Our Souls at Night by Kent Haruf

For the last couple of years, I have been suffering crushingly debilitating insomnia. It has been going on for so long, fatigue is my new normal. I’ve tried all the tips and tricks but given my current circumstances, I need to let it be what it is, in the hopes one day it will dissipate.

This book is poignant to me in that I read it solely at night. And by night, I mean the witching hour of 2-3am when I usually awaken for seemingly no rhyme or reason with dearth hopes of immediate slumber. For a while I decided reading would be the best elixir to induce me into a blissful and nocturnal bliss. In truth, this strategy saw mixed results.

But through my battle against the great unsleep, I found this tale to be an exquisite comfort. It’s sweet. And beautiful; beguiling. And a stark reminder that intimacy and companionship are important at any age.

One evening, 70-year-old widow Addie visits her long-time neighbour, widower Louis, with an unusual proposal. She suggests that they platonically sleep together to provide comfort through the dark hours of loneliness. Addie and Louis are challenged by their respective family members who are bewildered by this newly-formed and yet increasingly co-dependent relationship. I thought this little story was gorgeous. Life-affirmingly so. Like Addie found her Louis, I found my insomniac antidote, if only for a few nights.

 

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Blitzed: Drugs in the Third Reich by Norman Ohler

It is a disconcerting thing hearing your own recorded voice played back. Who knew I was so high pitched and squeaky? Am I really that annoying and uncertain? Disappointingly, my tones are neither dulcet nor melodic. And as for my attempts at karaoke… let’s just say I sound fabulously Gwen Stefani-esqe under the hypnotic cocktail of a late night and one too many vodkas.

If it is possible to fall in love with a voice, then colour me cupid, I’ve been hit! This person, whom I’ve never met, could seriously lead me to drink the Kool-Aid á la Jim Jones or have me bailed up in a ranch á la David Koresh. Perhaps it is due to my aforementioned *cough* unforgiving pitch that sees me hold phonic gifts in such hard regard. Whatever it is. Oh my lord that voice!!!

Conversations with Richard Fidler is a radio show I listen to on podcast. Fidler, the mellifluously blessed one, interviews anyone and everyone, from those who are extraordinary or have been through extraordinary circumstances. For a person blessed with such an incredible intonation (YES I AM OBSESSED GET OVER IT), Fidler has an incredible capacity to listen. Fidler’s supreme skill is to hear what his guests are saying and then respond and ask questions accordingly. He quips when appropriate and also has an incredible capacity for empathy and understanding.

It was listening to this podcast that I discovered this book. My proclivity for all things German history is well documented (here and here). But having studied modern history in various guises for a number of years, it requires a truly original slant in order to pique my interest.

*cut to Blitzed *

The historical thesis posited by Ohler, if correct, makes Walter White look like an amateur. This text is compelling in an oh-gosh-like-what-the-actual-f*ck-way. In part, this may be due to the fact that the well documented and understood atrocities instructed by Hitler are so non-humane, that an explanation like drug use/abuse goes somewhere to give meaning to the unforgivable.

The research seems sound enough. Regardless, it is fascinating reading about the history of the various big German drug companies that are still dominating the market today.

But if you don’t want to read the book, listen to Richard’s pod cast.

And Richard, if you do want to get in touch, don’t email.

CALL ME 😉

 

Brooklyn by Colm Toibin

There is a well-worn expression that asserts that people come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. For me, a perennial loyalist, this painful adage is brutal in the transient honesty is foretells. Gently folded across the reason/season borderland, the tyranny of distance can be a cruel mistress. Many of us have suffered the loss of one who moves away. The distance can be as far-reaching as Spain or as close as Hobart, but the jabs of grief are frequent enough to be uncomfortably paralysing.

I recently lost a dear friend to geography’s greedy clutches. While the sudden departure was swift and unexpected, the emotional aftermath was clumsy, confusing and confronting. Time will be the great antidote; the simple, and yet only inoculation against the painful ennui of the gaping hole of loss. But those of us left behind are only one part of this dichotomy. Within the binary union, there also exists the one who leaves. They depart our shores for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

Brooklyn is the story of the one who leaves.  Eilis, a young woman unable to find work in 1950s Ireland, sets sail for the promises of the holy land: NEW YORK CITY. Eilis had no immediate desire to depart her motherland. Family and circumstance prescribe the vaccination against poverty and intergenerational languor. She tries, she strives and she thrives (mostly) in her quest to build her life in the globe’s toughest and most unforgiving city.

