(If there’s anyone out there who’s seen the 1955 film, I’d love to hear about it. I am thoroughly confused as to how it could be rated PG. Were entire characters removed??? Someone shed some light on this.)

If you haven’t caught the East of Eden bug like myself and many others, this is the basic backdrop of the story: Set in the Salinas Valley of rural California, in between the Civil War and the end of World War I, East of Eden follows two contrasting families, the Trasks and the Hamiltons, which play out conflicts and fates that mirror the Book of Genesis. Themes of identity, rivalry, and love—and consequences from the absence of love—dominate the novel, but that really only scratches the surface of what Steinbeck asks you to reflect on.

I am exactly 100 pages in so far—and wow did I forget how eventful those first 100 pages are.

This time around, (which is only my second reading), I plan to pay more attention to Adam Trask. It’s far too easy to view Cathy as the dark, tortured villain she is—for the novel outright deems her a monster from the start. But I want to more closely examine the morally gray character of Adam; I suspect that this time around I will more aptly notice the consequences of his tendency to withdraw.

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Although East of Eden is an intense (and arguably exaggerated) story of generational trauma, I deeply love this novel for its redemptive arc and the beautiful descriptions of humanity and all the painful realities that come with being human. It’s not just a story that shows us what generational trauma can produce—it offers an alternative to the trauma (and also seemingly random evil) that I don’t think many other pieces of classic literature do.

This is not, however, a novel that attempts to answer the age-old questions in the Bible—for we will never really know why Cain’s gift was never accepted—but it is a novel that powerfully conveys how we perpetually live out the age-old questions in the Bible. It is a novel that asks us to hold up a mirror and asks us how we will proceed.

Even if the Biblical undertones and exploration of morality in East of Eden do not appeal to you, I promise you’re going to encounter some of the most beautiful (and humorous) descriptions of humanity, coming-of-age, and love.

Although this is another fairly large book (and my hands—and heart— are still recovering from the weight of Lonesome Dove) I plan to read two chapters a day, which I’ve found doable for a month-long reading.

With all the buzz about the Netflix adaptation coming out, this won’t be a hard book to find. Both your local library and your local bookstore are sure to have a copy.

At some point, I promise I’m going to dive into Steinbeck’s other works—as I’ve yet to read anything else by him except for Of Mice and Men—but for now I just can’t get past East of Eden.

I—very firmly—did not want this book to end.

And honestly I don’t see how this story could not be in anyone’s top 10 (at least!) novels of all time; if it isn’t that’s simply because one hasn’t read it yet.

Part III of Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove was just as heart-wrenching and profound as I was expecting it to be—but in very different ways I was anticipating. Honestly, I was pretty certain Blue Duck was going to come back and annihilate Gus, and I never would have guessed the Lorena would so readily stay with Clara and her girls.

Chapter 90 and the death of Joshua Deets, however, is what will live infamously rent-free in my head and haunt me till my dying day. Deets was my favorite character, and I’ll (probably, definitely) be mourning his patchwork pants and quiet competency for the rest of my life.

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I am grateful for the seemingly anti-climatic demise of Augustus McCrae; he went right on talking on his way out of this world, just as he should have:

“He [Call] had seen Gus die, too—or seen him dying, at least—but it seemed he hadn’t started believing it. Gus had left, and that was final, but Call felt too confused even to feel sad. Gus had been so much himself to the end that he wouldn’t even let his death be an occasion—it had just felt like one of their many arguments that normally would be resumed in a few days.

This time it wouldn’t be resumed, and Call found he couldn’t adjust to the change. He felt so alone that he didn’t really want to go back to the outfit. The herd and the men no longer seemed to have anything to do with him, unless it was the mare. For his part he would just as soon have ridden around Montana alone until the Indians jumped him, too. It wasn’t that he even missed Gus yet all that much. Only yesterday they had talked, as they had talked for thirty years.

Call felt some resentment, as he almost always had when thinking of his friend. Gus had died and left the world without taking him with him, so that once again he was left to do the work. He had always done the work—only he suddenly no longer believed in the work. Gus had tricked him out of his belief, as easily as if cheating at cards. All his work, and it hadn’t saved anyone, or slowed the moment of their going by a minute.”

- Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove (Chapter 97)

Although Gus certainly isn’t without his own faults, he always has a way of putting Call in his place—in both life and death.

Throughout the story, it’s this very belief in work over people that we see trip Captain Call up time and time again—and it’s the importance of people (over the work), and the company we keep, that’s at the heart of the narrative.

I can’t help but feel that the whole point of the story goes right back to the Hat Creek Cattle Company sign. At the end of the long and harrowing journey, nearly all the names have faded from the handmade sign, save Captain Call’s and the name of the company; he and his company—in name only—remain. But what is really left?

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Captain Call’s devotion to work above all else has not only lead him to a lonely life, but a stunted life. He doesn’t share a relationship, a name, or even a ranch with his more than capable and genuinely good-natured son (that we know of anyway), and we are left to wonder what kind of life, if any, he will now lead in Lonesome Dove.

There is one conversation between Call and Gus in particular that I will (probably) never stop thinking about:

“ ‘You’ve got a name,’ Augustus said. ‘Don’t it matter to you, whether people use it?’

‘Not much,’ Call said.

‘No, I guess it wouldn't,’ Augustus said. ‘You’re so sure you’re right it doesn’t matter to you whether people talk to you at all. I’m glad I’ve been wrong enough to keep in practice.’

‘Why would you want to keep in practice being wrong?’ Call asked. ‘I’d think it would be something you’d try to avoid.’

‘You can’t avoid it, you’ve got to learn to handle it,’ Augustus said. ‘If you only come face-to-face with your own mistakes once or twice in your life it’s bound to be extra painful. I face mine every day—that way they aren’t usually much worse than a dry shave.’”

-Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove (Chapter 79)

May we all have the courage to face our dry-shave-level mistakes, daily.

And may we all take note of the company we keep, and how they shape and influence us one way or another—not to mention how we shape and influence them.

It’s the variance of the Latin motto Uva uvam vivendo varia fit, (“A grape is changed by living with other grapes”), inscribed on the Hat Creek Cattle Company sign that tells the full story here—the full story of Gus and Call and Deets and Spoon and Lorie and even Bolivar and everyone else we follow from Lonesome Dove.

We are just bunches of grapes, shifting color and going through a process of veraison together, ending up where and as we will. And I don’t think it can be helped.

Just as my emotional attachment to this novel (probably) can’t be helped.

I will never forget the summer I read Lonesome Dove.

Who knew a 1986 Western novel, set in the late 1870s —complete with all the frontier violence, brutal outlaws, and scalping scenes—would move me so profoundly? I don’t think there’s anything this novel doesn’t have; the adventure, the romance, the suspense, the humor, the tragedy…it is all there and it is all perfectly executed.

Is there a more perfect summertime read?

Will I go on to read more Westerns?

DID I JUST FIND MY NEW FAVORITE BOOK?

The possibilities are endless here, and I am so thankful that writing is what Larry McMurtry chose to do with his life; we are all better for it.

(Spoilers in spades are forthcoming.)

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Having finished Parts I and II, I am left certain that we’ve yet to see the last of Blue Duck and the horrors he is capable of—not to mention the destructive aftermath of the fumbling, lazy, and downright useless Jake Spoon.

Lonesome Dove is a novel about many things, but above all I believe it’s a novel about what it means to be human and mortal and susceptible to all the elements swarming in and out of our orbit. It’s also about what and who we choose to be in the midst of our orbit and all the swarming.

Jake Spoon doesn’t orbit well. Lorie is learning her orbit. And Gus and Call offer two seemingly conflicting orbits that make us wonder if one trajectory is more worthwhile than the other.

I can’t help but feel that this novel’s most profound teacher is—and is going to be—death. We already know what Jake Spoon will (and will not be) remembered for, and the circumstances surrounding his ultimate demise are downright disappointing and tragic. Had he been a genuine searcher, (of any sort), I would have more empathy for his story. The truly aimless wandering of his life, his inability to find meaning in nearly anything, leaves me to think he’s meant to be a mere example to Lorie; he simply shows her what she doesn’t want in life.

