boy who remains five years old, even while his boyhood friends grow up and start to have lives of their own. But, not only does Jeffy remain five, but he is also still able to access that olden time from when he and his friends were five, a time when radio dramas curled your blood and secret decoder rings were ubiquitous, when comics were a nickel and real chocolate was used in candy bars. It's a poignant, affecting, amazing story, and I would recommend you seek it out.
But I digress: the inspiration for this story came when Ellison was at a friend's home for a get-together. It was Walter Koenig's home, and while in conversation, Ellison overheard a snippet of another conversation wherein they were discussing a boy named Jeffery, who was five, if I'm remembering this correctly. Ellison misheard it as "Jeffty is Five," and his brain immediately started building that story, right there, in the middle of the party. In the end, it allowed him to craft one of his best stories, and it all came from something similar to the unconscious use of another's phrasing and transforming it into a bit of poetry.
For the past few years, I've been tracking my reading, splitting it up into three categories: Novels, Non-fiction, and Other. The first two are relatively self-explanatory; the last one is more malleable, a hodge-podge categorization that allows me to dump whatever doesn't easily fit into the first two into it. Books I've read under this heading include plays, collections of poetry or short stories, screenplays, novellas, even, this year, an illustrated children's story by a noted novelist. It's a grab bag, and there's some great stuff to be found in "other."
As noted in previous posts, I've been trying to read works from authors who fall outside my personal demographic -- white, hetero, cis, male, American, in whatever order you choose -- and as I slide across my spreadsheet from left to right, I find myself veering farther away from this self-imposed mandate. Which can definitely be seen as a failing on my part, but it is also an opportunity to do better this year. Without having logged my reading, in this manner, I am certain that, anecdotally, I would believe I am doing very well with this aspiration; the data states otherwise.
Only 3 of the authors in this category are female. Of the 15 men remaining, one is gay, that I know of, one is African-American, one is Japanese, and one is of Afghan descent. Not stellar work on finding diverse voices, on my part. But it gives me something to aspire to this year.
I read three plays in 2018 (one of them in two parts):
"All the Way" by Robert Schenkkan about LBJ's effort to push through civil rights legislation. Having seen the film adaptation first, I was curious to understand how the playwright and director managed to switch between so many different settings. It was a fascinating conundrum, and one they achieved through a minimum of set dressing, while utilizing a chorus section for the many players to go in and out of, utilizing the audience's imagination to fill in the details needed for the drama. It's something I wish I could have experienced, myself.
"Angels in America" parts 1 & 2 by Tony Kushner. The epic play about the AIDS epidemic in America, during the 80s and early 90s. This was just an amazing piece of writing. The dialogue, the characterizations, the settings and experiences of the characters. A powerful play and something to aspire to.
"The Piano Lesson," by August Wilson. This is the second play of Wilson's that I've read, and it was just as incredible as "Fences." Set in early-20th century America, in the middle of the Depression, it follows an African-American family as they argue over their legacy. What should they do with the piano that sits in the front room, unused. A family heirloom, one member wants to sell in order to buy land, while another insists they must keep it. The drama, and tension, surrounding this disagreement escalates until the threat of violence becomes all too real. I won't spoil the end, but will only say: seek out the work of August Wilson; you won't be disappointed.
Surprisingly, I did not get to any Shakespeare last year. I need to remedy that, soon.
A couple of notable short story collections I read were Jhumpa Lahiri's "Unaccustomed Earth" and Mariana Enriquez's "Things We Lost in the Fire." Both of these collections were incredibly satisfying. Lahiri's deft use of language and ability to craft stories that, although steeped in her Indian heritage, are terribly relatable is, if not unmatched, at least unsurpassed. Her writing is always engaging and enthralling.
Mariana Enriquez was an author I'd never heard of, but found in my search for female authors outside of the American/European mold. An Argentine author, Enriquez's stories were affecting and engaging, infusing family dramas and teen rebellion with a spark of magical realism made popular by writers south of the American border. This was a great collection.
Four Harlan Ellison books made it into this category, meaning I read six books from Ellison, last year. Two of the books were short story collections, "Harlan 101," which also included a number of essays on writing, and "From the Land of Fear." The other two included "None of the Above," an unfilmed screenplay and "Brain Movies v.6," a collection of his teleplays. It may seem surprising, but, despite the fact that a teleplay or screenplay includes a basic description of the scene interspersed with dialogue, Ellison's screenplays are always enjoyable and have as much lyricism and verve as his finished prose.
My favorite from this selection of books read, in 2018, might be Richard Russo's "Interventions," a print-only collection of four chapbooks in a slipcase that reprinted two short stories and one essay of Russo's, along with a new novella, along with paintings for each chapbook from his daughter, Kate. Russo's prose is precise and lyrical and insightful. His Pulitzer for "Empire Falls" was no fluke. The man can write, and the stellar heights of his writing is something I truly aspire to, even if I always find myself falling far short of the goal.
Other authors whose work I read last year, in this category, are Neil Gaiman, Gary Gerani (Topps Star Wars cards reminiscences), Haruki Murakami, Anna Akhmatova, and Khaled Hosseini. Not a bad crop of writers.
Anna Akhmatova was the preeminent Russian poet of the first half of the 20th century. It's likely you've not heard of her. Between 1912 and 1921 she had five collections of poetry published, to critical acclaim. But when her first husband, Nikolai Gumilyov, was killed for wrongly being accused as a counterrevolutionary, Akhmatova and her son Lev were also implicated. By 1924, critics panned her verse as simplistic and anachronistic, and a party resolution by the Soviet government essentially banned her from being published, though she continued to write poetry. Stalin intervened in 1939, allowing for a new publication of verse, but by 1946 another resolution censored and censured Akhmatova, leaving many of her most realized works, such as "Requiem" and "Poem Without a Hero," unpublished. But she still wrote and would share her work with confidantes, who would memorize poems and circulate them orally, so they would not be lost. Shortlisted for the Nobel Prize in 1965, not until 1988 was the resolution banning her poetry in Russia rescinded, allowing for a new and better understanding of this important 20th-century poet.
I am currently reading a "My Half Century," a curated collection of Akhmatova's prose, much of it taken from her diaries and letters. It's a fascinating book, and I wanted to share some quotes from it, through a series of posts here.
In a diary entry, toward the end of her life, Akhmatova looked back to the early 1900s and to the funerals she witnessed in the streets of Tsarskoe Selo, when it felt like a shift had taken place, as Russia cast off the 19th Century and moved into the 20th. Her language, and the details, such as "fresh greenery and flower...dying from the frost," add so much to her insights, offering a distinct image that also works as a metaphor, not only for the funeral described, but for the world at large and the changes rushing headlong at them, with the onset of WWI.
...And sometimes on that same Shirokaya Street a funeral procession of unbelievable splendor would pass by coming from or going to the station: a boys' choir would sing with angelic voices, and you couldn't see the coffin for all the fresh greenery and flowers, which were dying from the frost...The carriages with formidable old women and their dependents followed the catafalque as if they were awaiting their turn, and everything resembled the description of the countess's funeral in "The Queen of Spades."
And it always seemed to me (later, when I would recall those spectacles) that they were a part of some grandiose funeral for the entire nineteenth century. That was how the last of Pushkin's younger contemporaries were buried in the 1890s. This spectacle in the blinding snow and the bright Tsarskoe Selo sun was magnificent, but the same thing in the yellow light and thick fog of those years, which oozed out from everywhere, could be terrifying and even somewhat infernal.
