SUMMER READING

I almost never mention the books that I'm reading, even though I'm a voracious reader. I usually read at night, in bed. It's an effective way to forget my (many) problems - and I'd rather read than sleep.

Here are a few of the books I've read this summer. This is mostly a descriptive list - not exactly a review.

None of these books are new publications, but they're all still in print. Also, they are all non-fiction (my current favorite reading preference).

The first four are about survival and overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles. All are truly inspirational.

Adrift, by Steven Callahan

In January, 1982, 29-year-old American sailor Steven Callahan set out in a small sloop (which he built himself) from the Canary Islands, destined for the Caribbean.
Seven days later - in the middle of the night - a raging gale quickly sank his boat. He hardly had time to inflate the life raft and grab a few supplies.

For the next 76 days he drifted 1,800 miles alone in a five-foot leaky rubber raft, battling sharks and gales, and surviving on the few fish that he was able to catch (and eat raw).
A well-written and riveting account of horror and incredible determination.

All But My Life, by Gerda Weissmann Klein

A classic in Holocaust literature. Polish-born Gerda Weissmann's idyllic teenage life was shattered when the Nazis invaded Poland and confiscated her family's home and possessions. Gerda, along with her parents and brother, were sent to live in squalor in the Warsaw ghetto. Her family was eventually killed and she spent the next three years in German labor camps.

In early 1945 - in order to avoid the advance of the allied forces - Gerda was among 4,000 Jewish women  who were forced by the Nazis to walk from Poland to Czechoslovakia. This death march in the midst of winter covered over 350 miles and took three months. Of the 4,000 women, only 120 survived. By the time of their liberation in May, 1945, twenty-year-old Gerda was near starvation and weighed only 65 lbs.
Gerda eventually married one of her liberators, American Kurt Klein. At the time I'm writing this post, she is still alive at age 95. 

A Square of Sky, by Janina David

This beautifully written memoir of Janina David (Dawidowicz) is actually two books - A Square of Sky and A Touch of Earth. She came from a prosperous Jewish family in Poland. By the time she was ten, her family was on the verge of starvation - living in a tiny room in the Warsaw ghetto.
In a desperate effort to save her life, Janina's parents sent her to live with family friends (she never saw her parents again). When things became too dangerous, Janina obtained false identity papers and escaped to a Catholic convent, where she lived under an assumed name and hid her Jewish identity.
Written with optimism and without bias, this story is a testimony to the resilience of the human spirit.  Janina David presently lives in England and is 89 years old.

Tears in the Darkness,
by Michael Norman and Elizabeth M. Norman

I initially didn't think I'd like this book - - the subject of World War II in the Philippines didn't particularly interest me - -  but it was a surprisingly good read - an intensely fascinating and extremely well-researched account. 

It deals with the takeover of the Philippines by the Japanese Imperial Army, and the brutal treatment and extreme suffering of the American and Filipino prisoners of war. 

The story focuses on soldier Ben Steele, a young cowboy and aspiring artist  from Montana, who was innocently caught up in the unspeakable horrors and lived to tell about it. In April, 1942, Steele - along with thousands of other soldiers - was forced to make  the infamous 65 mile death march from Mariveles to San Fernando. The abuse and torture that these prisoners endured during the march, in the prison camps, and on the "hell ships" is meticulously related in terrifying detail.

What makes this book unique is that it gives a humane and unbiased account of both the American and Japanese sides of the situation.

This post is getting longer than I intended, but I'll include a few more books.

The Last Tsar by Edvard Radzinsky


I have always been fascinated with the history of Imperial Russia and studied (and performed) Russian music when I was a music student. 
I've also read an enormous amount of books about Tsar Nicholas II and his wife Alexandra, who - along with their five children - were executed by the Bolsheviks in 1918.

The Last Tsar is unique in that it is written by a native Russian - playwright Edvard Radzinsky - who had access to the (formerly secret) Russian archives and was able to obtain much previously unknown information concerning the Tsar's life and execution. 
It is also presented in a beautiful English translation from the Russian by Marian Schwartz. 

Nijinsky by Richard Buckle

Caution: this book will only appeal to the hardcore balletomane. 
Even though it's a biography of the legendary dancer Vaslav Nijinsky, it also heavily concentrates on the history of Serge Diaghilev's famous Ballets Russes - which includes every aspect of all the ballets in the repertoire, and interesting information about the principle dancers including Tamara Karsavina, Mikhail Fokine, Leonide Massine, and Nijinsky's sister Bronislava.
Meticulously researched.