The serious pursuits of Captain Call Woodrow often contrast with the contented nature of Gus McCrae, but I can’t help feeling like one of them is being prematurely pushed toward their ultimate end via what is likely the final venture of the Hat Creek outfit—and I am particularly fearing for Gus.

Part I ends with a seemingly innocent discussion between Call and Gus about “fortune hunting”, in which Gus claims this specific cattle drive of the Hat Creek outfit isn’t his or Call’s duty. 1

I certainly don’t want to see Gus—or anyone else of the Hat Creek outfit—go. But these words from Part II, Chapter 59 keep haunting me:

“When the third day passed and Gus wasn’t back, Call began to be uneasy. Augustus had survived so much that Call didn’t give his safety much thought. Even men accustomed all their lives to sudden death didn’t expect it to happen to Gus McCrae. The rest of them might fall by the wayside, their morality taking gentle or cruel forms, but Gus would just go on talking.”

-Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove

It’s a humorous (and endearing) thought that Gus McCrae could simply “go on talking”forever—but the harsh reality is that he’s just as susceptible to morality as any other man on the 1870s frontier.

Truthfully, I don’t want this book to end. I’m going to relish in reading it for the next two weeks and I fully expect it to leave me in tears. McMurtry has a way of saying so much in just a single sentence: whole characters are formed, philosophies are laid bare, and big life questions are posed. The accuracy of his words leaves me with an ache.

Obviously, please don’t tell me if Gus (or anyone else for that matter) does or doesn’t make it out of this particular Hat Creek outfit venture alive.

The tears I will undoubtedly shed at the end of this masterpiece deserve their naivety.

I hear it is THE Western to read.

I have high hopes it will wreck me in the best way.

And my nearest and dearest friend read Lonesome Dove last summer and told me that if I care about her at all I will read this book.

(Really, is there any deeper, more meaningful love language than reading a well-loved and highly recommended book?)

Although it’s technically part of a series, I’ve been reassured that I can read Lonesome Dove as a stand-alone. A cattle drive from Texas to Montana covers friendship, love, loss, the changing American West, morality, and all sorts of hardship. I fully expect to be moved to tears by the adventures of retired Texas Rangers Augustus “Gus” McCrae and Woodrow Call—and I’m also curious to see if reading this Pulitzer Prize-winning novel will open me up to reading more Westerns in the future.

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Although I have a vintage hardback of this epic story, most of my reading will likely take place within a borrowed paperback version; there’s just something about a massive, floppy paperback that’s downright irresistible to me in the summer months. (I absolutely relished in the 1,000 + pages of Ducks, Newburyport by Lucy Ellmann last summer, and I have happily decided it’s going to be another Big Book Summer.)

Because I don’t want to rush through this epic tale, however, I’m giving myself two whole months to read all three parts of the book; I’m thinking I’ll write a post after each part—but there are absolutely no rules here.

All I really know is that I can’t read the preface in my particular paperback version because I’ve been told it contains a spoiler to a major plot point. WHO is (not?) editing these things?!

If you’ve traveled with Gus and Call, let me know what I’m in for—just no preface-like spoilers, please!

(Just know that at this very moment I’m forcing myself to sit down and write. My thoughts are going to come out choppy; it can’t be helped.)

While I cannot say I’ve felt exactly what Faulkner intended his readers to feel or heard what Faulkner intended his readers to hear, I can say I have learned something valuable about myself while reading The Sound and the Fury: I highly, highly prefer to understand what I am reading—even if that understanding is no bigger than a mustard seed.

I imagine The Sound and the Fury is a novel that is really only truly understood (and enjoyed) after more than one read. There is no possible way one understands this novel the first time around. Even if I had a professor guiding me through this one, I believe I still would have struggled; I simply don’t want to have to work so hard to connect one sentence with another.

Although I’m sure most scholars would disagree with me, I primarily felt this was a story about grief, particularly Benjy’s grief, and our inability—or rather blatant intolerance—to understand those different than us. I can sort of see how this novel harkens to the inevitable decline of the South, but I just didn’t see that as the ultimate crux of the novel.

(I do realize, however, that my failure to understand the character and voice of Quentin likely has much to do with this. The frequent references to time and clocks and watches were not entirely lost on me.)

I can say that I was able to feel the complete and utter turmoil of Benjy, which is not exactly nothing. His grief was palpable; I don’t think I can look at a golf club or hear references to a caddy or smell honeysuckle without a quiet pang of sadness ever again.

Perhaps it’s this very misunderstood grief that Faulkner is aiming to talk to us about. Perhaps he was a grieved man himself, unable to communicate just what exactly was dying in him along with the highly romanticized Old South—and as someone living in 2026 with plenty of necessary knowledge about the dark realities and humanitarian horrors attached to the Old South, I am simply not going to understand.

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I don’t know, of course. Clearly, I fumbled my way through this novel with more difficulty than most.

(I also did not see Caddy as the shining character I find many readers view her as; she simply felt trapped to me. She was sympathetic to Benjy and for that she was special, but it just felt like there was a lack of character and courage in her. I did not understand her relationship with Quentin at all and genuinely thought he was the father of her daughter until I read otherwise in the Appendix.)

Ultimately, I think this is a story of profound grief and intentional confusion—we simply aren’t meant to fully understand the sound and the fury that overtake these characters because we are not them, no matter how intimate an insight we are given into their minds.

Additionally, I watched the 2014 film adaptation directed by James Franco, which I highly recommend if you find yourself as frustrated as I was. The film was moving and stayed very close to the text (which nearly every reader knows is rare).

I will probably be struggling to understand these characters and this story for quite some time. If I ever muster the courage to re-read this one, I could (probably?) piece together elements I simply didn’t see before. But I’m (probably, definitely) going to need some outside motivation to pick it up again down the line; so if you’ve enjoyed this book—or have simply read it more than once as it is likely intended by Faulkner— I’m practically begging you to share your thoughts with me.

Aside from the fact that it is one of a good friend’s favorite books, my preference for another stream of conscious narrative surrounding a complicated family, (I am still swooning over Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse), paired with my slow, year-long read-through of Flannery O'Connor’s The Complete Stories, have me turned toward this particular selection in Southern Gothic literature.

I am now more than 100 pages in, however, and I am significantly struggling.

Told in four parts, with each portion narrated by a different character, The Sound and the Fury tells the tragic story of the Compson family ruin, mirroring the tumultuous collapse of the South several decades after the Civil War.

The fragmented storytelling and intentional confusion the reader is forced to feel is making this a much more challenging read than I anticipated; I fully expected Benjy’s portion to be jumbled but I am still struggling to piece the story together from Quentin’s point of view.

(I’m even flipping back and forth to The Appendix, “they key”, to no avail.)

What I am most struggling with, however, are the intentions of Faulkner himself. (If you’ve encountered my Substack Notes recently you’ve likely seen my desperation to understand Faulkner on full display.)

Mainly I am wondering: How was Faulkner fundamentally racist in his political views (openly romanticizing the Old South) while also writing so honestly about the problems and ultimate demise of the South? How did he frequently create beloved and Christ-like black characters? Why would someone write about something they don’t openly believe and/or support in the real, working world in which they live(d)? Who spends their time writing literature that portrays the opposite values they cling to?

Any and all insight into this man would be greatly appreciated. (James Baldwin appears to have shared my confusion.)

I would also appreciate any and all tips about how to approach The Sound and the Fury if this is a classic you’ve conquered.

(Obviously.)

Help a fumbling reader out.

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett is one of those novels—and it has absolutely nothing to do with loose ends and an untidy conclusion.

On the contrary, Patchett ends the story with a meaningful sort of punch; not every character is granted a happy ending but (nearly) every character is bestowed a fate worthy of its own storyline. I couldn’t help but wonder what this particular story would be like told from the perspective of several characters, most notably Meave, Andrea, and perhaps even Bright or Norma.

The story we are given, however, is Danny Conroy’s—the one and only character to continue the family’s narrative and bloodline.

Ultimately, we are given a glimpse into how one dysfunctional, blended family breaks with the death of its patriarch, Cyril Conroy. The cracks, however, were widening from the start—or rather, from the moment the Conroy family stepped foot into the glass-wrapped Dutch House.

