No.133

It could have been three days, but in fact it has been three weeks, and I have thought a great deal in this time about how things are held together—decisions, relationships, landscapes, our whole mess of world—sensing that many people are confused about scale and importance and effectiveness concerning this holding-together. You see the world is held together by very, very tiny things, some so invisible and silent that you will never know or see or understand them, but entire populations are made to believe that it is the large, loud, expensive things that keep day turning into night. When I say ‘very tiny things’ I am talking about a ladybird eating aphids from a plant stem at 3 o’clock in the afternoon; braking the car for a sluggish bird, a neighbour knocking to ask whether you want half of a lopsided cake; the spiderwebs that are hurriedly brushed away; a single stone moving on a riverbed; a blurry photograph taken just before everything changes; the dances we do to avoid hurting the feelings of another.

It is not the large things, not at all, but their apparent importance is shouted at alarming volumes from tall buildings and through ever-brighter screens, and pixels are now believed more than people. It is easy to declare allegiance to the large things because this will bring you affirmation and pats on the back, increased status and windows so large you forget to go outside. Do not be fooled into thinking that they matter though, these large things, because the planet wakes up without them.

WORK-RELATED NEWS:

I have lost track in a small way of book proposals. For a variety of reasons, the four I submitted between September of last year and the June we’ve just been through have not been quite right, and so I will stuff a lot of thinking into the remainder of July (similarly to how people stuff vegetables or meat, I will be stuffing thinking into my own head). Last September, there were two proposals: one about things other people have said, another that promised interviews with the planet. Then in February, before the world fell even more apart, a proposal about mutualism in nature (fascinating to say the least), followed by the most recent submission a handful of weeks ago which contained a lot of very large numbers. It is difficult to not lose some heart over time (the heart works overtime).

So, I must find something else to arrive on paper, and alongside this I continue work on the draft of an illustrated essay, and find slightly hurried time for smaller things, like adding a digital gift card to the store (below), sorting tax payments, and hiding short stories under the bed.

BOOKS THAT I RETURN TO:

(To preface this new section I must say that I don’t always know why I return to books—the reasons why we come back to things or people or places don’t always make themselves known. But some readers have expressed interest in this, and I understand why because I too wonder about the books behind people.

At present I’m thinking about keeping it as a recurring section in the newsletter until I run out of books-that-I-return-to, with just one book mentioned each time so they can be given suitable attention. For me, returning to a book isn’t just about re-reading it, a physical hold-in-hands revisiting, it can also be the returning of characters or images from a book unbidden, or certain emotions felt while reading later coming back to haunt in a generally positive manner. Similar to being tapped lightly on the shoulder, or whispers in a quiet corridor, or touching the bottom of a swimming pool. In hindsight perhaps this section should have been called ‘Books That Return to Me’.)

First published in 1965, Stoner was the third novel of the American professor John Williams. While teaching English at the University of Denver, Williams wrote to his agent Marie Rodell prior to the book’s publication:

“The only thing I'm sure of is that it's a good novel; in time it may even be thought of as a substantially good one.”

Rodell, while admiring Stoner, wished Williams not to expect too much in terms of reception and commercial success. And she was right, as while it sold reasonably and received some favourable reviews, it was no bestseller, and went out of print within a year. Half a century later, Stoner became a bestseller in a way that publishers didn’t really understand, and this piece is worth reading if you wish to know more.

I return to Stoner because it contains a beautiful variety of sadness I have not been able to find anywhere else. The subject matter is arguably unremarkable—the life story of a literary scholar called William Stoner—but the pages add up to emphasise the value of reading as an act, the deepness of solitudes, and I believe it to be a quietly perfect thing. It is the only book in as many as fifteen years where I have found myself crying while reading. In the same pre-publication letter to Rodell, Williams also included this:

“One afternoon a few weeks ago, I walked in on my typist (a junior history major, and pretty average, I'm afraid) while she was finishing typing chapter 15, and discovered great huge tears coursing down her cheeks. I shall love her for ever.”

Stoner is clarity and melancholy, both the mundane and the astonishment of life written in a delicate and restrained way that I’m certain had to do with its very slow surfacing to a larger audience. It was a book that left me quite exhausted, feeling that I must keep very still if I was to understand, but I have not been able to open its pages since it took up sad residence with most of my books in a small red storage unit some time last year.

THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:

A small selection of work from Copenhagen-based photographer and art director Armin Tehrani.

“You are not some disinterested bystander. Exert yourself.”

— Epictetus

The end.