Mary Todd Lincoln: Her Life and Letters
by Justin G. Turner and Linda Levitt Turner

I've read this book before but I'm presently reading it again - and absorbing more than I did the first time.
The wife of President Abraham Lincoln happened to be born on my birthday - December 13th.
Do we share anything in common?
Fiercely opinionated, unpredictable, enigmatic, often misunderstood, intelligent........fascinating......


This is definitely the most comprehensive and painstakingly researched biography of Mary Lincoln available, which is reinforced with the power of her own words in her letters (all of her known letters are included in this volume). 

In essence, she was a tragic figure. Her mother died when she was seven. Her father quickly remarried and produced nine more children, which overshadowed Mary's existence. Her later life was shattered by the deaths of two of her beloved sons, Eddy and Willie. Her life was destroyed by the assassination of her husband, which happened at the beginning of his second term of presidency in 1865.

The death of a third son Thomas (known as Tad) in 1871 sent her over the edge and greatly increased her erratic and often bizarre behavior. In 1875, her eldest (and only surviving) son Robert had her committed to an insane asylum in Illinois. She was released the following year. Her final years were spent wandering through Europe and battling increasingly bad health. She died at her sister's home in 1882 at the age of 63.


This post was more damn trouble than it's worth. I didn't bother to check for typos, which probably abound.

 

MY LIFE AS A BOOK

Why don't you write a book about your life, Jon?

Easier said than done, Kemo Sabe.
I've been a published writer since I was sixteen and have written things in many genres (that's a word I dislike, but I'll use it). I feel reasonably comfortable writing about any subject - - - anything but myself.

It's not always easy to be objective about oneself, or brutally honest, or totally open. As a fiercely private person, I often astonish myself at the things I reveal in this blog. And, trust me, what I reveal is selective and delivered with caution. Usually.

I fully believe that there is a book in everybody, with interesting stories to be told. We're all unique in our own way. We are all only as boring as we choose to be. When we carefully reflect on our lives, it's surprising how many intriguing incidents we can extract.

I initially never thought of myself as being unique or interesting. I considered my life to be rather bland and mundane. Certainly not worthy of a book.

Then....
I started to really ponder my past and all the things I've done, the adventures I had. In retrospect, I've been privileged (and perhaps damned) to have had a colorful, unique, and unusual existence. Book worthy? Mmmmm......I dunno.

Jon, are you purposefully being modest, or are you ruefully manipulating your readers for sympathy and encouragement?

Both.

You've known famous people, have hobnobbed with the wealthy and privileged. You've slummed with junkies and hookers, and had a turbulent affair with an ex-con. You've performed as soloist with a symphony orchestra, lived on the beach in Baja, were chased by a mountain lion in Nevada. A very wealthy woman wanted to marry you. Another woman's jealous husband threatened to kill you in a very public place. You lived with a Hollywood actor, and had a tryst with a famous movie director in the  Beverly Hills Hotel. You knew a gay porno movie director and attended orgies at his house. You've survived your abusive father. You've battled alcohol, several nervous collapses, alarmingly self-destructive tendencies, a profound inferiority complex, and panic attacks that would have frightened Freud. 
Your life is worthy of a book.

You're very convincing, Kemo Sabe. And you've only scratched the surface.  
BUT 
(there's always an inevitable "but", isn't there?) 
Here's why I'm hesitant to reveal all in a book:

Describing my real life, with real events and real people is extremely risky. And I mean extremely.

If I name names of people still living (or even people now dead) there is the possibility - or, rather, the inevitability - of law suits. If I change names and fictionalize, it's a HUGE copout. When you put it all down, indelibly, on paper, it's raw bait for shark attacks.

Even in my blog I am purposefully evasive about many details in my life. Revealing too much is always a risk. 

And then there are the armchair nitpickers, who love to point out errors and mistakes. 
Example:
If I say that I was at the Blue Parrot Bar on 4th Street in 1985, somebody will inevitably inform me that it was the Blue Flamingo Bar on 3rd Street, which closed in 1984. 

Fortunately, my memory is incredibly sharp and I make very few mistakes.
So, there you have it, Geronimo.

I'm Kemo Sabe.

Oh. Sorry.   