I love that it is a mystery as to why Cyril Conroy even purchases the home to begin with. One could argue that it’s simply an insecure attempt to remake and bolster the Conroy family’s name and socioeconomic status. From the start, Mrs. Conroy is not pleased with the house—perhaps even intimated of its looming presence and theatrical structure. At several points in the book, the Dutch House is equated with a stage and Elna Conroy wants no role to play.

The accuracy of memory is continually tested in The Dutch House. Vantage point is everything. One of the most telling lines in the story is revealed during Danny and Meave’s (almost) final visit to the Dutch House, when at last they encounter Andrea retrieving the morning newspaper from the drive:

"It hadn’t occurred to me until now that I was never the one driving when we went to the Dutch House, and that from this vantage point the view was subtly changed.”

-Ann Patchett (as Danny Conroy), The Dutch House

At this point, we don’t explicitly know that “evil stepmother” Andrea is suffering from mental illness and perpetual heartbreak—but the subtle shift is paving the way for the emotionally charged reveal that is yet to come.

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What’s most baffling, of course, is that we are never given answers for Andrea’s cruelness, or why Elna feels ok to (continually) abandon her children to care for others—we are simply left to sift through the pain with Danny and Maeve. When they questioned the choices of their parents, I questioned the choices of their parents. When they felt the urge to create a life that looked nothing like the one in which they were raised in, I cheered them on to create a life that looked nothing like the one in which they were raised in. When they drove back to the Dutch House, however, I pleaded with them to just drive on. “Leave it,” I would say. “Just leave it the way they left you.”

Danny and Meave have deep parental wounds that weave into nearly every decision they make: Danny intentionally “bucks the trend” and marries a woman nothing like his mother, while Meave (and even Norma and Bright) makes the conscious choice to not marry and start a family.

But despite their efforts, they can’t seem to truly break free; Danny and Maeve are stuck—and it left me perpetually frustrated.

What I loved most about this novel is the raw, unfiltered honesty we continually encounter paired with a heavy dose of skepticism to consider another vantage point. The pain of Danny and Meave is palpable. And while they do not get answers for many of their questions, Danny is slowly, steadily seeing how one, anchored perspective that never considers another lens can paint a picture that only tells an incomplete story—much like the esteemed portrait of Maeve in the Dutch House.

“Maeve shook her head. I don’t think she was even looking at the house, how beautiful it was rising up out of the darkness. For the most part I had stopped seeing it a long time ago, but every now and then something would happen, something like this, and my eyes would open again and I would see it there—enormous, preposterous, spectacular. A brigade of nutcrackers could come pouring out of the dark hedges at any minute and be met by a battalion of mice. The lawn was sugared with ice. The stage at Lincoln Center hadn't been made to look like the Dutch House, it was that the Dutch House was the setting for a ridiculous fairy tale ballet. Was it possible our father had turned into the driveway that first time and been struck by the revelation that this was where he wanted to raise his family? Was that what it meant to be a poor man, newly rich?”

-Ann Patchett (as Danny Conroy), The Dutch House

Ultimately, I was horrified and heartbroken over the destructive choices and lack of nurturing we observe in the parental figures of this story—and I think that is perhaps entirely the point; these things happen.

I don’t believe The Dutch House asks us to make allowances for the flawed characters. Instead, I think Patchett is asking us to simply consider that there might be reasons as to why her flawed characters make the choices they do. (I want a story about Cyril as a boy, and one about Elna as a girl, and most definitely a deep dive into Andrea’s childhood lore.) Perhaps Patchett is asking us to consider those reasons, make the conscious choice to choose another route, and then just drive on.

And what of the Dutch House itself? Maybe the Dutch House—with its massive, floor-to-ceiling windows—merely stands to reveal the dysfunction that is already present.

I’d love to stick around and read about what the house reveals in May Conroy. But that’s another story for another time.

What did The Dutch House leave you with? What does this story ask you to consider?

I have also—not even once—attempted to read such books because of their high page count. On the contrary, I’ve been hesitant to approach such books, solely because of their high page count.

What keeps me going almost every time is the motivation to not only gain a thorough understanding of what the author is trying to say, but to fully know the characters I’m reading about; it’s the promise nearly every lengthy piece of literature delivers for me every time.

There is, of course, absolutely nothing wrong with a potent novella or the average length of the modern novel. (I mean, have you read anything by Claire Keegan?) You don’t necessarily need to read a lengthy novel to know the characters of a story inside and out—but I believe it’s an inevitable consequence you will experience every time you pick up a lengthy work of literature.

It’s important to note that I wouldn’t say I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every lengthy book I’ve set out to conquer. (If my ramblings on The Brothers Karamazov don’t show this, the fact that it took me nearly two years to finish Bleak House should offer convincing evidence.)

One could certainly argue that many books—particularly many works of classic literature—simply would not be published in this day and age; necessary edits are vital to the life of any story. And I’ve certainly thought this even while reading lengthy novels I have loved. (Case in point: Even though I can look back and see the ultimate point, I could have done without the grueling chapters of agricultural happenings in which Levin is merely figuring out the best way to farm his land in Anna Karenina.)

Not once, however, have I regretted spending my time reading a lengthy novel—and I think it’s because that even when I’ve struggled to understand the author’s overarching meaning, I’ve always, always come to intimately know the main character.

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In my reading life, it’s been the lengthy novels that most closely mirror real life—and I think it has much to do with the fact that we are given the time, space, and development to really examine the story’s characters in depth. (Of course, there are specific genres that can often be exceptions to this, particularly works of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, etc.)

We are also given the chance to really see how life and circumstances evolve overtime, and (consequently) just how the characters ultimately end up where they end up—giving us much to consider with regard to how we live out our own lives.

Within the story of Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, we watch the misery of disconnection in Anna’s marriage slowly evolve into the misery of disconnection from her son; we are heartbroken right alongside her and left to ponder how (or even if) things could have went differently. Within the pages of The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, we (rather frustratingly) observe Theo in a lifelong wrestling match with himself to process his grief and trauma; it takes a lifetime for him to confront it and even still his identity is in question right up until the last pages of his story. And in John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, we (rather painfully) watch multiple generations sift through sin, pain, and trauma; one family’s hard-wrought struggle to comprehend true goodness is our hauntingly beautiful reward.

The heartaches of these characters are understood. The mistakes of these characters are revealed. And the destinies of these characters leave us with much—so much—to think about.

Argue what you will, but I believe few stories can convey what sticking it out with a lengthy novel can.

What are some of your favorite, most impactful lengthy novels?

Have you ever encountered a lengthy book you regretted reading?

Between all the end-of-school-year programs, celebrations, and last minute field trips, I’ve had some trouble settling on a book I want to take a deep dive into this month—so I’ve decided to keep things simple and focus on the book I’m currently reading and (very much) enjoying right now.

(Additionally, I have some rather ambitious summer reading plans coming up so I think it’s best to keep this month’s reading list as light as possible. Stay tuned!)

Ann Patchett is a contemporary writer I’ve only just begun to explore—and I am probably very late in doing so. Last year my local bookshop’s book club read Bel Canto. It was my first time reading an Ann Patchett novel and while the plot was not my usual taste, I thoroughly admired the writing and style in which she chose to craft the story.

The Dutch House initially piqued my interest for its portrayal of sibling dynamics; the author of a non-fiction book I recently read claimed it was the most beloved and accurate—and rarely explored—portrayal of the unique nature of a sister/brother relationship that she had ever encountered in fiction. (And as I am currently raising an older sister and a younger brother—and I am wholeheartedly both charmed by and envious of their endearing connection—I was immediately interested.)

What kept me interested enough to pursue a library hold of this particular work was the synopsis that clearly pointed to themes of unreliable memory, generational impact, and a strong sense of place that serves as its own sort of character; I’m a sucker for any story that revolves around a memorable house.

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Set in an elaborate 1920s home with floor to ceiling glass rooms, the story of The Dutch House takes place in a suburb on the outskirts of Philadelphia at the end of World War II. It’s told through the eyes of the younger brother and spans nearly 50 years. The siblings, Maeve and Danny Conroy, grapple with their abandonment by their mother, the cruelty of their stepmother, and all the complications that come with a dysfunctional family—all the while clinging to each other and the home that time itself has deemed the Dutch House.

