The number of books I've actually digested this summer is not too shabby, I must be proud to say. Here are my favorites:
1. Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Her writing is so soothing, like rubbing aloe on sunburnt skin. It's even better at night, after a hectic day of running to and fro places. This book kind of makes me want to be a neo-hippie (minus the "experimentation") with long tresses, flowy dresses and a backyard with a view.
2. A collection of poems by Langston Hughes
All of a sudden, I became a fan of poetry (I know!). Langston Hughes inspires me so much, almost as much as Maya Angelou. He mostly discusses African American culture in the most lyrical way, as if conducting his own personal sweet melody. It's amazing to read, but even better to read aloud. Here is his Daybreak in Alabama.
When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.
3. Kate Chopin's The Awakening
So it was required reading. So what? Is there some ultimate toll I must pay just because it was thrown at me, instead of plucked by me? I think sexual provocation is the big ticket here. The main character is scouring for her soul, the very element that makes her tick. No, it's not as dramatic as Lifetime movies (like Sex & the Single Mom and More Sex & the Single Mom), but I appreciate it that much more.
4. Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass
I would recommend Walt Whitman on a breezy, late summer day with the air permeated with the scent of fresh-cut grass (probably because there's grass in the title and my book is green). Here's the type of poetry that really excites me (too nerdy, per say?) for it contains this riveting effect, too robust to be contained in the tranquility of nighttime. And I like his beard, too. You know, they ought to charge extra for that beard.
We Two—How Long We were Fool’d
| WE two—how long we were fool’d! | |
| Now transmuted, we swiftly escape, as Nature escapes; | |
| We are Nature—long have we been absent, but now we return; | |
| We become plants, leaves, foliage, roots, bark; | |
| We are bedded in the ground—we are rocks; | 5 |
| We are oaks—we grow in the openings side by side; | |
| We browse—we are two among the wild herds, spontaneous as any; | |
| We are two fishes swimming in the sea together; | |
| We are what the locust blossoms are—we drop scent around the lanes, mornings and evenings; | |
| We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals; | 10 |
| We are two predatory hawks—we soar above, and look down; | |
| We are two resplendent suns—we it is who balance ourselves, orbic and stellar—we are as two comets; | |
| We prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods—we spring on prey; | |
| We are two clouds, forenoons and afternoons, driving overhead; | |
| We are seas mingling—we are two of those cheerful waves, rolling over each other, and interwetting each other; | 15 |
| We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious, impervious: | |
| We are snow, rain, cold, darkness—we are each product and influence of the globe; | |
| We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again—we two have; | |
| We have voided all but freedom, and all but our own joy. |
