I don’t know who you are, or if you’re one person or several. But for the past few years, I’ve benefitted from your castaway books. Of course, that’s what I assume they are as I take my pick of the delicacies and scurry back to my nest.
My friends tease me that I’m stealing books. “I found a great book in my laundry room this week…”
“You mean you STOLE a great book!”
I’m careful not to be greedy, but always happy when I seemingly get first pick of the stash. I look them over carefully and choose one. Upstairs, as I wait for the washer to do its work, I think of one or two others I probably should have grabbed and beat myself up. Half an hour later, I scamper back down to put my laundry in the dryer, hoping against hope that the other book is still there. Oh god, please don’t let anyone else in the building be doing laundry and also interested in reading about Blind Tom, the 19th Century slave musical genius ……
Over the past four years, I’ve found so many wonderful treasures in The Basement Bookmobile. One of the first was Ha Jin’s Waiting. A novel I’d heard about, always thought of reading, and then one day….there it was. And it was brilliant! I still recommend it to friends.
Though I work full-time, I go thru several books a week. Even when the A Train’s running express, that still leaves me at least 25 minutes to read on the trip to Midtown. I do buy new books when I can afford them, love the convenience of Amazon.com and admit that The Strand is my favorite place in NYC.
But nothing beats The Laundry Room. It’s a wonderland of surprises!
A few of my favorites over the years:
The Portable Dorothy Parker
Heirloom: Notes From An Accidental Tomato Farmer
Joseph Campbell’s Myths to Live By
Rape of the Nile: Tomb Robbers, Tourists, and Archaeologists in Egypt
The Egyptian Book of the Dead
The Kite Runner
The Illustrated History of New York
The first three volumes of The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency
Strangers on the Train by Patricia Highsmith
Irish Fairy Tales
The Popular Book: A History of America’s Literary Tastes
Jorge Luis Borges’ Labyrinths
The petit book on Poirot’s Fashion
Essay’s from the Writer’s Workshop
A lovely edition of Rabelais
My gay (and a few straight) friends were particularly jealous when I had Alison Arngrim’s Confessions of a Prairie Bitch in my bag!
And a few months ago, when I was going thru a break-up, suddenly a copy of It’s Called a Break-Up Because It’s Broken appeared as I laundered pajamas stained with ice cream and pizza sauce. Can’t say it was brilliant writing. But was a great little friend to have handy during those dark days.
Last week I became the proud owner of The Vanishing Race on the history of the North American Indian.
And then this week you gifted me with The New York Public Library Desk Reference AND The Moosewood Cookbook!
As a voracious reader, book-lover, and awesome cook!----THANK YOU!!!
For four years, I’ve always loved the mystery of the Laundry Room Book Angel. And frankly, I still do. But have been so overjoyed with the books lately that I really felt the need to finally say “thank you”. Whoever you are.
You make laundry day a pleasure. And wonderful reading the rest of the week.
Stanislawa Przybyszewska is possibly the oddest early 20th Century writer you've never heard of.
The illegitimate daughter of rogue Polish Communist writer Stanislaw Przybyszewski, she spent the latter part of her thirty-four years on this earth holed up in a tiny, unheated room in Gdansk writing and re-writing the same two plays about the French Revolution and Robespierre over and over while strung out on morphine and painting Lysol on her food to preserve it.
It’s also a possibility that she had an incestuous relationship with her father.Incest was apparently quite popular in the 1920s.And these young gals today think they’re so hip with their bi-sexuality.
Oops, sorry---bi-sexuality is SOOOO 90s.
Anyway, she was desperately poor, mentally unstable, and so obsessed with Robespierre and the French Revolution that she began to date her letters (most of which were desperate cries for financial help) according to the Revolutionary calendar.
No one paid any attention to her in her lifetime; and, according to British reviewer Hilary Mantel, “Tuberculosis, morphine and malnutrition were adduced as the causes of death, but she could more truthfully be diagnosed as the woman who died of Robespierre.”