Beneath a quiet and steady suspense, the reliability (and accuracy) of memory is also explored, giving readers plenty to think about in terms of how we interpret our own stories. A line from the Goodreads description states: “The Dutch House is a dark fairy tale about two smart people who cannot overcome their past.”

Essentially, The Dutch House is everything I want to read about in a modern—or classic—novel and Ann Patchett’s writing makes the story all the more enticing.

If you are a fan of Ann Patchett’s work, I’d love to know which novel is your favorite. (I plan to read State of Wonder later this year.)

And if you’ve read The Dutch House I’d love to know what it left you with—just no spoilers please; I’ve already accidentally read about one and I’m still working on forgiving myself for the mishap.

Sprawling a blanket onto the ground, my bare feet relished in the feeling of grass that was once more green and I simply pretended the angry springtime winds were merely a seaside breeze. I was not lounging in a Midwest backyard; I was sunbathing in a Mediterranean garden.

If one could only escape to the shores of San Salvatore perhaps all would be well—more than well, actually.

Right?

This very thought, however, greatly misses what I believe to be the entire point of Elizabeth von Arnim’s novel—and I am so thankful that what she suggests doesn’t end there.

On the surface, it’s all too easy to believe that the magic of San Salvatore is just that—the magic of San Salvatore. If only one could carve out the opportunity (and finances) to escape to such a time and place, then perhaps one’s life would be revived with the same sort of clarity and vigor of that of San Salvatore’s guests.

One of my most favorite passages of this book is the passage in which Mrs. Wilkins opens her bedroom window and initially gazes upon the physical surroundings of San Salvatore in the light of day:

All the radiance of April in Italy lay gathered together at her feet. The sun poured in on her. The sea lay asleep in it, hardly stirring. Across the bay the lovely mountains, exquisitely different in color, were asleep too in the light; and underneath her window, at the bottom of the flower-starred grass slope from which the wall of the castle rose up, was a great cypress, cutting through the delicate blues and violets and rose-colors of the mountains and the sea like a great black sword.

She stared. Such beauty; and she there to see it. Such beauty; and she alive to feel it. Her face was bathed in light. Lovely scents came up to the window and caressed her. A tiny breeze gently lifted her hair. Far out in the bay a cluster of almost motionless fish boats hovered like a flock of white birds on the tranquil sea. How beautiful, how beautiful. Not to have died before this…to have been allowed to see, breathe, feel this…She stared, her lips parted. Happy? Poor, ordinary, everyday word. But what could one say, how could one describe it? It was as though she could hardly stay inside herself, it was as though she were too small to hold so much of joy, it was as though she were washed through with light. And how astonishing to feel this sheer bliss, for here she was, not doing and not going to do a single unselfish thing, not going to do a thing she didn’t want to do. According to everybody she had ever come across she ought at least to have twinges. She had not one twinge. Something was wrong somewhere. Wonderful that at home she should have been so good, so terribly good, and merely felt tormented. Twinges of every sort had there been her portion—aches, hurts, discouragements—and she the whole time being steadily unselfish. Now she had taken off all her goodness and left it behind her like a heap of rain-sodden clothes, and she only felt joy. She was naked of goodness, and was rejoicing in being naked. She was stripped, and exulting. And there, away in the dim mugginess of Hampstead, was Mellersh being angry.

-Elizabeth von Arnim, The Enchanted April

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And what exactly are we to make of Lotty’s newfound joy at the mere sight of her surroundings? Are we to conclude that we must take to the sea likewise, stripping off all our “goodness” and fleeing from all our “twinges”?

Perhaps.

But perhaps the transformations that slowly transpire in each of the four women (and their accompanying husbands) are really what we are to pay attention to.

The wonder and awe that Mrs. Wilkins basks in becomes steadily contagious to those around her: Beauty begets beauty. It has taken a large, sweeping display to initially enchant her, but it’s the noticing of small things and the tiny gestures of affection that eventually win over the hearts of all the other characters; they have been surrounded by vibrant gardens and sweeping displays of beauty from the very start of the story and only by the end of it are they able to see the beauty in one another’s souls.

I think we would do well to pursue beauty and enchantment; what it begets is far more important than our modern culture would have us believe.

While reading The Enchanted April, my non-fiction companion was Katherine May’s Enchantment: Awakening Wonder in an Anxious Age. It is a beautiful ode to the elemental things of life. May does a stunning job of paying attention—and paying attention to what paying attention begets in us. She writes:

I think I’m beginning to understand that the quest is the point. Our sense of enchantment is not triggered only by grand things; the sublime is not hiding in distant landscapes. The awe-inspiring, the numinous, is all around us, all the time. It is transformed by our deliberate attention. It becomes valuable when we value it. It becomes meaningful when we invest it with meaning. The magic is of our own conjuring. Hierophany—that revelation of the sacred—is something that we bring to everyday things, rather than something that is given to us. That quality of experience that reveals to us the workings of the world, that comforts and fascinates us, that ushers us towards a greater understanding of the business of being human: it is not in itself rare. What is rare is our will to pursue it. If we wait passively to become enchanted, we could wait a long time.

But seeking is a kind of work. I don’t mean heading off on wild road trips just to see the stars that are shining above your own roof. I mean committing to a lifetime of engagement: to noticing the world around you, to actively looking for small distillations of beauty, to making time to contemplate and reflect. To learning the names of plants and places that surround you, or training your mind in the rich pathways of the metaphorical. To finding a way to express your interconnectedness with the rest of humanity. To putting your feet on the ground, every now and then, and feeling the tingle of life that the earth offers in return. It’s all there, waiting for our attention. Take off your shoes, because you are always on holy ground.

-Katherine May, Enchantment: Awakening Wonder in an Anxious Age

I think Elizabeth van Arnim would warmly agree with this modern passage of thought. And I think this specific line of thought is a survival tactic of sorts.

The looming reality is that we may never get the opportunity to look upon the physical shores of our very own San Salvatore and strip off all our “goodness” and flee from all our “twinges” in a Mrs. Wilkins fashion—but we can always, always pursue beauty and enchantment.

There is nothing—but merely our own selves—to stop us from such a life-giving pursuit.

To not lose our wonder in an AI-plagued world, to always pay attention to the beauty we could so easily overlook, is how we stay alive.

It is, I think, how we beget the very life we’ve been so graciously gifted.

In the process I’ve devoured nearly all of The Queen of Suspense’s novels and short stories. (I’ve still got The Glassblowers and Mary Ann awaiting my first-read though so no spoilers on those, please!) Consequently, I have learned that no one compares—but that doesn’t stop me from reading modern works that were clearly inspired by her.

The following are seven contemporary novels with plenty of Daphne du Maurier vibes. From eerie estates and Cornish coasts to spiritual mediums and unsettling twists, you’ll quickly detect the same sort of atmospheric suspense lingering in the pages of du Maurier’s fiction.

1. The Only One Left by Riley Sager

   Admittedly, I have a very tumultuous reading relationship with Riley Sager. I thoroughly appreciate a fast-paced thriller that keeps me guessing—but he often leaves me with approximately 23 twists too many. The crumbling cliffside mansion off the coast of Maine in this particular Gothic thriller, however, has undeniable Daphne vibes. Also inspired by the infamous Lizzie Borden case, The Only One Left alternates between the perspective of the family’s present-day home health aide and various narratives from the family’s dark past to reveal what really happened on that chilling night in 1929 at Hope’s End.

2. The Sea Child by Linda Wilgus

   Set in early 1800s Cornwall, England, The Sea Child most closely harkens to du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek. The mysterious past of a young widow intertwines with the present day smugglers she encounters upon returning to her childhood seaside village. There’s adventure, romance, and a dash of local folklore to keep things mystical.

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3. The Death of Mrs. Westaway by Ruth Ware

   When a mysterious letter arrives about a sizable inheritance from a grandmother she’s never heard of, Hal, a young tarot card reader, hastily decides to impersonate the rightful recipient; but what began as an artful way to get out of debt quickly snowballs into a race to find out the truth about the Westaway family and leave the eerie Cornish mansion alive. (Ruth Ware, typically, does not disappoint me with 23 twists too many.)

