I read a lot. You know that. I usually post the title or author of the
latest book down there on the bottom of each entry. The next one is going to be a Jonathan
Kellerman. He crafts a good tale, and
tho often frightened, I read them to the end.
“Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Her Life” by Susan Hertog had a great tale in
her hands, but came up a bit dry. I
couldn’t read it to the end and put it in my “to read” pile. It sat there for years.
I grew up reading Lindbergh’s first two volumes: “North to the Orient,” “Listen
the Wind. They were stuck in the dark of
the upstairs hall bookcase, and I was enamored the moment found them and started
reading. They gave this struggling kid a
gift of comfort while I failed in school.
I have those two volumes downstairs now.
I rediscovered Anne Morrow Lindbergh at another low point in my life. My hangovers were brutal, and I was trying
hard to stay off drugs. Somehow her
words reached through my haze and woke me up.
Briefly. I kept a journal, and I
was drawn to these new and beautifully crafted diaries and letters. The fact that she put them out there for
everyone to read was a wonderfully encouraging thing to me. I never thought beyond those words she wrote
to see the world behind them or the editing that went into them.
Hertog doesn’t delve deeply into this flawed marriage. This volume was published in 1999, and so there
is no mention of her two affairs. One affair surfaces, and Hertog glosses over
it. Her deep love for Antoine de
Saint-Exupery and the comfort he gives her is generously described. But her husband’s brutality is set firmly
aside as Anne comes into her own as a writer.
She edited her diaries and letters so much of her sexuality and passion
are cut out.
Going through a pile of books to give away, I picked this book up
again. I skipped ahead a bit, and much
to my surprise found myself enjoying it.
The last third is a more open writing perhaps not limited by the
interviews this book is based on. I’m
keeping the book.
One of the best of the books about Anne Morrow Lindbergh is Reeve Morrow Lindbergh’s
volume, “No More Words.” Although Reeve shares with us her mother’s
wordless last years, they offer far more openness than Hertog’s
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
- Himself: Working on Bobbies boxes.
- Myself: Dressed in sweats not PJ’s, but I’m very comfortable. Very pleased that Carol liked my Crow quilt. She agreed that it had to go to an outside long-arm quilter to get finished.
- Reading: Jonathan Kellerman.
- Gratitude’s: For being alive.
Speaking of book, for the first time just now, I noticed Louise Penny on your sidebar. Her new books comes out either today or tomorrow. Sue will d/l the audio version, so I'll 'read' it that way, just as I recently did with Galbraith's (Rowling's) third Strike novel.
ReplyDeleteYes, wonderful.
DeleteI find that books that appealed to me when I was younger may now seem insipid...not all, of course. I also find many books pushed by the publishing houses are not at all compelling with either complicated characters, interesting plot, or overwhelming conclusions. I have soooo many books to still read that I almost always avoid book reviews by bloggers.
ReplyDeleteLaughing at you.
DeleteI'm always looking at what you read, you've enlarged my reading list considerably.
ReplyDeleteHello, Madge! I've tried for years to read Lindbergh, and had determined to take a new perspective every time I set about it--to no avail. The good news is, after the bus accident three years ago, and I lost all the books I'd ever read, and decided what the hell, just read new ones, I realized I've give Ann Morrow up forever. Hurrah.
ReplyDeleteI can read her diaries and Letters. The rest leave me blank. LOL You are not alone. :)
DeleteI am totally ignorant about the Lindbergh's flawed marriage. You have me curious enough now to attempt a read. It may end up cast aside also but I will give it a try. Thanks.
ReplyDelete