By the way---yet another lonesome artist bites the dust to the tune of consumption!Sorry for the exclamation point, but I’m a little obsessed with consumption lately.
Sometimes, when I get too involved in a project, I think of Stanislawa Przybyszewska.
Tuesday afternoon was a slow day at work and, with few other staff around on this Tuesday, I retreat into my writing.Just as I sit down to eat some lunch and scribble, a table comes in and I put my piece of grilled chicken into the microwave to preserve it.
And it’s cold.Really cold.They won’t close the open windows and doors or turn on the heat.I go to my locker to get the sweater I keep there for just such a day---known around work as my “Grandma Sweater”.
In the back of the restaurant, a maintenance man comes to repair some broken booths and the smell of massive amounts of model-airplane glue permeates the air.
The kind of glue mid-Western kids used to get high off of before meth labs became so trendy.
I begin scribbling blog notes for later----dating my notebook according to the My Right Foot numbered days calendar.
I shuffle back and forth between my reheated chicken and my script with my Grandma Sweater wrapped around me wondering if I’m just tired or the fumes are starting to eat away at my brain as I re-write the same sketch over and over again.
And, except for a couple from Norway at table four who hardly speak English---I’m all alone.
I think of my father who died of…oh, you’re not going to believe this---consumption.
Oh my god.I’m becoming Przybyszewska.
Well, without that nasty incest stuff.He died when I was fourteen; however, like Mr. Przybyszewski, was pretty absent from my life.
Przybyszewska’s biography titled A Life of Solitude was written by Jadwiga Kosicka and Daniel Gerould.
Gerould, by the way, also wrote one of my favorite fun books about the French Revolution, Guillotine:Its Legend and Lore.He’s also a Distinguished Professor of Theatre and Comparative Literature at The City University of New York. A few years ago, I sent him an email asking for some particular information regarding a certain legend/story about the guillotine he had mentioned in his book.He was very kind and wrote back to me with as much information as he could supply.
So, it was quite a surprise to me a year later to stumble across the story of Przybyszewska and discover that Professor Gerould was one of the authors of the book.
It’s a hard book to read.Not in style, but content.Particularly if you’re struggling in the arts.
Unlike other biographies of artists, Przybyszewska never hit the big time.Przybyszewska is never discovered sipping a soft drink at a soda fountain in downtown Los Angeles.Przybyszewska never even had that Van Gogh posthumous sort of fame after her death.
Her plays WERE eventually found and discovered to have literary merit.They have been produced occasionally---around Europe, mostly.And her biggest claim to fame is that the screenplay for the Gerard Depardieu film, Danton, was based on her script—however, with quite a few ideological changes. Przybyszewska had just a bit too much morphine and Robespierre on the brain.
And the film, after all, was called Danton.
While Przybyszewska’s story is certainly fascinating, it’s not the sort of thing a struggling artist should read on a bad day.
Her last letter ---written to writer, Thomas Mann in November 1934, reads:
"I've run out of bread, and I can't get along without it. The cold is torturing me. Every object in my room is laden with pain; in each 'bent' muscle there lurks pain, unimaginable spiritual and bodily pain. And nothing and no one provides an answer. And nowhere any love. And the self-torture of my exercises is no longer possible: I don't have any courage left.
Had I know that such suffering is possible---I simply would have refused to come into the world.
I can neither live nor die.
Against my wishes, my thoughts blaspheme. I don't want anything. Or anyone (oh, Lord, oh, God, that this must be true!); only peace and quiet.
Yes---peace and quiet.
That's easy to say!
I'm not pure enough. I've used myself up. I've misused myself. Then...
I know only one thing. I can't go on."
And then, she died.
That legendary, beautiful consumptive death that lurked in garrets all over the world. Like Mimi and Camille. Only Przybyszewska was real. No director yelling "Cut". Just a final breath and a cautionary tale.
The lesson learned:There are no guarantees.