4. Cape Fever by Nadia Davids

   A decaying manor, atmospheric prose, and plenty of supernatural elements give Cape Fever by Nadia Davids definitive du Maurier vibes. This novel is set in a 1920s colonial city, modeled after Cape Town, South Africa. It tells the story of a rather strange and unsettling relationship that slowly develops between a young (and highly underestimated) Muslim maid and her wealthy (and mentally unstable) employer via letter writing transcription sessions. (Think Mrs. Danvers, except it’s her house—not Maxim's.) Themes of colonialism, class, and race are also explored.

   

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5. The Sea by Joh Banville

   Reminiscent of the haunting sense of place that du Maurier captures exceptionally well, John Banville’s The Sea artfully explores grief, mortality, love, childhood, and memory. It tells the story of Max Morden, an Irishman grappling with the loss of his wife, as he revisits the seaside town in which he spent his summer holidays growing up. The present poetically weaves into the past as Morden’s memory is revived and he reflects—but memory, much like the nature of the sea, is at its core unreliable, forever shifting and churning.

6. Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

   This one is perhaps the most unusual novel on the list. Set in the 1950s Mexican countryside, an unsuspecting young socialite travels to the decaying Doyle family mansion to find out just what exactly is going on with her newlywed cousin in this strange estate. (Think My Cousin Rachel and The House on the Strand, but also mushrooms. Lots and LOTS of mushrooms.) “The Gloom” lingers long after you’ve put this unsettling story down.

7. The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

   When a reclusive, dying author recruits a young bookseller to write her biography, plenty of family secrets—including a “thirteenth tale” that was never revealed before—resurface. The host of du Maurier elements in The Thirteenth Tale include haunted houses, governesses, a decaying estate, and family curses. (Admittedly, I have yet to read this novel and it’s still currently teetering on my TBR stack—so no spoilers on this one, please!)

What other contemporary novels with Daphne du Maurier influences would you add to this list? (I am never not searching for them…)

The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim is one of those novels.

Aside from the fact that I share the novel’s namesake (and it’s my birth month), this lovely little story features all of my favorite elements: the search for beauty, subtle satire, dry humor, a Mediterranean setting, and a humble castle. I don’t know how Elizabeth von Arnim managed to roll all these elements so effortlessly together but she did—and I am eternally grateful to her for it.

Admittedly, I have been meaning to seek out the author’s other works—but I just can’t get past the delight that The Enchanted April stirs in me; it is the most perfect and most potent spring read after a long, cold, and downright dismal winter and I am never not grateful for its rich and refreshing prose.

If you’re aching for beauty and new life and sunshine, this is the book that delivers—every time.

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Here’s a brief synopsis: When life becomes unbearably gray, four unlikely women take to the sea on the cusp of spring for a holiday in an Italian castle. This sunshine and wisteria charged novel proves that sometimes a change of scenery is just what one needs. The power of beauty and its ability to heal even the hardest of hearts springs forth with the flora and fauna pushing up and out of the earth—and by the end of the book, you will have been a bit transformed yourself. (And even the most unlikeable characters will have steadily developed the ability to charm you.)

Having read this novel three (four?) times, I often see a bit of myself in each of the four women and I’m wondering which one I will most closely relate with this time. Regardless, I suspect this read-through will have me itching to visit the most vibrant and whimsical of gardens within an hour’s drive time. (This happens every spring I decide to read this book and I’m sure my family has just become accustomed at this point.)

If you’ve yet to read this gem I’m genuinely excited for you; it’s one of those lesser-known classics I love to discover more than any other sort of book.

Project Gutenberg prevails, and while there is certainly nothing wrong with an ebook edition (which is, actually, how I first read The Enchanted April), I highly recommend getting your hands on a physical copy (or perhaps an audiobook?) if possible—for this is a book that is meant to be read in direct sunlight.

Happy, happy reading “To Those Who Appreciate Wisteria and Sunshine.”

I don’t need to leave the story with a specific solution or a profound and tidy explanation for the problem—that’s for me to work out in my own mind on my own time. And that’s precisely why I find works such as To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf genuinely important.

On the surface, I think it’s all too easy to say this is a book in which hardly anything of significance transpires and the overall meaning is left up to interpretation. This is, I think, (at least primarily anyway), how art functions; the writing speaks for itself—and also it doesn’t.

Your brain and your thoughts complete the experience.

A stream of conscious narrative told told in three parts across multiple viewpoints, To the Lighthouse explores the perpetual human struggle to form order out of chaos. Each character is working hard—internally, at least—to understand the relations and motivations of those around them, as well as their own minds.

Part I of the novel, The Window, depicts a single afternoon (and evening) via more than 100 pages of excruciating detail. (Really, this is nothing compared to Dostoevsky’s Part I of The Brothers Karamazov, though.) Consequently, it’s all too easy to argue that this is a flashing neon sign of a plotless novel—but I would argue that this simply offers us an astoundingly clear mirror of real life. To the Lighthouse is refreshingly thorough. Frankly, I need to know that this is how people internally experience life too; in the end it might just be the very thing that unites us all. Those fleeting, absent-minded thoughts weaving in and out of the external happenings in real time—those little illuminations are everything. Those unexpected matches make up a person, and only great writing is capable of mirroring this process back to us.

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Furthermore, while I do not mother eight children and own a holiday house by the sea, I found Mrs. Ramsay unexpectedly relatable. And when I did not see myself directly in her character, I saw many women I know and admire and wonder about. For what woman with any sort of home to manage does not have her own version of “the bill for the greenhouse” ever lurking in the back of her mind, weaving itself into every thought and consideration?

There are clear struggles of gender roles and marriage dynamics explored in To the Lighthouse, but the themes that more plainly stood out to me were the passage of time and the coming of age (particularly of Lily Briscoe).

Part II, Time Passes, beautifully and painfully describes the decay of the once stately house—a time in which three members of the Ramsay family die. It sets the stage for the final portion of the novel, in which everything is now changed and the effects of time passing are profoundly evident: James now decidedly and thoroughly resents his father, Mr. Ramsay is even more so hardened without his wife, and Lily is on the brink of a breakthrough.

“Always (it was in her nature, or in her sex, she did not know which) before she exchanged the fluidity of life for the concentration of painting she had a few moments of nakedness when she seemed like an unborn soul, a soul reft of body, hesitating on some windy pinnacle and exposed without protection to all the blasts of doubt. Why then did she do it? She looked at the canvas, lightly scored with running lines. It would be hung in the servants’ bedrooms. It would be rolled up and stuffed under a sofa. What was the good of doing it then, and she heard some voice saying she couldn’t paint, saying she couldn’t create, as if she were caught up in one of those habitual currents in which after a certain time experience forms in the mind, so that one repeats words without being aware any longer who originally spoke them.

Can paint, can’t write, she murmured monotonously, anxiously considering what her plan of attack should be. For the mass loomed before her; it protruded; she felt it pressing on her eyeballs. Then, as if some juice necessary for the lubrication of her faculties were spontaneously squirted, she began precariously dipping among the blues and umbers, moving her brush hither and thither, but it was now heavier and went slower, as if it had fallen in with some rhythm which was dictated to her (she kept looking at the hedge, at the canvas) by what she saw, so that while her hand quivered with life, this rhythm was strong enough to bear her along with it on its current. Certainly she was losing consciousness of outer things. And as she lost consciousness of outer things, and her name and her personality and her appearance, and whether Mr. Carmichael was there or not, her mind kept throwing up from its depths, scenes, and names, and sayings, and memories and ideas, like a fountain spurting over that glaring hideously difficult white space, while she modeled it with greens and blues.”

-Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

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In her struggle to paint—against all her doubts and insecurities and external forces—Lily is wrestling to form order out of chaos. Here we could argue she finally discovers once and for all her love for Mrs. Ramsay (yet another storytelling device that makes me think of John Banville’s The Sea), but I think it’s the “life stand still here,” that is the real revelation for Lily: There are “little daily miracles, illuminations” that make up life and, consequently, make it worth living. 1

Overall, I don’t think this is necessarily a novel that says moments and memories are all we have. I think To the Lighthouse is a novel that suggests moments and memories are not nothing, and that, perhaps, they all work together to add up to something—much like the brushstrokes that ultimately lead to a painting.