Eilis’ experiences are blanketed by the female experience. Her circumstances are uniquely felt because of her gender and, in many way, transcend the period in which this novel is set. I once overheard a mother say to her daughter, ‘always earn your own money, that way you’ll have choices’. This is indeed true. The feminisation of poverty is as omnipresent in 1950s Ireland and New York as it is today.

Tobin has a bonsai-quality with emotion and yet the haunting restraint is powerful. Eilis’ adventures are unsophisticated, simple and yet profound in their meaning. Her desire to move forward is inhibited only by the clutches of the past and bygone, guilt-imposed responsibilities.

So to those of you who leave, we wish you well and may only the best things come to you.

For those of us left behind, for whom the gaping hole will never be quite filled even as it does grow smaller, um, f*ck you geography.

April Fool’s Day by Bryce Courtenay

One of the hardest things in life is seeing someone you care about go through adversity or struggle. It’s innately humane to want to absorb the pain for ourselves and protect our loved one from the slings and arrows of sickness and trauma. While the afflicted one is unquestionably single-minded in their immediate battle, those of us who are mere accessories to the pain are left to contend with helplessness, confused agony and what sometimes feels like incompetent love.

I have thought for many years that April Fool’s Day is Bryce Courtenay’s greatest work. Don’t get me wrong, I thought The Power of One was sublime. But April Fool’s Day is a gift of such raw and honest poignancy, that I have read and reread this epic memoir more times than I can count. I used to own a very much loved and reread copy of this tome but sadly had to let it go. Like the book’s thematic exploration, my pre-loved physical copy became as transient as the life the text celebrates. But very recently, and perhaps given the ongoing health sitch of one of my cherished friends, I downloaded a digital version so I can once again be absorbed by its message of gratitude and great love. Because April Fool’s Day is as life-affirming as it is incredibly, incredibly morose.

Courtenay’s profound bio is a tribute to the much-too-short life of his dear son Damon. Damon, a haemophiliac, contracted HIV through a blood transfusion in late 1983, aged 17. The early 1980s was the very genesis of the AIDS epidemic. Damon’s haemophilia made him endure painful and protracted bouts of unrelenting restrictions and, through bad luck and circumstance, would give birth to the even more capricious and mercurial HIV/ AIDS diagnosis. While medicine, education and (lord hopes) bigotry have progressed in extraordinary bounds since Damon’s diagnosis, Courtenay’s tale of filial love is as timeless as it is boundless.

As titanic as Courtenay’s devotion is to his son, April Fool’s Day reveals more than just an examination of fatherly love. Staunchly holding ground in the wings is the irrepressible Celeste. Devoted, constant and unwavering in her care of her beloved, Celeste’s omnipresence in the last six years of Damon’s life demonstrates the very best of loyalty and faith that I have ever seen. More than anyone, Celeste had borne witness to Damon’s deterioration as his body betrayed his determined spirit. Her battlements against Damon’s illness were the quadrella of humour, energy, determination and love. Pure and absolute love for what would be a temporary union. As Courtenay so eloquently articulated, she was not prepared to let Death into Damon’s room and would fight it back again and again. Damian died on 1 April 1991.

Courtenay starts his epic chronicle with a quote from Virgil’s Aeneid IV – all at once the warmth fell away and the life passed into the moving air. It stings my eyes every time I read it.

Oh sweet and kind Celeste, wherever you are. I hope only good things have come to you.

The Things That Matter by Nate Berkus

Growing up, one of the advantages to be being home sick was lying on the couch watching Oprah. I’m pretty sure there may have been the occasional feigned illness in order to soak the teachings of my childhood guru.

Oprah taught me how to my ‘best self’, the power of a great book club and ‘aha moment’ became so inextricably entrenched in my vernacular, I can’t remember a time when I haven’t used it.

Oprah also introduced the world to Nate Berkus. Nate was the sunshine-filled interior designer, who remodeled unsuspecting viewers’ homes with his special hybrid of simplicity, warmth and flair. It also didn’t hurt that he was incredibly charming and easy on the eye.

The Oprah Winfrey show may be long gone but my girlhood guru is still a-teachin’ and a-preachin’. About 18 months ago I stumbled upon a different Oprah-TV-inception. Here, she was interviewing her former regular design expert, Nate.

Nate has a book! Nate has a story to tell. Nate is a-teachin’ and a-preachin’.

For me, the most successful interiors in the world are put together by people who surround themselves with objects that bring them joy. Amen Nate. Amen.