Other lesson learned:Get out of the garret!!!For godsakes, get out of that cold miserable garret of the apartment or of the mind and interact with real live people!
It’s easy to get wrapped up in a project, but a long time ago, I discovered that sometimes people are the best medicine. Sometimes, other people are also the best cure for Artistic Scurvy.
So, despite the fumes beginning to put me to sleep at work, I decided to make sure I drug myself out to the theatre/writers group tonight.No matter how uncomfortable I feel or how much I hate the forced social atmosphere of the place.
Tonight, after a long string of rainy days, I need to be around people.
One thing I’ve noticed about people is that most people like to talk about themselves.And, in general, that’s a good thing.
However, some people take over the conversation with their stories, attitudes, suggestions, declarations, beliefs and random thoughts---all about them.
I encounter one or two of these folks tonight.They’re okay people.
For about five minutes.
After that, I begin to tune the continuous sound of their voice out of my head and begin to glance around for others like myself. People with little to no agenda.People who just enjoy a good conversation for the sake of itself.Real people who can talk and listen and comment and jump back with a snappy response.
Fun people.Nice people.People involved in the moment and the other people around them.
It seems odd to me that Przybyszewska chose Robespierre as an idol.
"I have the calm certainty," she wrote to a friend in one of her letters, "that I understand Robespierre better than anyone whose works are known to me."
As someone who knows a little about Robespierre, I would say that “The sentence, the guillotine, and the beheading were adduced as the causes of death, but Robespierre could more truthfully be diagnosed as the man who died of Robespierre.”
After all, Robespierre was the man who had sent bands of criminals into the convents and rectories all over Paris with the orders to kill the clergy.He shut up the churches and forbid all forms of godly worship.He then called for a day of celebration known as The Festival of the Supreme Being.The cardboard and paper-mache mountain designed by Revolutionary artist David, was a tribute to Nature and a call to worship "The Supreme Being".
Oddly, or not so oddly, Robespierre made sure he was the first to ascend the peak of the “mountain” over-looking the crowds of Paris.
To many, Robespierre was positioning himself as The Supreme Being.
Robespierre would meet the guillotine two months later.But this time, it would be only his head over-looking the angry mob of Paris.
After the theatre group let out, we headed over to the after-bar.Most of the Przybyszewskas of the group don’t even attend this weekly after-haunt.But the Robespierre’s are there.Talking and talking and talking.Standing on their David-like cardboard box over-looking the bar patron throng.
Tuesday night, I find my level of comfort in the conversation by talking---but by discussing someone else.
A long conversation begins over cocktails about what a wonderful job a particular actress did that night.Not only did we enjoy her performance, but we have enjoyed ALL her performances and began to review everything from her gentle performance in dramas to her natural comedic skills to her understated reading of some stage directions last summer when she so memorably uttered the simple words, “They come.”
She is not a part of this conversation.She sits in another conversation nearby.Later, when she passes us, I begin to tell her how we just finished having an extended discussion about her wonderful portrayals and how much we all enjoy her performances.She laughs and smiles and jokingly asks if we taped the conversation.
“I almost came over to get you,” I explain, “but the conversation about you was SO engrossing that I didn’t want to leave talking about YOU to go get you.”
At the after-bar, without explanation, I ask people to put their right foot in---no need to shake it all about.
I take the picture.
I am the Mary Janes and the cream-colored tights pointing slightly off and to the side. Not intentional, I was just too focused on the camera.
Though I sometimes feel my feet aren’t quite in sync with the road-most-traveled; tonight, I realize I am neither Przybyszewska nor Robespierre.
I stumbled across this amazing little volume a while back at a book sale.Memoirs of a Midget by Walter de la Mare.The title of the book was obviously an eye-catcher.This particular book was a fifth edition printed in 1922---the first edition having been printed a year earlier.
It’s not what you might think.
Yes, it is indeed the memoirs of a midget---but it’s a novel written as a fake autobiography of a young midget woman discreetly referred to as Miss M.
