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« around the internet on a tuesday | Main | vendredi, poésie »

December 20, 2007

Best reads of 2007

Dora_maar_2
Picasso, Dora Maar Seated

I usually abstain from doing this kind of end-of-the-year list because I generally think of them as limited to books that were published in the previous year.  But why limit yourself? I read a lot of terrific books this year, recently- and not-so-recently published, and I've vetted for you the best of the crop.*

--The Radical Aesthetic, Isobel Armstrong
--Picasso's Weeping Woman: The Life and Art of Dora Maar, Mary Ann Caws
--Seule Venise, Claudie Gallet
--Ensemble c'est tout, Anna Gavalda
--Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert
--Pages from the Goncourt Journals, Edmond et Jules de Goncourt
--Nothing, Henry Green
--Paris: The Secret History, Andrew Hussey
--Subject to Change: Reading Feminist Writing, Nancy K. Miller
--Divisadero, Michael Ondaatje
--Other Colors, Orhan Pamuk
--Les choses, Georges Perec
--Sarah's Key, Tatiana de Rosnay
--Summer Will Show, Sylvia Townsend Warner
--Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution, Caroline Weber
--Sorbonne Confidential, Laurel Zuckerman


*Rules for inclusion: the book had to do something intellectually or emotionally engaging in an aesthetic, sophisticated, entertaining, and/or scholarly way. There are some other books I thought to include that were very good, but didn't make the list because they were either too post-modernly virtuoso or too sad.

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Comments

I can't tell you how PROUD I am to be in this list.
:))
TR

Michael Ondaatje--I fell for his writing ages ago when I read the Skin of a Lion--been following ever since. The image of the nun plunging off the bridge into the arms of-- was it Caravaggio?-- is an enthralling image if I've ever read one.

Best from Seattle fro the New Year

Michael Ondaatje--I fell for his writing ages ago when I read the Skin of a Lion--been following ever since. The image of the nun plunging off the bridge into the arms of-- was it Caravaggio?-- is an enthralling image if I've ever read one.

Best from Seattle fro the New Year

Just discovered your most interesting site. Have you read Lucinda Holdforth's _True Pleasures_? It's a memoir of this Australian author's peregrinations through Paris in the footsteps of women who once made the city their home--and in the process played a role in making Paris what it is today.

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Coin poésie

  • Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from "Sonnets from the Portuguese"
  • How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
  • I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
  • My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
  • For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
  • I love thee to the level of everyday's
  • Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
  • I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
  • I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
  • I love thee with the passion put to use
  • In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
  • I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
  • With my lost saints--I love thee with the breadth,
  • Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
  • I shall but love thee better after death.
  • (1850)

Coins poésie du passé

  • Marilyn Hacker, "April Couplets"
  • Mild Sky of a day which may or may not be forgotten
  • as days of a life, lives themselves, are forgotten.
  • Tenacious ivy crawls from a plastic pot in
  • a window-box which the early rain's forgotten
  • Nocturnal narrative's coherent plot in
  • the sleeper's mind disconnects, and the dream's forgotten
  • textures, flavors, burlap, honey, satin
  • systematically derange, dissolve: forgotten
  • This morning's crisp half-loaf in which I've bitten
  • a crescent lies near coffee dregs, forgotten.
  • On a lined page in front of me are written
  • haphazard words grasping what I've forgotten
  • A letter will be answered today or not. In
  • the gap, what it might have said could be forgotten.
  • A three year-old picked up w dropped red button
  • and cried for a lost rag doll not quite forgotten.
  • The sidewalk glistened in the Marais, Manhattan
  • or a Balkan town whose vowels howl unforgotten
  • chronicles of neighbors at war, ill met in
  • each market-place, blood mixed, but no slur forgotten
  • What key turns in the lock, who will be let in
  • to the bright room of what is not forgotten?
  • The scribe turns hacker: DOS displaces Latin:
  • Exiles hoard both, the plain speech of peace forgotten
  • William Carlos Williams, "Danse Russe"
  • If I when my wife is sleeping
  • and the baby and Kathleen
  • are sleeping
  • and the sun is a flame-white disc
  • in silken mists
  • above shining trees,--
  • if I in my north room
  • dance naked, grotesquely
  • before my mirror
  • waving my shirt round my head
  • and singing softly to myself:
  • "I am lonely, lonely.
  • I was born to be lonely,
  • I am best so!"
  • If I admire my arms, my face,
  • my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
  • again the yellow drawn shades,--
  • Who shall say I am not
  • the happy genius of my household?
  • [c. 1917]