Read on 4 December 2019
Long ago, I read and loved Carolyn Heilbrun’s Kate Fansler mystery series and her non-fiction book Writing a Woman’s Life. I had completely missed her memoir about aging until recently, when I learned of it and placed an interlibrary loan.
Here are a multitude of take-aways from what is, so far, my favourite book of my 2019 reading year.
In Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir, I was struck by no mention of some of my favourite memoirists, including May Sarton and Doris Grumbach. I was so pleased to see Doris mentioned early on in Last Gift.
And then May Sarton herself appeared at the end of this paragraph about Grumbach.
I knew I was in for a heavenly read.
The subject matter of life over 60 is significant to me because I will soon turn 65.
Heilbrun quotes from a poem by Marilyn Hacker, called Against Elegies.
Soon came the story about one of my favorite things in a memoir, buying a house, coupled with another favorite thing, the joy of solitude.
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The idea that something can be happening for the last time is even more poignant to me as I reread this next takeaway a week after an old friend, who wanted to live to be 100, died with no warning, in his sleep, at age just barely 67.
Part of a chapter is devoted to the joys of email (in 1996) and to Heilbrun’s extensive correspondence through that medium. I wonder what she would have thought of the social internet?
Next, I found a whole chapter about May Sarton. What bliss. I once read a disappointing and cruel biography about Sarton which criticized and excoriated her difficult personality. In contrast, her friend Carolyn wrote of her with sympathetic and understanding honesty.
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A friend who knew May Sarton and was smitten with her told me a story about being invited over and then being told to go away, because May was in the midst of a writing inspiration. I think it was in her memoirs that I learned the phrase “a person from Porlock”.
I still have these books but must have lent out my two favourites, Plant Dreaming Deep and Journal of a Solitude.
I thought nothing could make me happier than a whole chapter about May Sarton, until turning the page brought me to a chapter about England.
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“And yet, and yet, something of that first fascination with writings by the English remained, like the aroma of a lost love, pure, fabricated, and enchanting.”
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I had to look that up.
The chapter goes on with the joys of visiting the home of English friends. Every paragraph is perfection and way too big of a takeaway to share here. Just a glimpse or two:
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The chapter ends with this delightful quotation about friendship.
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On memoirs in general, with reference to a memoirist named Maxine Kumin, whom I have not read.
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More on aging:
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Below: I remember as a child taking drives out of Seattle with my parents and being in the countryside in twenty minutes, with pastures and cows and horses and barns.
And I know that nostalgia for the past is a privilege.
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On reading as an Anglophile:
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The passage below is just how I feel about death. Perhaps if Carolyn Heilbrun were still alive, I could contact her on her Facebook page and we could share thoughts about it.
I am reminded of my favourite song, which I would want sung at my funeral, if I wanted a funeral, which I don’t:
Love It Like a Fool by Malvina Reynolds
It’s just that I hate to say good-bye to this world,
This world, this world.
But still I love it like a fool, this world,
This world, this world.
Than sing hosannah on that golden shore,
I’d rather live on Parker Street
Than fly around where the angels meet.
It’s dust to dust when I have to go from this world,
This world, this world.
Some other hands, some other face,
Some other eyes will look around
And find the things I’ve never found.
Just keep this old world rolling on, this world,
This world, this world.