Admittedly, I am not entirely sure what the lighthouse itself symbolizes, other than maybe the unexpected nature of life to not always transpire the way we think or plan. It is a constant, sure and steady thing, a lighthouse—very much the opposite of the churning sea surrounding it and the unpredictably of life—but it might just serve to symbolize the idea that the only thing we really can be certain about in life is the uncertainty of life.

(But if you have a different idea about what the lighthouse—and the family’s delayed trip to the lighthouse—could symbolize I definitely want to know it.)

I can say with confidence this won’t be my last Virginia Woolf. The writing was truly captivating and I am sucker for a story in which seemingly hardly anything happens if it means I lose myself in the language and the characters and the (probably seaside) setting.

If you read To the Lighthouse please share your thoughts—or rather, please add your brushstrokes to this virtual canvas.

If you’ve been around since the 2024 inception of Old Soul Books, thank you.

You’ve endured my sporadic posting schedule, my (probably ill-informed) literary ramblings, and a host of other less-than-ideal tweaks as I’ve stumbled my way into the Substacksphere.

I am truly grateful.

And also rather intent on staying as transparent as possible.

That’s why I want to send you a quick note to acknowledge the name change of this little corner of the internet. The Provincial Library—highly and unequivocally inspired by E.M. Delafield’s Diary of a Provincial Lady—is a more apt (and way less abstract) attempt to describe what exactly it is I’ve set out to portray with both this humble publication and my reading life as a whole.

Essentially, nothing more than the name of this Substack is changing at this point in time: It will still feature a monthly read-along novel. It will still feature book lists. It will still be free.

It will still, primarily, just be me rambling about what I am reading.

I’ve tweaked the About Page just a bit, so if there is a friend (or two!) of yours that would enjoy what The Provincial Library has to offer, please invite them into our literary meanderings.

And again, thank you, thank you for being here! Your comments and suggestions (truly, truly) fuel the continuation of this little publication.

Typically, I prefer to read novels set in conjunction with the present season, but I’ve been meaning to get to Virginia Woolf for months now and I could use a coastal summer setting to remind me of the sunlight and the green grass that is to come.

Admittedly, I am unsure if this is where one should start with Virginia Woolf, as To the Lighthouse will be my first experience with her work, aside from a handful of short stories. I do plan to get to some non-fiction at some point, particularly A Room of One’s Own. (So, of course, I’d love to hear from you about what works of hers you’ve loved and/or maybe did not enjoy.)

A highly descriptive and character-driven novel, To the Lighthouse, deviates from the typical plot-driven story—a characteristic I am well aware many readers do not prefer.

I am not one of those readers.

I am of the readers who prefer plot lines in which nearly next to nothing happens if that means I am privy to deep insight into the characters; when I pick up a book, I prefer to feel at home in the skin of the character I am currently reading about rather than my own.

As an added bonus, this particular novel explores complex family dynamics in a holiday house by the sea—an all too familiar trope I just can’t resist. While the story seems to (somewhat) revolve around a postponed visit to the nearby lighthouse, I get the feeling that the Ramsay family is made up of so much more than their annual trips to the Isle of Skye and the social status they’ve worked to cultivate. I suspect that the passing of time will reveal much.

So far, I’ve loved the sparse dialogue and meandering prose that allows one to traverse the buried thoughts and underlying motivations of the characters in To the Lighthouse. This kind writing is oxygen to a restless mind.

This kind of writing is art.

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I once skimmed a lengthy list of classic novels to “skip” on a (fairly) popular Substack and—to my horror—found some shocking works and writers listed; Virginia Woolf being one of the (too) many writers mentioned. So, I suppose you could say I’m determined to find out for myself if these sort of lists should even exist.

(I highly suspect they should not.)

Not every book is for every reader—but I simply refuse to believe that any book, no matter how flawed it may be, does not have something of value to convey. (For even though I personally did not enjoy the highly praised Theo of Golden, I can see with the utmost clarity what it sought to accomplish and how it romanced its readers.)

I am also vividly reminded of John Banville’s The Sea—another novel I did not enjoy as much as I’d hoped—as I read To the Lighthouse and cannot help but think it was a strong influence for Banville’s novel.

Of course, I probably shouldn’t set my expectations of this work too high. (I am fully prepared to lose myself in the stream of conscious and re-read passages in an effort to find my footing again.) I am, however, throughly pleased with the story and the writing I’ve encountered so far.

A slow read is (probably) in order.

Other books currently teetering on the March stack include:

• Buckeye by Patrick Ryan

• The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion by Beth Brower

• Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood

• Normal People by Sally Rooney

• My Life in France by Julia Child and Alex Prud’homme

• Ordinary Time by Annie B. Jones

• Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter by various writers, from Chesterton to L’Engle

• Who Knows What Else Will Find Its Way To My AirPods And/Or Local Library Hold Shelf

Honestly and truly: What am I in for with Virginia Woolf?

Nothing—and I truly mean nothing—makes me feel more seen than a novel written in journal format; combine that with a nameless narrator and I will (inevitably) have difficulty differentiating between myself and the storyteller.

It heals something in me.

(And in this case, has also probably pushed me out of a moderate bout of seasonal depression.)

I will say, however, that while I expected to laugh at several passages I did not expect to laugh at nearly every sentence—nor did I expect to relate so intimately with a 1930s English countryside woman.

I most certainly do not, have not, and will never employ anything or anyone even remotely close to that of a parlor maid or cook—I do, have, and will likely continue to, however, experience the following shared and humorously fretful concerns of Delafield’s nameless narrator: frequent doubts about the methods in which I raise two children, a looming sense of financial awareness, ever present image and fashion insecurities, and even a (rather frequent) dissatisfaction with Book of the Month Club.

(Not to mention a hesitant desire to be interesting, well-read, and not rejected by every publication I submit pieces to. )

My fears of becoming an old Mrs. Blenkinsop may not run quite as deep as the Provincial Lady’s, but I cannot state with certainty that they are not present.

I want to experience a true sense of self just as much as any other modern day woman drowning in heaps of housekeeping tasks and over-worn cardigans.

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And so, the timeless nature of such a work reminds me yet again of the importance of thoughtful, relatable, and honest literature; in these works we are not just seen, we are celebrated. Our humanity and the ordinary nature of our individual lives—of which we can never fully escape—is important.

The danger lies in forgetting its value—and in the process, losing our sense of self.

Countless passages in Diary of a Provincial Lady work to not only charm and humor the reader, but also serve as mirror into which we can find validation and great comfort:

February 28th.—Notice, and am gratified by, appearance of large clump of crocuses near the front gate. Should like to make whimsical and charming reference to these, and try to fancy myself as ‘Elizabeth of the German Garden,’ but am interrupted by Cook, saying that the Fish is here, but he’s only brought cod and haddock, and the haddock doesn’t smell any too fresh, so what about cod?

Have often noticed that Life is like that.

-E.M. Delafield, Diary of a Provincial Lady

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(Can we take a moment to appreciate the elective capitalization? Because I just think it is everything.)

The nameless narrator’s frequent queries and memos were all too familiar in terms of my own pen and paper journal entries. And as I am just now emerging from a week of nursing virus-stricken children, couch-confined comforting, and a slight sense of queasiness of my own, the Provincial Lady’s nearly constant battles of sickness were downright affirming: I am not failing at anything. I am simply weathering the life of a provincial Ohio mother.

To say that this was a timely read for me in the throws of a typical Midwest February is a bit of an understatement. This particular book effortlessly combines the self-deprecating nameless narrator trope I so quickly loved in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca with the charismatic wit of Cassandra Mortmain’s journal entries in Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle.

And so I will, henceforth, be recommending this stunning little work to women of all ages and walks of life—and quite possibly be tracking down its successors.

In the meantime, I must know from other readers if the following books in the series are just as excellent?

(Would also appreciate any and all recommendations similar to this beloved book.)

Ultimately, I’m grateful to have taken the time to read and examine this classic work but I do not think I will ever read it again.

