David Mitchell's The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet is an enchanting novel. The first of his that I've read--I have a lot of catching up to do--it stands out from too many other contemporary novels in the breadth of its reach. Set in an outpost of the Dutch East Indies Company in Japan at the beginning of the 19th century, it is both a compelling love story and a portrait of a society in transition. The Jacob of the title is lowly clerk employed on Dejima, an artificial island connected to the Japanese mainland by a single stone bridge--the better to protect the Japanese from the potential pollution of the alien race that seeks to trade with them.
The narrative moves back and forth between Jacob's story and that of a Japanese midwife, Orito Aibagawa, who is famed for her skill. Unpredictably, Jacob falls in love with her and thus begins the story of a relationship that in time involves not just them, but others in both of the worlds in which they live. Although I have no way of knowing how accurate it is, Mitchell's depiction of Miss Aibagawa's world, especially the shrine in which she is an unwilling resident for a while, is totally convincing. Moreover, almost every character in the story is worth getting to know, especially Jacob. I won't give away the ending, except to say that while not exactly happy, it is deeply satisfying. Please read, and find out for yourself.

Words, Words, Words

In The Library at Night Alberto Manguel writes that for the cultures of the Book, Judaism, Islam and Christianity, "knowledge lies not in the accumulation of texts or information . . . but in the experience rescued from the page and transformed again into experience, in the words reflected both in the outside world and in the reader's own being." Later, he claims that Paul, who never knew Jesus "face to face," knew that since he had read the Word, the Word was now "lodged in him" and "that he had become the Book, the Word made flesh, through that little bit of the divine that the craft of reading allows to all those who seek to learn the secrets held by a page."
It's interesting to think about this notion of words becoming experience, even divine experience on a more mundane level. For instance, I have just finished Nathaniel Philbrick's book about Custer, Sitting Bull and the Battle of the Little Bighorn, The Last Stand. It's a fascinating subject but the book doesn't come off. Usually I enjoy reading even the more technical descriptions of battlefield maneuvers, of which there are plenty in this story, but I got very weary of the events leading up to the slaughter of Custer and his men, perhaps because the words did not translate into lived experience--especially important in a work of history of this sort. Neither Custer nor Sitting Bull came to life for me--although both of them are colorful and ultimately tragic men. Philbrick's compare and contrast methodology just doesn't work, at least it didn't for me.
When I was about twelve I was sent to a camp in the Pennsylvania Poconos that featured a staff member said to be Sitting Bull's grandson. In our camp photo, dressed in full tribal regalia, he stands in the midst of the campers, little girls in white shirts and shorts. It's quite a scene, and one that came to mind reading the appalling account of his grandfather's last sad days and his death.

Dining with a Poet

As most of you probably know, W.S. Merwin has been chosen as the next Poet Laureate, succeeding Kay Ryan. So there he was on the evening news last night, walking around his house in Hawaii, talking about his work and reading a poem. He is an old man now, with a shock of white hair, but at one point photos of him as a young man--he was notoriously handsome--flashed on the screen. He is now 82 or 3, roughly 10 years older than me. Some fifty plus years ago, when I was 19 and on the verge of being married, I sat next to him at a dinner party at my parents' house. They had met Merwin and his then wife, the formidable Dido Milroy, in London and brought him to Cornell, where my father taught, for a reading. My mother put me next to him at the table, where I sat frozen with shyness at finding myself in the company of just about the best looking man I had ever seen, and a poet to boot. In short, Merwin really looked like a poet should look, unlike some of the others I had met, who were so disappointingly ordinary. Wild thoughts raced through my head, did I really want to get married and seal my life's fate, or so I thought? All my doubts about the decision emerged. Maybe I could just run away with Merwin instead. At one point he turned his brilliant blue eyes on me and asked me what I wanted to do. When I mumbled something incoherent about writing he came back with, of course, of course I wanted to be a writer--what else was there?
I went to bed that night dreaming of possibilities--none of which I pursued, and in the end that's been just fine. But all through the years I have followed Merwin's burgeoning career and chaotic love life. His poetry and translations have given me enormous pleasure, especially his later work. I recommend it highly.. Also, for anyone who loves France, or good memoirs in general, I suggest The Lost Upland, a portrayal of his property in Southwestern France.