To be drawn into a well-written story is the very reason I read books. To read fiction and believe it as nonfiction.
The Winter in Anna was one of those well written stories.
I will tell you, I shudder to think of the dark places author Reed Karaim had to go in order write this book. Yikes.
You see, on page one in paragraph one Anna commits suicide in a manner I would have never imagined. I literally needed to step away from the book before turning to page two. Yes, the shock of the act was part of it, but what was most dominant was the sorrow that washed over me.
Her death was horrible.
Why choose that way?
My God, how painful!
Then 256 pages later, there was closure, and understanding.
* * *
Anna. This beautiful and unspeakably pained woman. How my heart hurt for her and yet how many times I admired her, all at the same time.
Karaim wastes no time in showing us Anna is a woman of many scars – physical and emotional. As dark as this may sound, his ability to take that pain and show its evolutionary process over the years was something I really enjoyed about his writing.
She struggled from her teenage years until she decided to die, but her role as mother, and the responsibility of giving her children the life they deserved was a relentless pursuit of hers. At least, that is my opinion. I’m sure one can make an argument to the contrary, but all in all she adored, and did all she could, for those kids of hers.
Our narrator is Eric. He tells us of Anna’s suicide, shortly after he learns about it himself. For the next 250+ pages, he recalls his time in getting to know her, or rather, as much as she would permit him to know. When she would close the emotional door on him, he told us more of himself.
I have to tell you, when we see Eric as a 20/21-year-old kid, he isn’t very likable. Not at all. Furthermore, I don’t think he realizes it. Today, it is a mature Eric that tells us this story and I found him very easy to like. He grew into a good man. I have a sneaking suspicion that was the author’s intent.
When the time came to close the book, and the story had been told, I wanted to know them both.
I wanted to visit Anna’s final resting place. To sit with her, pray she found peace, and trace the outline of her headstone (similar to that day she and Eric visited the cemetery).
On the other hand, the testosterone driven part of me wanted to save her. To locate the nearest phone booth, change into my cape and fly into that woeful motel room. I would swoop in and whisk her away. Fly her off to paradise … or Bismarck, ND … either/or… just somewhere else, with the hope she will find reason to live for another day, week, month, year …
But the main problem with the latter is this: “Who am I to interfere with someone’s decision on life or death?”
No one. Besides, I can’t fly. Therefore, it’s moot, and I remain on the outside looking in.
I do not want this to sound like I am giving her suicide a shrug of the shoulders and call her a victim, though. The decisions Anna made in her life were her own. She is responsible for her life. But I will also tell you there were a number of circumstances that were not her doing that had a serious impact on her well being. I think it is how we react to tragedy – and all of life’s events – that serves as the chisel, which carves the sculpture of who we are to become over the years.
You can argue she should have been a better mother, but I would contend she did put the kids first. There were times that may have been a significant challenge but she took responsibility for herself as a mother.
My fiancé is reading this now and so far her reaction is markedly different from mine. Only halfway through, it has not gripped her yet. This is equal parts surprising and interesting to me because we are usually on the same page when it comes to books. We like and dislike the same ones. But every now and again one comes along, and we differ. I very much look forward to her finishing. I want to see if her opinion changes. I want to talk at length about the book I enjoyed so much.
I reckon that is the telltale sign of a good book, don’t you? The kind that stays with you days after you have finished it? The kind you cannot wait to talk to others about ad nauseam.
I’d say so about The Winter in Anna.
This is the second book by Reed Karaim.
Words I learned while reading: As I have said in a previous blog, one of my favorite parts of reading is constantly learning words I have either (a) never heard before (b) words I have heard and possess only a vague understanding of and (c) words I thought I knew but discovered I didn’t. Here is the contribution that I received from Reed Karaim’s The Winter in Anna.
