Tag: Jim Crumley

The Shortest of the Short: Four Novellas of under 50 Pages

 

Outside Stamford Library.

It’s a tradition now in its third and last year: I spend one day at the New Networks for Nature conference with my husband, and then (to save money, and because I’ve usually had my fill of stimulating speakers by then) wander around Stamford and haunt the public library on the other day.

This past Saturday I browsed the charity shops and found a short story collection I’ve been interested in reading, but otherwise just spent hours in Stamford’s library looking through recent issues of the Times Literary Supplement and The Bookseller and reading from the stack of novellas I’d brought with me. I read four in one sitting because all were shorter than 50 pages long: two obscure classics and two nature books.

 

Fiction:

 

The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giono (1953)

[Translated from the French by Barbara Bray; 46 pages]

Trees have been a surprise recurring theme in my 2018 reading. This spare allegory from a Provençal author is all about the difference one person can make. The narrator meets a shepherd and beekeeper named Elzéard Bouffier who plants as many acorns as he can;  “it struck him that this part of the country was dying for lack of trees, and having nothing much else to do he decided to put things right.” Decades pass and two world wars do their worst, but very little changes in the countryside. Old Bouffier has led an unassuming but worthwhile life.

There’s not very much to this story, though I appreciated the message about doing good even if you won’t get any recognition or even live to see the fruits of your labor. What’s most interesting about it is the publication history: it was commissioned by Reader’s Digest for a series on “The Most Extraordinary Character I Ever Met,” and though the magazine accepted it with rapture, there was belated outrage when they realized it was fiction. It was later included in a German anthology of biography, too! No one recognized it as a fable; this became a sort of literary in-joke, as Giono’s daughter Aline reveals in a short afterword.

 

Bartleby the Scrivener by Herman Melville (1853)

[40 pages from my Penguin Classics copy of Billy Budd, Sailor and Other Stories]

You probably know the basic plot even if you’ve never read the story. Hired as the fourth scrivener in a Wall Street office of law-copyists, Bartleby seems quietly efficient until one day he mildly refuses to do the work requested of him. “I prefer not to” becomes his refrain. First he stops proofreading his copies, and then he declines to do any writing at all. (More and more these days, I find I have the same can’t-be-bothered attitude as Bartleby!) As the employer/narrator writes, “a certain unconscious air … of pallid haughtiness … positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities.” Farce ensues as he finds himself incapable of getting rid of Bartleby, even after he goes to the extreme of changing the premises of his office. Three times he even denies knowing Bartleby, but still the man is a thorn in his flesh, a nuisance turned inescapable responsibility. A glance at the introduction by Harold Beaver tells me I’m not the first to make such Christian parallels. (This was the first Melville I’ve read since an aborted attempt on Moby-Dick during college.)

 

Nonfiction:

 

The Company of Swans by Jim Crumley (1997)

[Illustrated by Harry Brockway, who also did the wood engravings for the Giono; 39 pages]

Crumley is an underappreciated Scottish nature writer. Here he tells the tale of a pair of mute swans on a loch in Highland Perthshire. He followed their relationship with great interest over a matter of years. First he noticed that their nest had been robbed, twice within a few weeks, and realized otters must be to blame. Then, although it’s a truism that swans mate for life, he observed the cob (male) leaving the pen (female) for another! Crumley was overtaken with sympathy for the abandoned swan and got to feed her by hand and watch her fall asleep. “To suggest there was true communication between us would be outrageous, but I believe she regarded me as benevolent, which was all I ever asked of her,” he writes. Two years later he learns the end of her story. A pleasant ode to fleeting moments of communion with nature.

Favorite passages:

“Swans this wild let you into only a certain portion of their lives. They give you intimate glimpses. But you can never have any part in the business of being a swan. You can offer them no more than the flung tribute of your admiring gaze.”

“I think there is nothing in all nature that outshines that lustrous lacing of curves [of swan necks], nothing in all theatre that outperforms its pivotal tension.”

 

Holloway by Robert Macfarlane (2013)

[Illustrated by Stanley Donwood; 39 pages]

In 2011 Macfarlane set out to recreate a journey through South Dorset that he’d first undertaken with the late Roger Deakin in 2005, targeting the sunken paths of former roadways. This is not your average nature or travel book, though; it’s much more fragmentary and poetic than you’d expect from a straightforward account of a journey through the natural world. I thought the stream-of-consciousness style overdone, and got more out of the song about the book by singer-songwriter Anne-Marie Sanderson. (Her Book Songs, Volume 1 EP, which has been one of my great discoveries of the year, is available to listen to and purchase on her Bandcamp page. It also includes songs inspired by Ian McEwan’s Sweet Tooth, Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, Sarah Hall’s Haweswater, and Doris Lessing’s Mara and Dann.) The black-and-white illustrations are nicely evocative, though.

Lines I liked:

“paths run through people as surely as they run through places.”

“The holloway is absence; a wood-way worn away by buried feet.”