The beauty of the language is arresting. You can just hear de la Mare’s delight in the English language as he crafted the lines:
“There was Adam Waggertt, it is true, the bumpkin son of a village friend of Mrs. Ballard’s.But he was some years older than I.He would be invited to tea in the kitchen, and was never at rest unless stuffing himself out with bread-and-dripping or dough-cake---victuals naturally odious to me; or pestering me with his coarse fooling and curiosity.He was to prove useful in due season; but in those days I had a distaste for him almost as deep-rooted as that for “Hoppy,” the village idiot---though I saw poor Hoppy only once.”
For a twentieth century writer to lay his fate at the feet of Dickensian prose in the flapper age is a twisted delight---and would be a surprise to any modern poet not familiar with his work.
Memoirs of a Midget is not only poetic in language, but quite a surprise in plot for a popular novel of 1921.You see, the said remembering midget, Miss M., becomes smitten with a full-size woman.From what I can tell so far, her affections are not returned and she is then pursued by a male dwarf---whose affections she does not return.
Not exactly your classic love triangle.
I chose this book from my shelf yesterday as I needed to get away from reading things I was “supposed” to be reading---newly published novels, historical books for research, and all the French literature I’m shoving into my brain.I wanted a novel that was to be read purely for the joy of reading.
Tonight, after work, I showed up at that weekly reading series for writers that always gives me the shivers.
Once again, I don’t want to go to the theatre this week.The private club-type atmosphere of the place is enough to make me want to hop on a train and go home to my comfy apartment and curl up in a warm bath.
But I force myself to be a Daring Girl and bring the book along as my armor.
I think one of the things about this group is that, due to my dread of submitting to them AGAIN, I have failed to develop an identity there. There, I am the shy girl. The girl who sits in the back and of the theatre and writes. I don't mind this activity, but it's not exactly all of what I am. And when forced into the social aspect of it---well, shy girl isn't very good company.
Tonight, I sneak in the back and open my book before the show begins. In reading Miss M.s delicate prose, I connect with the feelings of the midget---being on the outside looking in---or up, in her case. In our own way---aren't we all freaks?
Tonight, while my right foot led me here, Daring Girl stayed at home.
On the train home, I felt the rock in my pocket and began to write. Daring prose.
Some people think that Muslims don’t have a sense of humor. But nothing makes my Muslim friends laugh more than my appreciation of the Holy Month of Ramadan.
No, I am not a Muslim. I was raised Catholic. But I love Ramadan.
For those of you not familiar with Ramadan, it basically involves a month of prayers and fasting. And the fasting is pretty intense---no eating, drinking, smoking or sex from sunrise to sundown. It is all about personal discipline, obedience and being a good Muslim.
For me, it’s all about delicious Indian food.
You see, I work with quite a few Muslims. Most of them from Bangladesh. And all of them very nice and generous with their nightly feast---a community meal fondly referred to as Iftar. All of them are men. And all of them have wonderful mothers and/or wives who spend all day in the kitchen preparing glorious curried dishes that their husbands and/or sons pack up in Tupperware and bring into work to eat at the breaking of the fast. This year, Ramadan started around 7:00pm New York City time.
A few minutes before the appointed hour, the smell of curry and spice wafts out of the microwave and thru the kitchen of our otherwise American-themed restaurant. All of the Muslims working that night begin to scurry around the kitchen---opening Tupperware containers, setting the table, and chopping vegetables for the salad---the Middle Eastern version that involves no lettuce, but lots of chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and the dressing a mixture of freshly squeezed lemon and spices. While this nightly ritual goes on, they begin to call the Iftar to my attention. Because somehow, I have become a part of their Ramadan.
My Ramadan feasting began a few years ago. One of the bus boys was eating his Ramadan feast alone in the kitchen. I made an innocent comment about the Indian food looking tasty, and next thing I knew, I had a huge plate of rice, goat meat, bread and some sort of coconut dessert in front of me. Sure, I’d eaten Indian food plenty of times before. But this was different. This was the equivalent of somebody’s Mom’s pot roast. It was amazing.