Furtive – attempting to avoid notice or attention, typically because of guilt or a belief that discovery would lead to trouble; secretive. Prow – the forward most part of a ship’s bow that cuts through the water. Desiccated – lacking interest, passion, or energy AND dehydrated or powdered. Profligacy [prof-li-guh-see] – a noun meaning reckless extravagance or wastefulness in the use of resources. Archipelago* [ahr-kuh-pel-uh-goh] a large group or chain of islands or any large body of water with many islands. Chasm* – an adjective that is a profound difference between people, viewpoints, feelings, etc. It can also mean a sundering breach in relations, as a divergence of opinions, beliefs, etc., between persons or groups. Obsidian – a hard, dark, glass-like volcanic rock formed by the rapid solidification of lava without crystallization. Somnolent – sleepy, drowsy. Torpor – a state of decreased physiological activity in an animal, usually by a reduced body temperature and metabolic rate. Torpor enables animals to survive periods of reduced food availability. Photogravure /fōdəɡrəˈvyo͝or/ – an image produced from a photographic negative transferred to a metal plate and etched in from which ink reproductions are made. Staccato – with each sound or note sharply detached or separated from the others. Scimitar /ˈsimədər,ˈsiməˌtär/ a short sword with a curved blade that broadens toward the point, used originally in Eastern countries. Crenellation – a pattern along the top of a parapet (fortified wall), most often in the form of multiple, regular, rectangular spaces in the top of the wall, through which arrows or other weaponry may be shot, especially as used in medieval European architecture. Phantasmagorical [fan-taz-muh-gawr-ik, -gor-] (sometimes phantasmagorical) having a fantastic or deceptive appearance, as something in a dream or created by the imagination. Sere dry; withered.
Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk in NYC.
Years ago I read and loved the Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry so when I first heard of this book my line of thinking was, well, maybe this might fall into that category of storytelling.
All in all it seems to me a pretty simple idea.
But, it’s not simple. It is far from simple. It is moving and it is fun and it is sweet and it is heartbreaking and it is witty and above all – like our protagonist – it is very very smart.
This is a beautiful, multilayered journey that covers two miles and 84 (85 if we are being honest) years of the life of an extraordinary woman who – for the most part – lived a full and marvelous life.
Her name is Lillian Boxfish and in the 1930’s she was the highest paid ad-writing female in America. She met someone, fell in love, got married, and got pregnant. Conventional thinking of the times would have you believe that is the proper order of life. It was expected. What was also expected was a woman leaving her job to become a mother regardless of successes, status and/or income. Sure, she continued to write poetry, advertising copy, greeting cards, four line limericks leaving the fifth to be decided by readers and a magazine’s editor. But in the 1930’s and 40’s a woman’s place was in the home raising her children.
Lillian was so much more than “just a mother,” and I use the word “just” with consternation as there is likely no greater role on this earth than that of a loving parent.
But Lillian was so much more than a stay at home Mom. Hell, she was so much more than most.
My God, she was beautiful and to this day I still have no true idea of what she looks like. Author Kathleen Rooney may have described her appearance early on but for one reason or another, it escapes me. It is not important anyway, because all I see when I close my eyes and think of Lillian Boxfish is a brilliant, sharp witted, curious, open minded, willing and at times, a troubled soul with whom I would love to have a glass of wine with….or a bottle.
She, like all amazingly beautiful people, has a multitude of flaws. I will not give anything away, of course, but suffice it to say there was a period in her life when she came face-to-face with a bleak moment. As much of an impact as that time was, and how it continued to construct the person she was to become years after, she never lost that way about her. By that, I mean there was this way where she would give you reasons to never forget her.
She was – she is – memorable.
We found this to be true in several instances. Along this two-mile walk we meet bohemians and store clerks, chauffeurs and artists, parents-to-be and a Vietnam vet security guard; a welcoming family at dinner and a scene with three criminal’s that may be the book’s funniest moment.
Oh, I assure you, Lillian Boxfish’s walk in New York City may seem simple from the outset, and Amazon.com book summary, but it is far from it … unless you want to say it is simply lovely. Then you would be within your rights to use an alternate form of the word. From the time you first crack the binding open, to the moment you close the book, press it against your chest, breathe in deep, wrap your arms around it, you will find yourself so very pleases you have met, and spent this New Year’s Eve with, the remarkable – the oh so very memorable – Lillian Boxfish.