Many of the underlying suspicions I felt brewing in Parts I and II (which you can read about here) came to pass; Smerdyakov and Ivan were quietly at work to murder their father. And the puzzling behavior of Father Zosima toward Dimitri proved prophetic. (Of this I am surprised I did not exactly predict.)

A lot of seemingly unrelated narratives and concepts are explored in this novel, so I will try my best to sort out the concepts that stuck with me. A book as dense as The Brothers Karamazov most definitely warrants more than one read-through—but I am (probably) not the reader with the courage and capacity to do so.

I will plainly state that the plot point I had troubling reconciling to the rest of the novel was Lise’s erratic behavior toward Alyosha. It simply felt out of place as I was reading and it required a SparkNotes reference (I am only slightly embarrassed to admit) to help me see the parallels between her love of disorder and the inevitable consequences of Ivan’s logic.

Additionally, I frequently had trouble piecing together exactly what was happening when. (I cannot help but think this is on purpose in order to maintain suspense—but surely there are other ways, Dostoevsky, to achieve this?) For instance, it is still unclear to me when exactly Ivan returned after his father’s death and if Alyosha suspected Smerdyakov all along.

It simply felt, to me at least, as if the story was told in fragments—with frequent side plots interrupting—and I had to hang in there in the hopes that the story would eventually all piece together and explain itself plainly.

(It did not.)

Much of The Brothers Karamazov is left up to interpretation. On the surface, this is frustrating. Underneath, I suppose it’s entirely the point.

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Justice and vindication are not offered at the novel’s end. The resolution is seemingly not there. In fact, I found nearly everything about the ending to be anti-climatic and I was notably frustrated—up until the story’s final paragraphs.

The death of Fyodor Pavlovich—and I suppose Smerdyakov as well—serves as a seed to a new legacy; in dying Fyodor Pavlovich makes way for his sons to wrestle through the traditional Karamazov name. The brothers, consequently, come out on the other side better for it.

In spite of the patient and gentle nature of Alyosha, I found myself most moved by the unhindered honesty and passionate transformation of Dimitri—even if it does border on martyrdom:

Brother, these last two months I’ve found in myself a new man. A new man has risen up in me. He was hidden in me, but would never have come to the surface, if it hadn’t been for this blow from heaven. I am afraid! And what do I care if I spend twenty years in the mines, breaking ore with a hammer? I am not a bit afraid of that—it’s something else I am afraid of now: that that new man may leave me. Even there, in the mines, underground, I may find a human heart in another convict and murderer by my side, and I may make friends with him, for even there one may live and love and suffer. One may thaw and receive a frozen heart in that convict, one may wait upon him for years, and at least bring up from the dark depths a lofty soul, a feeling, suffering creature; one may bring forth an angel, create a hero! There are so many of them, hundreds of them, and we are all to blame for them. Why was it I dreamed of that ‘babe’ at such a moment? ‘Why is the babe so poor?’ That was a sign to me at that moment. It’s for the babe I’m going. Because we are all responsible for all. For all the ‘babes,’ for there are big children as well as little children . All are ‘babes.’ I go for all, because someone must go for all. I didn’t kill father, but I’ve got to go. I accept it. It’s all come to me here, here, within these peeling walls. There are numbers of them there, hundreds of them underground, with hammers in their hands. Oh, yes, we shall be in chains and there will be no freedom , but then, in our great sorrow, we shall rise again to joy, without which man cannot live nor God exist, for God gives joy: it’s His privilege—a grand one. Ah, man should be dissolved in prayer! What should I be underground there without God? Rakitin’s laughing! If they drive God from the earth, we shall shelter Him underground. One cannot exist in prison without God; it’s even more impossible than out of prison. And then we men underground will sing from the bowels of the earth a glorious hymn to God, with Whom is joy. Hail to God and His joy! I love Him!”

- Fyodor Dostoevsky (as Dimitri) in The Brothers Karamazov, Book XI, Chapter IV

Dmitri’s felt responsibility for the good of all men enables him to transcend his temporal, present suffering; there is a joy and a love that outlasts even death and “the bowels of the earth” and Dimitri has encountered it. In this way, he is the brother that is able to mirror Christ in the most tangible way.

Even Ivan, it can be argued, is forced to reconcile his flawed logic with the idea that we are all, in fact, responsible for one another, in one way or another. In grappling with his partial responsibility for the murder of his father he finds that indeed, all things are not lawful and taking no moral responsibility for others only leads to death in all its forms.

There is, certainly, no happy ending for the brothers. There is, however, a quietly transformative ending. The name Karamazov no longer bears the tumultuous weight it once did. The selfish nature of the family legacy has destroyed itself from within, and the brothers that are living are left to walk out an entirely different legacy—a legacy that both bears responsibility and seeks to do what is good.

And while the anti-climatic nature of The Brothers Karamazov feels somewhat disappointing, I can’t help but think “Well, such is life.” Rarely are the legacies of a name re-written with fanfare and applause and dramatic vindications; it is the internal wrestling and the quiet resolve to do better that give us the daily strength and endurance that are needed to press on and truly re-write our family history.

For this reason—and quite possibly this reason alone—The Brothers Karamazov will likely always be a special read to me.

(Even if I never muster the courage to pick it up again.)

And, honestly, what other experience in life even compares?

I am wholeheartedly convinced that these magical moments are the ones that keep me going—especially when my reading life has stalled and I am trudging through a classic I am only half enjoying. (Am now two books deep into Part IV of The Brothers Karamazov; don’t give up on me now! Also, am precisely six pages into Diary of a Provincial Lady and am already picking up the writing style. Send help.)

The timing of such an experience is (nearly never) not lost on me.

If I haven’t already stated in my ramblings before, I work part-time in the coziest, most carefully curated small town bookshop to ever grace this (arguably) down-trodden region of Ohio. Essentially, I work for the Kathleen Kelly of my city. (We don’t deserve her and she is quietly helping us all stay sane in these trying days, one book sale at a time.) And so I absolutely must take her reading recommendations with the utmost sincerity—especially now that she has my reading preferences perfectly pegged.

Enter: E. M. Delafield’s Dairy of a Provincial Lady.

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What began as a weekly column in the publication Time and Tide eventually turned into Delafield’s most widely-known novel, Diary of a Provincial Lady, which was published in 1930. (I have been graciously loaned the Persephone Books edition and will henceforth be making more of an effort to both peruse and purchase from this particular publisher and bookseller.)

If the first paragraph—and the title itself—is the least bit telling, I suspect I will be howling with laughter through much of this book:

November 7th.—Plant the indoor bulbs. Just as I am in the middle of them, Lady Boxe calls. I say, untruthfully, how nice to see her, and beg her to sit down while I just finish the bulbs. Lady B. makes determined attempt to sit down in armchair where I have already placed two bulb-bowls and the bag of charcoal, is headed off just in time, and takes the sofa.

- E. M. Delafield, Diary of a Provincial Lady

I also suspect this lovely little book is a delightfully rich mix of the charm, wit, and domestic drama of Jane Austen, Dodie Smith, and (our contemporary) Beth Brower. (Another dear friend has repeatedly recommended The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion, a series I very nearly started before I was loaned Diary of a Provincial Lady—which I highly suspect serves as a direct inspiration for the contemporary series.)

Ultimately, however, I know I will inevitably gush over this book because it is, at its core, a journal—which might just be my favorite storytelling format ever. (Have not stopped gushing over I Capture the Castle and I don’t expect to ever do so.)

A handwritten journal is where, I believe, a writer is truly most at home—factual or fictional.

I don’t care if the recorded events ever actually occurred or not; I simply need the raw, unadulterated thoughts that accompany them. Those accompanying thoughts are oxygen to me. They grant me permission to record my own and revel in the humanity of them.

But I am (probably) getting carried away.

Do consider reading this gem for yourself along with me. (Hard copies may be difficult to obtain, but audio versions and Project Gutenberg prevail.) I would love to compare favorite passages.

Other books I will (hopefully) read this month include:

• A House Like A Lotus by Madeliene L’Engle

• The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

• Writers & Lovers by Lily King

• So Late in the Day by Claire Keegan

• Buckeye by Patrick Ryan

• The Return of the Prodigal Son by Henri Nouwen

• The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (…but you already knew)

• A Host Of Audiobooks I Do Not Currently Have Sitting In A Stack In Front Of Me Like The Others

What will you read this month? Have you ever read (or heard of) Diary of a Provincial Lady?