Last year, I noticed plates of Indian food suddenly beginning to appear before me.
“Is it Ramadan?” I asked with glee.
“Yes,” one of the bus boys replied, “Enjoy.”
Enjoy I did. Thank you Allah.
Of course, the Catholic guilt immediately began to creep thru. After all, they’ve been fasting all day. They haven’t even had a sip of water. And here I am eating their dinner. Don’t think I didn’t try to refuse. I’m nothing if not polite. But the Bengali’s explained to me that Allah gave them extra blessings for sharing their food. And there sure was a lot of rice and chicken curry. Well, okay. Twist my arm.
This year, I was immediately included in their Ramadan feast. There was always an extra plate and an extra chair. And all of my little Muslim boys immediately called me over to join in their feast. They know there’s no hope of converting me. They’ve heard me spout too much feminist propaganda to even try. And there’s no talk of Allah or The Koran. Only a discussion of how wonderful the food is. How delicious the feast. They do take the time to explain all the dishes and how they’re prepared. They also answer my questions about the holiday and the particular peppers used in the chick peas. And, for a few moments every night, I’m eating in the best Indian restaurant in town.
For those of you in parts of the country without a significant Muslim population, may I say---I feel sorry for you. I really do. The stereo-typical view of the Muslim as serious and brooding, is not what I know. In fact, I’ve never seen grown men giggle as much as these fellas do. Seriously. Giggle. My friend Kabir has the cutest laugh you’ve ever heard. And he giggles at virtually everything. If anyone ever pulled him aside at an airport, he’d probably start giggling. They wouldn’t know if he was an uncomfortable terrorist or just ticklish.
They all laugh constantly. Maybe it’s because they’re from Bangladesh. It’s not exactly Saudi Arabia over there. But here they are, fasting all day, and it’s 6:30 and they’re starving and they’re laughing their asses off watching me trying to interpret the Ramadan calendar---a chart listing all the dates and local times for each part of the fast.
“So, Iftar is the meal---and after that it says it’s time for Isha. What’s Isha? Dessert?”
Oh, how they laughed. Apparently, Isha is more prayers. They found this extremely amusing.
So this year, for Christmas, one of my managers gave me a copy of a book called “Bengali Cooking”. And, once again, the Bengalis laughed. Though they certainly don’t doubt my cooking abilities. A few times, during Ramadan, I even brought in a few dishes of my own. Of course, the meat thing’s a little difficult. Especially during Ramadan---it really should be halal. But I haven’t the slightest idea where one goes to buy halal meat. Instead, I opted for vegetarian dishes. I made one with couscous, zucchini and an apricot chutney that went over well. They also enjoyed my spicy green beans. And coconut macaroons are always a hit. After all, blessings from Allah or not---I just didn’t feel right eating all their delicious food.
And it’s amazing! I told the Bengalis that if they opened up a restaurant and sold this food---they would make a million dollars. It’s really that good. My favorite dish is the chick peas. The Bengali chick peas are slightly different from your standard garbanzo beans. They’re darker in color and about a third of the size. They even wrote the recipe down for me. It’s so simple. A little onion, a little pepper and some spices. Mmmm. I could eat it everyday. And all the curried rice and the thin breads that seem to be practically fried in something resembling a flavored lard---yeah, I know, lard doesn’t sound appetizing, but just think what it does to a pie crust.
At work tonight, I began skimming thru the Bengali cookbook---which is more than just a cookbook, but also a history of the country and its dishes. The author immediately explains that Bengali cooking is never really found in restaurants---why? Because, for Bengalis, it’s considered simple fare. It’s the sort of thing that is best served in the home. Something that involves love and care. Not the slapdash way food is generally prepared in restaurants. It needs time. And, according to the author, Chitrita Banerji, even restaurants in West Bengal and Bangladesh generally serve your standard Northern Indian dishes.