So I say buy this book. Support this author. This is the very reason why we read books and Lillian is someone you will want to get to know.
She is, simply, lovely.
Words I learned while reading: One of my favorite parts of reading is constantly learning words I have either (a) never heard before (b) words I have heard and possess only a vague understanding of their meaning based on the context in which they’ve been written and (c) the most frustrating of the lot – the words I know I know the meaning of until I actually look them up to ensure I am correct only to learn I misunderstood it’s true meaning. That last lot have an * beside them. Here is the contribution that I received from Kathleen Rooney’s Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk.
Contralto – the lowest female singing voice – Vanitas – a still-life painting of a 17th-century Dutch genre containing symbols of death or change as a reminder of their inevitability – Insouciance * (inˈso͞osēəns,) – casual lack of concern; indifference. – Stentorian – (of a person’s voice) loud and powerful. – Enjambments – (in verse) the continuation of a sentence without a pause beyond the end of a line, couplet, or stanza. – Housmanian – reference to an English classical scholar and poet. – Unfraught – not burdened. – Egalitarian – relating to or believing in the principle that all people are equal and deserve equal rights and opportunities. – Petulant* – (of a person or their manner) childishly sulky or bad-tempered. – Joie de vivre (ˌZHwä də ˈvēvrə/)* – exuberant enjoyment of life. – Oleaginous (ˌōlēˈajənəs)- rich in, covered with, or producing oil; oily or greasy AND exaggeratedly and distastefully complimentary; obsequious. “Candidates made the usual oleaginous speeches in the debate.” – Poniard (ˈpänyərd/) – a small, slim dagger. – Endemic* – (of a disease or condition) regularly found among particular people or in a certain area. “Areas where malaria is endemic.” – Flanerie (ˌflän(ə)ˈrē/) – aimless idle behavior.
What do you write when you don’t know what to write? Where do you start if you don’t know what you want to write about but deep down inside all you want to do is punch the keys on the keyboard and make words that flow together into a good story that is entertaining enough to read? It’s frustrating. Very frustrating actually and I am not sure how to bust out of it. One way, I suppose is the stream of consciousness writing. So if this goes off kilter in some way, you’ll know that
A book group friend of my fiancee’s, whom I consider my friend too, asked me about this the other night. She suggested I consider writing as a gift to myself. It immediately struck me as a great idea, a great way to exercise my self esteem and do something for myself that costs nothing but a little time
It was – no, it IS, an idea that I love…and so perhaps that will be my approach for a while. Perhaps I should also not worry too much about posts that HAVE TO BE perfectly written, or written for any one particular person or one particular audience. I have heard when people write they generally have someone in mind they write for. I get that. I’m guilty of that.
I just need to start making that person me.
If you read the blog before this you know I am a fan (new fan) of Jenny Lawson. I read her second book first and am reading her first book now and in it she says bloggers are pretty much broken people. OK, not all bloggers are broken. But many are. In some regard, I get that. I agree with that. I am that. But, we are all a little broken somehow, someway so it is not an insult or a bad thing. At least, not in my opinion. I may go back and read that part again. Maybe a couple more times.
But I am still – without a complete in depth understanding of what she is saying – ready to agree with her. I love Lawson’s blog. Smart. Funny. Random. Disjointed. Goofy. Nonsensical at times. It speaks to me. It is a lot of fun to read. Besides, if it turns out that my blog is a fraction as funny or as entertaining as hers I would welcome said broken brain with open arms … which in theory is healthy but in actuality, the image is totally gross.
So, you know, here it is, here you go, there it is. It ain’t much now but hopefully in a few months will be.
I’ll let you know then.
But, until then, I give this to me as my first gift. Happy birthday to me – six weeks late … OR 46 weeks early.
I must remember to send me a thank you note. Or Aimee. It was her idea. Thanks, Aimee.