A truly sobering take on the legacies we leave, Marce Catlett: The Force of a Story does not romanticize the power of story and familial inheritance. Instead, this short but potent novel takes an honest look at three generations of Catlett men. Their hopes, failures, and ambitions are explored, and we are left to consider how we might navigate our own stories—or rather, our own inheritance.

I believe Berry is asking us to consider both what we have been left with and how we will move forward with what we have been left with.

It is easy to argue that next to nothing happens in Marce Catlett, and that’s probably because the novel is more of an analysis of a story, rather than a lengthy and descriptive narrative. (However, rest assured that Berry’s descriptions are just as poetic and accurate as always; I did not want the simple passage describing Marce and Sunfish’s relationship to end—and I have never once in my life felt at ease around a horse.)

I think it is also easy to argue that Marce Catlett reads a bit like an essay at times, but I don’t think we can fault Berry for this. (Frankly, if he’s going to rally and write for us in his final years, he deserves to get a little preachy.)

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What is most interesting—and confounding on the surface and on the surface only— about Marce Catlett is that it is really, primarily, a story about Andy Catlett.

The book is divided into two sections: The Past and The Future, of which just thirty-three of those pages are included in The Past. This is, of course, intentional. We are examining the impact of Marce’s story—his hope for his family and his failure to his family—in the form of Andy’s story. We cannot understand one story without the other, as Berry so aptly explains himself on pages 110-111 of the novel:

“Andy could not have understood his father until he had understood his grandfather. He could not have understood his grandfather until he had understood father. He could not have understood his father until he had understood the tobacco program and himself as one among its beneficiaries. And he supposes that he could not have completed his understanding of his grandfather and his father until he understood, more or less, himself as he is now, having, like them and with them, grown old—the three of them united by their efforts, so far failed, to establish a sufficient, reasonably self-sufficient, permanent, inheritable, and renewable farm life in a beloved place. This has been for each of them a powerful vision and desire: modest, entirely reasonable, but still a possibility out of reach.”

-Wendell Berry, Marce Catlett: The Force of a Story

It is the dwindling tobacco industry and its harmful impacts on society at large that Marce cannot avoid nor control. Nevertheless, the desire to farm and live off the land lives on in both Wheeler and Andy—and they continue this familial story to the best of their abilities in spite of the economy and technological advances and other external forces at work. In spite of the world they’ve inherited, the Catlett’s press on—and it does not look the way they had hoped.

I can’t help but wonder—since Andy Catlett is the character he has himself claimed to most identify with—if this is precisely how Wendell Berry feels on his farm today.

In my defeatist’s heart, Marce Catlett almost feels like a story of despair. What Berry describes as unsettling forces of greed, competition, and false economy feel all too encompassing (pg. 112). And true community is perhaps but a passing ray of light.

But of course, Berry does not quite leave us there.

In the final pages of the novel, Berry offers a sort of baffled gratitude that a divine hand is at work to spare us all. He suggests that, in spite of all we’ve inherited and all that we might deserve, we are still here.

And perhaps that is the true gift: that while we might work to preserve—and even romanticize—the stories of our past, we are still given the opportunity to write our own, in spite of the great flaws and failures we have inherited.

We only need the courage to press on and continue the story.

What do you think Grandfather Berry is saying to us in this hour? If you’ve read Marce Catlett, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Among this armful was Allen Levi’s Theo of Golden.

I don’t want to write an entire post about what I think is wrong with this book—but I also feel it’s important to work out my own thoughts on this book because it is an undeniably popular read at this point in time and I don’t seem to feel the way that many readers do. (Perhaps I’ll find that posting these thoughts to Substack—rather than scribbling them out privately with pen and paper—is not the way to handle this particular issue; I never want to intentionally trash an artist’s or author’s work.)

Regardless, I can’t help but wonder if there are other confounded souls out there that just can’t sing the praises this modern read typically evokes.

First and foremost, I think it’s important to note that I listened to Theo of Golden, and I genuinely wonder if my experience would have been different if I had read a physical copy of the book. Overall, I found the story to carry a puzzling sort of condescending tone—and that could very well be because I (personally) felt that the narrator carried a condescending tone.

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On the surface, I think it’s easy to argue that this book isn’t for everyone simply because of its sweetness and tidiness. I believe it is a story that’s meant to charm us, to point us to the beauty life can hold in spite of its brokenness. And in that regard, I can one thousand percent understand the appeal.

We are hungry for stories that point to beauty. We are hungry for stories that convey some of life’s deepest truths. And we are hungry to be truly seen—which is precisely what the (seemingly) saintly character of Theo spends much of the novel doing.

And this is precisely why I believe the premise of the story is both appealing and promising to readers—myself included.

I enjoyed many of the author’s explorations of humanity, such as “the good sadness” he observes and talks about in chapter 7. And I appreciated much of the symbolic devices used in the story, particularly the river conveying the cyclical yet ever-changing nature of life.

What I found unappealing, however, was the obvious evangelical nature of the novel; should we be able to tell so quickly it is present?

Madeliene L’Engle, I think, would argue no.

It is not, I think, that art and story should not be evangelical in nature—for how incomplete would the world of literature be without works such as Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities—but it’s the obvious nature of the evangelicalism that is the problem for me.

Even when blatant scripture and religious elements are present in a book, I believe there’s a way to keep the preachiness at bay. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeliene L’Engle is an excellent example. I remember reading the novel in grade school and wondering: Is this a Christian book? It must be. Then another chapter later I thought: It can’t possibly be.

For me, A Wrinkle in Time is a story that transcends false dichotomies. There is no spiritual vs. secular or faith vs. science; it is all mixed together in the bag and I left the book better for it.

Theo of Golden did not leave me with such a feeling.

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Perhaps this was because many of the book’s characters often fell flat for me. I felt they were difficult to really know—in spite of all the external personal information we are given about each of their lives—and this could have simply been because of the nature of the story: The brief but powerful encounters they have with Theo are meant to teach us moral lessons…lessons that nearly every character is mysteriously on board with both receiving and conveying.

We are told much about these characters, but we are hardly shown anything about these characters. (This might be precisely why I tend to enjoy a well-written book in which seemingly nothing happens—and I leave knowing the characters inside and out.)

Ultimately, this book takes on some heavy issues and tensions about the nature of life and what it means to be human, but it simply felt forced to me. I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to view the story through a lens of grit and realism or a more fantastical one of fable and allegory. For whatever reason, those lenses did not blend effortlessly in my particular line of vision.

Additionally, I felt that there was a hidden formula at work—or rather a subtle form of faulty theology—that I think was (probably intentionally) weaved into the story: If you are kind and graceful and Christ-like, many people will receive you well and you will leave a legacy.

In real life—and in real faith—however, many of the most Christ-like souls go unnoticed and can be gravely misunderstood—while many unkind people with tainted intentions can have sweeping influence.

You could argue that Theo’s unexpected and tragic death at the end is the story’s way of remedying such a faulty formula—but even that tragedy feels forced to me. Why?

I also felt that most—if not all—of the characters in the novel were either clearly devote Christians or aggressively anti-Christ. Where were the people struggling to believe? The doubters? The wrestlers grappling in the gray? What if you have trouble reconciling the beauty of life (and God) with the ever present darkness we’ve no choice but to live in? What if you see both and you’re marred by both?

I think my main issue with a work like Theo of Golden is that I know it is a work that has set out to teach me something. (Did anyone else feel like the reveal of Theo as Asher’s father was simply Theo’s attempt at teaching Asher a lesson? What on earth are we to make of that?) Reading novels can certainly teach us many things, but I believe that reading isn’t supposed to so obviously teach us; it is supposed to subtly change us.

In short, I believe that reading should make me feel what the writer and/or characters are feeling and I just didn’t—or couldn’t—feel what these characters were feeling.

Tell me I am wrong. I want to be wrong. (Because I am never not grappling in the gray.)

What did you honestly think of Theo of Golden? What did this story leave you with?