Bengali food, she explains, “…is not easy to reproduce on a mass scale, nor does it maintain its nuanced flavors after repeated heating or long hours in storage.” She also party blames the Bengalis themselves, for not realizing that the simplest dishes, tried and perfected over centuries, are suitable for more than just their daily meals. According to Ms. Banerji, they would never dream of serving their simple meals to guests---whether in their home or in a restaurant. It just wouldn’t be fancy enough.
As I skimmed thru the book tonight, I began asking questions. They were particularly helpful when it came to the hilsa---a fish. They were all eager to remind me that hilsa is The National Fish. If you mention hilsa, this is the first thing they will all say, “It is our National Fish!” This seems to be something they are extremely proud of---their National Fish. I’ve heard of the phrase “National Dish”, but never “National Fish”. If other countries have a National Fish, I don’t think any of them are as proud of their fish as the people of Bangladesh.
I hear about this damn fish all the time. In fact, I actually tried the National Fish this past Ramadan. It was good. It was fish---what can I say? It did have a lot of tiny bones you have to be careful to pick out---a fact they reminded me of this evening, should I attempt to cook their National Fish.
Frankly, I have no more idea where to get the National Fish than I have of where to pick up a case of halal meat. But I suppose I could give it a try.
“But be very careful,” they warned. “You have to cook the fish. Not like in American where you don’t cook the fish all the way. You must cook this fish properly, or it will make you sick.”
Maybe I’ll stick with the chick peas for a while. But I will definitely be making a trip to the Indian groceries in Jackson Heights soon.
When you’re looking for a new apartment, you generally have a list of requirements. Allows pets. Safe neighbourhood. Reasonable rent. These are the basics. By the time you whittle your choices down and make some appointments, you’re now looking for life’s little amenities. Elevator. Hardwood floors. Security cameras. And my personal favourite---vermin-free. Original crown molding is not as attractive if roaches are crawling up the walls.
Therefore, being a savvy and experienced apartment hunter, I looked carefully before making my final decision. And, I’m happy to say that, three months later, the honeymoon is still going strong.
Over the years, I’ve discovered that a home is like a relationship---you learn something new about it everyday. And my latest discovery is like finding out that your new boyfriend is not only a great guy, but also a world class French chef.
Why?
My new apartment comes with free books!
For an avid reader like myself, this is like stumbling upon the Comestock Lode. You see, some mysterious person in my building throws away books. And not crappy old textbooks and out-of-date computer manuals. Good books. Books I would actually pay good money for new at Barnes and Noble or used at The Strand.
For the past few months, I’ve noticed that a mysterious Book Angel seems to leave their unwanted, already-read books in the laundry room. So not only do I get a super fantastic laundry room with state-of-the-art machines---I also get free books! This is an amenity that was not listed in the brochure. Makes the steep Manhattan rents much more bearable. It also gives me the opportunity to stumble across authors I might never have discovered.
Currently, I’m finishing up a free copy of Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith. Found it in the laundry room last month. Great psychological thriller. Hitchcock made a movie out of it back in the fifties. Nowadays, people might know her better as the author of The Talented Mr. Ripley.
Last month, I read an uncorrected proof that was left in the laundry room of a book titled Remainder by Tom McCarthy. Very Camus-esque, wildly irritating, yet somehow irresistible. If it were a wine, it would be a petulant pinot noir.
Tonight, as I hauled my two loads of dirty bed linens and miscellaneous clothes into the laundry room, my eye immediately went to the new pile of books waiting in the free-book area. I hurriedly shoved my laundry into the machines and then went to inspect the latest laundry room releases.