In conclusion (and not a moment too soon) - - yes, I want to write this memoir, publish it, and unleash myself to an unsuspecting world.  

And I do have one important thing in my favor:
I've spent most of my life worrying about what other people think, catering to everybody's whims, bending over backwards to please (nothing sexual implied), and constantly discounting myself.

I've finally come to the point where I don't give a shit what others think. I have nothing to lose.  

Now, please excuse me, while I start making a list of suitable actors who could portray me in the movie version...... 

 

WANNA BUY SOME BOOKS?

Grolier & Co.

safely ensconced in a Tennessee bookcase

I remember that long-ago day almost as if it was yesterday. I was six years old and we were living in Glendora, California. I particularly remember that day because when I was playing outside I had found a rusty old razor blade and accidentally cut myself with it.

While trying to stop the dripping blood, my mind was racing with dire warnings about sharp, rusty things. You'll get blood poisoning and die. You'll get lockjaw.

The thought of having to have my mouth pried open with a crowbar in order to ingest a hamburger was a fate worse than death. Eventually I forgot about the cut and the razor blade. It's probably unnecessary to mention that I survived.

That was also the day when the traveling salesman came to our door. He was selling books - specifically the Grolier Encyclopedia and Book of Knowledge. To say that my father was staunchly opposed to salesmen is a gross understatement. He was extremely hostile at first, then merely argumentative. If my mother hadn't stepped in as an impartial mediator, the door would have been promptly slammed in the salesman's face.

Book of Knowledge

A rational conversation eventually ensued and my father became partially calm, which was all anyone could possibly hope for. The conversation, to me, seemed extraordinarily long. It dragged on for well over an hour. Upon learning that I loved to read, the salesman seized the opportunity to extol every virtue of the encyclopedia and predict the endless future benefits that I would have on its behalf.

My father was one helluva tough nut to crack and in time I think the salesman was actually sweating blood, but in the end - miraculously - dear ol' Dad acquiesced and the contract was signed.

Grolier Encyclopedia

We had to wait several weeks for the books to be shipped from New York. The entire entourage included the Grolier Encyclopedia, the twenty volume Book of Knowledge, the ten volume Popular Science, the seven volume Lands and Peoples, a big two-volume Dictionary, and an even bigger World Atlas. And a "free" bookcase to compliment the ensemble.

Popular Science and Lands and Peoples

The books were beautifully bound with thick, glossy pages. They actually smelled new, kinda like a new Chevy. I was almost afraid to touch them for fear of tainting their newness.

My father reinforced my fear by constantly warning me not to "ruin" the new books, and even more constantly reminding me that they cost $200. An enormous investment for books back then.

As a child I was a voracious reader. I'd read unabridged editions of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn when I was eight. By the time I was ten I was reading Jane Eyre  and Wuthering Heights.

My father was always quick to rain on my reading parade. "You're always hiding inside  the house reading," he'd snap. "Why the hell don't you go out and play like the other kids?"

His attitude suddenly changed after we got the Grolier books. "Why the hell aren't you ever reading the new books?" he'd bark. "I paid $200 for them and they're going to waste."

I loved the new books - - but I wasn't about to ingest a total of fifty volumes in one sitting. Good things take time. Over the years they provided an immense amount of information and reading pleasure.

My father - perpetually convinced that I wasn't reading them enough - never failed to remind me of the books. Even when I was a teenager I'd hear the same mantra: "I paid $200 for those damn books. When the hell are you gonna read them?"

His attitude didn't change when I was in my 20's. And 30's.

"I paid $200 for those goddamn books and you never even opened them!"

He was completely oblivious of how often I did read the books and how much I enjoyed them. No amount of persuasion could convince him otherwise.

In my 40's I was almost finding humor in the mantra that I knew so well. The books were in a bookcase at my parent's house. A mere glimpse of them would cue my father to grumble.

"I wasted $200 on those goddamn books and all they did was sit on the shelf gathering dust."

The books came into my possession after my parents died. Acute sentimentality has inspired me to keep them.

When I was in the frenzied process of moving from Texas to Tennessee, I hastily (and carelessly) tied the books together with twine and tape (which seriously marred the binding).

When the movers rudely informed me that they wouldn't take anything that wasn't secured in a box, I quickly began jamming every one of the Grolier books into boxes.

And I grumbled to myself:
My father paid $200 for these books, and I'll be damned if I'm going to leave them in Texas!