 


Have you read any of these super-short novellas? Which one takes your fancy?

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Vocabulary Words I Learned from Books Last Year

I’m not sure if it’s heartening or daunting that I’m still learning new words at the age of 34. Many recent ones are thanks to The Cabinet of Linguistic Curiosities: A Yearbook of Forgotten Words by Paul Anthony Jones, which I’m reading as a daily bedside book. But last year I spotted new words in a wide variety of books, including classic novels, nature books and contemporary fiction. Some are specialty words (e.g. bird or plant species) you wouldn’t encounter outside a certain context; others are British regional/slang terms I hadn’t previously come across; and a handful are words that make a lot of sense by their Latin origins but have simply never entered into my reading before. (In chronological order by my reading.)

 

  • plaguy = troublesome or annoying
  • rodomontade = boastful or inflated talk

~The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë

 

  • fuliginous = sooty, dusky
  • jobation = a long, tedious scolding

~Father and Son by Edmund Gosse

 

  • stogged = stuck or bogged down
  • flurring (used here in the sense of water splashing up) = hurrying [archaic]

~ Dangling Man by Saul Bellow

 

  • ferrule = a metal cap on the end of a handle or tube
  • unsnibbing = opening or unfastening (e.g., a door)

~The Great Profundo and Other Stories by Bernard MacLaverty

 

  • anserine = of or like a goose
  • grama = a type of grass [which is the literal meaning of the word in Portuguese]
  • wahoo = a North American elm

~A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold

 

  • antithalian = disapproving of fun
  • gone for a burton = missing, from WWII RAF usage
  • lucifugal = light-avoiding
  • nefandous = unspeakably atrocious
  • paralipsis = a rhetorical strategy: using “to say nothing of…” to draw attention to something
  • phairopepla = a Central American flycatcher
  • prolicide = killing one’s offspring
  • scran = food [Northern English or Scottish dialect]
  • swashing = moving with a splashing sound

+ some anatomical and behavioral terms relating to birds

~An English Guide to Birdwatching by Nicholas Royle

By Till Niermann (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons.
  • bate = an angry mood [British, informal, dated]

~Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge

 

  • gurn = a grotesque face

~As a God Might Be by Neil Griffiths

 

  • stoorier = dustier, e.g. of nooks [Scots]

~The Nature of Autumn by Jim Crumley

 

  • fascine = a bundle of rods used in construction or for filling in marshy ground
  • orfe = a freshwater fish

~Swallowing Mercury by Wioletta Greg

 

  • vellications = muscle twitches

~First Love by Gwendoline Riley

 

  • knapped = hit

~Herbaceous by Paul Evans

 

  • fumet = a strongly flavored cooking liquor, e.g. fish stock, here used more generically as a strong flavor/odor
  • thuja = a type of coniferous tree

~The Gourmet by Muriel Barbery

 

  • howk = dig up [Scotland]
  • lochan = a small loch
  • runkled = wrinkled
  • scaur = a variant of scar, i.e., a cliff [Scotland]
  • spicules = ice particles

~The Living Mountain by Nan Shepherd

 

  • heafed = of farm animals: attached or accustomed to an area of mountain pasture [Northern England]

~The Shepherd’s Life by James Rebanks

 

  • objurgation = a harsh reprimand

~The Shadow in the Garden by James Atlas

 

  • lares = guardian deities in the ancient Roman religion

~At Seventy by May Sarton

 

  • blatherskite = a person who talks at great length without making much sense

~Every Man for Himself by Beryl Bainbridge

 

  • kickshaws = fancy but insubstantial cooked dishes, especially foreign ones

~The Reading Cure by Laura Freeman

 

  • clerisy = learned or literary people
  • intropunitiveness [which he spells intrapunitiveness] = self-punishment
  • peculation = embezzlement

~The Brontësaurus by John Sutherland

 


The challenge with these words is: will I remember them? If I come upon them again, will I recall the definition I took the time to look up and jot down? In an age where all the world’s knowledge is at one’s fingertips via computers and smartphones, is it worth committing such terms to memory, or do I just trust that I can look them up again any time I need to?

I still remember, on my first reading of Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield at age 14, filling several pages of a notebook with vocabulary words. The only one I can think of now is nankeen (a type of cloth), but I’m sure the list was full of British-specific or Victorian-specific terminology as well as ‘big words’ I didn’t know until my teens but then kept seeing and using.

The other question, then, is: will I actually use any of these words in my daily life? Or are they just to be showcased in the occasional essay? Gurn and unsnibbing seem fun and useful; I also rather like antithalian and blatherskite. Perhaps I’ll try to fit one or more into a piece of writing this year.

 


Do you like it when authors introduce you to new words, or does it just seem like they’re showing off? [Nicholas Royle (above) seemed to me to be channeling Will Self, whose obscure vocabulary I do find off-putting.]

Do you pause to look up words as you’re reading, note them for later, or just figure them out in context and move on?