At the top of the pile, was a book called Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder. The title sounded familiar, but the subtitle completely sold me, “A Novel About the History of Philosophy”. That’s definitely going home with me. Then I discovered the first three books in the Alexander McCall Smith series The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. I’d already read the first volume and had planned on adding to my collection. So, not only do I get the next two volumes for free, I picked up volume one for one of my best friends at work who is hooked on African films. Then there was Waiting by Ha Jin. The added engravings on the cover advertise it as being a National Bestseller and also a winner of the National Book Award. An author I had never heard of and am now looking forward to chequeing out. There’s also a hardcover edition of a novel titled In the Drink by Kate Christensen. It’s a first novel and sounds like an interesting cup of tea. And finally, two Gregory Macguire novels, Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister and Lost. Macguire is the author of Wicked---another book I’ve always meant to read. Either my mysterious Book Angel kept this particular book for his/her own collection, or someone beat me to it. In any case, I’ve decided to pick up a copy of Wicked before I tackle the other two.
Needless to say, today’s catch was particularly enthralling. With no one else in sight, I gathered up the whole stack and scurried upstairs to my nest with about a hundred dollars worth of new books. I could hardly believe my good fortune.
A few hours later, as I lay in bed reading one of my Laundry Room Releases, I began to feel a twinge of guilt. After all, I was benefiting from someone’s largesse. Who was my mysterious Book Angel? And, more to the point, wouldn’t they appreciate a thank you of some sort? Or at least, some knowledge that their books had found a good home? Like those unwed mothers who drop off their babies in front of a church. My Book Angel didn’t throw their babies in the trash. They left them for someone else to care for. Perhaps a thank you note would be in order.
I suppose the laundry room would be the proper place to leave a thank you note. So, after much thought, I sat down and composed a grateful, yet casual missive, thanking my unknown benefactor for their generous donations.
And then, I paused.
Hmmm.
After all, I’m happy with things the way they are. Would beginning a communication with my mysterious Book Angel change my laundry room book-mobile? I know this might sound silly---but I kind of like the mystery. After all, we seem to have a good thing going here. Book Angel makes more room in their apartment, and I get some free books. It’s a win-win situation. Sort of the equivalent of a book booty call. A free exchange of wants and needs. And completely anonymous. Do I really want to ruin my Laundry Day Surprise?
So, for now, I opt to remain the anonymous Book Adoptee. After all, some birth mothers just want to move on with their lives.
I tried to read Beowulf. Three times. Count ‘em. Three. I’ve never been able to get thru it. But I know how it ends. Spoiler alert: Beowulf dies. How do I know? Skipped to the end. I just couldn’t take it. That was in grammar school. Sixth grade, if I recall. Why an 11 year-old needs to read a poem written in Olde English, I have no idea.
I bring up Beowulf, because I was in a conversation the other day with some friends and the subject of Beowulf came up. No, I was not hanging out with literature professors. It was me, a political comic, and a guy who works at the Italian Consulate. None of us dumb people, by any means; but none of us the sort who would suddenly leap whole heartedly into a conversation about Beowulf. And, frankly, who does? For no sooner did the subject come up, than it was quietly dropped. Someone mentioned Beowulf, and suddenly all you could hear were crickets. Why? Because no one likes Beowulf.
No one liked it in sixth grade. And no one liked it a few years later in high school when it was trudged out before us again like leftover fried liver. By the second time around, I’d come to the conclusion that even teachers realize that there is truly no time in life when knowledge of Beowulf will come in handy. Sure, they give a quiz. They have to. That’s their job. However, in order to pass it, there are just a few basic things you need to know.
Beowulf. It’s an epic poem. Beowulf is the hero. Grendel. He’s the monster. It’s in Anglo-Saxon. And, for extra credit---who wrote it? Anonymous.