Recently my living arrangements changed significantly. I had two hours to pack my things that matter and rebuild in a different location. The treatise of Nate Berkus rang heavily in my ear: what mattered, what could I leave, what couldn’t I live without? To be honest, I’m not quite sure I got the balance quite right. In the trauma of the situation I managed to take 24 rolls of toilet paper, two jars of turmeric but I left a much-treasured book awarded to me as a school prize, a book of poetry a dear friend gave me on my eighteenth birthday and my much-worn but very loved ballet slippers.

But it’s all just stuff, right?

Hmm, yes and no. I believe there is a reason why we nest; why renovation TV shows and interior magazines are so successful. Because beyond the mayhem of the everyday and the pressure of muddling through, we all like to come home to a few pieces of joy that give meaning to our lives. For me, right now, it’s treasured photos and postcards from art exhibitions I’ve visited. It’s also an old timber IKEA table that I restored and painted. No matter where I end up or how successful I become (please, please), I think I will always have this fabulously flawed four-legged friend. She was a nightmare to restore but the end of the journey was so incredibly satisfying, I don’t think I could ever leaver her. Because to me, it is a thing that matters. It represents my struggles to build my new life and the (looooong) process it took to attempt make it shiny and new.

And really, that’s what matters.

My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

Recently a dear friend told me some rather startling health news. Shocking in fact. So I reacted in the manner of a typically supportive, caring and compassionate friend: I burst into rivers-of-snot-running-breath-wheezing tears immediately compelling my illness-riddled mate into consoling me!!! I mean. WHO. AM. I.???

It got me thinking about the nuances of friendship. Unlike a family member where a contract is defined by blood, or a spouse where a union is bound by marriage, friendship is a tenuous and precarious attachment with little certainty but oh so much exquisite and inimitable joy. A friendship is free but it is not cheap. For all its peerless rewards (and they are countless), there is a fragility and uncertainty that shrouds it in a film of instability and flimsiness.

Since I was mired in my own selfish grief, I needed something to read that could traverse the grief/ friendship borderland. I needed a tale about imperfect friendship, longing, pain with a dash of hyperbolic tragedy. You know, something to accompany me in my self-invited pity party for one.

Given my home address does not include the suburb “Under Rock”, the Ferrante novels have been on my radar for some time now. To be honest, I was concerned they would suffer from the “Dan Brown” effect: everybody reading them but they are kinda just meh. I was happily surprised. My Brilliant Friend was EXACTLY what I wanted and needed.

Set against a backdrop of the mean streets of Naples two deliciously flawed and confused girls rely on each other as they negotiate the swings and arrows of growing up in 1950s Italy. Elena and Lila represent any of us as we navigate childhood to adulthood. While their circumstances may be unique, the growing pains they experience are universal and form the foundations of so many friendships, past and present. Sometimes we connect with people through circumstance and the relationship may last due to convenience. But always, friendships are looked upon in bewildered and stupendous awe for their capacity to transcend the unexpected.

So to MY brilliant friend, you know you can always rely on me for a shoulder to cry on. Hmm, actually, I’ll cry on yours. Call it even buddy?

Beside Myself by Ann Morgan

I’ve been thinking about the film Sliding Doors a lot lately. I mean, ALL THE FRICKING TIME. As I traverse my “Sex and the City” years with all the complicated and adult-y swings and arrows, it has given me cause to reflect on all the choices I have made in my life; conscious or otherwise. While I am coming out of my mousy-brown-dowdy phase, I’m not quite peroxide-pixie-cut-start-my-own-PR-firm Helen Quilley.

*cut to Gwyneth*

Beside Myself is a little sliding doors with a twist. A set of twins, one good, one not-so, swap clothes and personalities for an afternoon in order to trick those nearest and dearest. This seemingly innocuous hoax results in life-altering repercussions as the bad twin turned good, refuses to return to her original self. The original good twin is forced to fill the role of bad, despite all protestations.

This novel is multi-faceted and full of meaning; more so than it appears at first glance. It speaks to how the presentation and representation of ourselves in everyday life can define us despite who we may actually be. I am reminded of the seminal sociologist Erving Goffman who wrote (and I’m paraphrasing/ plagiarising):

When an individual plays a part, he/she requests observers take seriously the impression that is fostered before them and believe that the character they see actually possesses the attributes they appear to possess.  

You tell ‘em Goffman. Beside Myself is as much about a set of twins as it is about the duality of our own personalities. Once we present or represent ourselves in a certain way, it becomes a challenge to manifest an alternate, no matter how desired.

So there may be no pixie cut for me, nor a self-run PR firm. But there may, just may, be a little Monty Python.