And if you just know these few answers, you’ll pass. Because even teachers know that this is a complete waste of time. I generally consider myself an over-achiever. But with Beowulf, I was willing to settle for average. Why? Because there is no time in life that you will ever EVER need to know about Beowulf. Grendel. Anglo-Saxon poem. Anonymous. That’s all you will ever need to know about Beowulf in any conversation. Never have I been on a job interview and been asked about Beowulf. Never have I sat down to do my taxes and needed any knowledge of Beowulf in order to fill out the forms. Never have I had to quote anything from Beowulf in order to put together a bookshelf from Ikea. And I’ve hung out with intellectuals. Lots of them. They’ll discuss Keats, Jung, Nietzsche, Bloomsbury writers, The Zimmerman Papers, monasteries in England that no longer exist, whether The Raj Quartet was a realistic interpretation of colonial rule in India---but they will NOT mention Beowulf. Ever.
Nonetheless, a few years later, I decided to give it the old college try. No, it was not required reading for a class. I decided, on my own, to finally read Beowulf. I was in college. I was trying to be smart. Perhaps I’d missed something. With an open, mature mind, I picked up the book. And it was just as boring as ever. After a few pages, I put the book down, never to pick it up again.
Now, I’m not one to shy away from things that other people think are boring. I love Bach. So much so that I added a second minor in college---harpsichord. I’ve studied Hindi. HINDI! For god sakes, my favourite period in American History is the Industrial Revolution. I have no aversion to potential boredom. But Beowulf stops even me dead in my tracks.
As I thought about Beowulf, I realized that the ultimate proof of Beowulf’s lack of entertainment value comes from the Entertainment Capital of the World itself---Hollywood. After all, it’s been almost 1300 years, it’s a pretty good guess that Beowulf is in the Public Domain. So, where are the movies about Beowulf? Hmmm? I logged onto Imdb.com and typed in the most unlikely search ever.
Beowulf.
But there it was. Beowulf. Someone has actually made a movie of Beowulf! It comes out in November! It stars Anthony Hopkins, John Malkovich and Angelina Jolie! It’s directed by Robert Zemeckis!
Beowulf!
I was in shock. Not only that, but there have been at least two other versions produced in the past 10 years. BEOWULF! None of them did very well. I can’t imagine why. After all, it’s Beowulf. Surely brings back some great childhood memories.
This can’t be right. This must be a drug front or some other sort of money-laundering scam. No one seriously puts money into Beowulf. I’d put money in the hands of the crackhead on the corner of 43rd and 8th before I’d put it into Beowulf.
Let me explain something to you---I have a weird interest in something else your average person might find boring---silent film. I know something about silent film. I’ve read a lot of books about silent film. And, from what I can recall, even the early silent film producers who made film versions of everything from The Ten Commandments to Uncle Toms’ Cabin never made of film out of Beowulf. They made films of Sarah Bernhardt doing Shakespeare---Shakespeare! Silent films of SHAKESPEARE! And yet they all had the good sense to pass on Beowulf.
But apparently, the good people at Warner Brothers decided to give it the green light. According to an article I read on this new version of Beowulf…
Okay, let me stop there. Yes. There’s press for Beowulf. Beowulf doesn’t just sell itself.
Anyway, according to this article, the script for the film was taken from several different sources of the Beowulf myth. And yeah, they admit they took some liberties with the Anglo-Saxon poem “committed to vellum sometime between 750 and 1100 A.D”---thus making it possibly the longest re-write in Hollywood history. But Beowulf?
Seriously, Beowulf? The Canterbury Tales has a better plot than Beowulf. What did they pass on? The Diary of Samuel Pepys?
Okay, call me crazy, but I don’t see Beowulf being the Blockbuster Hit of the Holiday Season. But that’s just a guess. Who did they test market this on? Druids?
However, I think the Beowulf Play Station Game---probably not so bad. I'm sure there are a lot of disgruntled sixth graders out there who can't wait to get the chance to kill Beowulf. In fact, the movie is most likely just a teaser for a kickass game.
Wait a minute. Wait just a minute.
Yes. I was right. With a Google Search that took approximately .11 seconds, I discovered that there is indeed a Beowulf XBox 360 game coming out in conjunction with the movie on November 13th. Well, it took 1300 years, but Anonymous finally got his big Hollywood break. I guess it's true what they say---there is no such thing as overnight success.
