I am feeling my limitations as a reader. I'm afraid Elizabeth Hardwick's Sleepless Nights has defeated me. I made it 43 pages into the book before setting it aside. I am disappointed in myself, but it was just too much work, and I felt like I was not getting anything out of the experience. I hate to admit this (especially in the meme I answered yesterday when I said I like to be exposed to different sorts of books), but I found myself so confused at times that I wondered what I was going to take with me when I finished the book. I would read a section that was really lovely, but then she would change subjects and I would be wondering who she was referring to--did I just miss something? Is she talking about her friend, J., or Billie Holiday? I put my failure down to crankiness. I am tired of the weather and a host of other minor annoyances in my life at the moment. My patience just wore sort of thin. I figured I would not finish it by the time the Slaves began discussing it, so....I picked up a different book instead.
What is so disappointing is that from what I have read Hardwick is considered an important author. Sleepless Nights is described as:
"An inspired fusion of fact and invention, this beautifully realized, hard-bitten, lyrical book is not only Elizabeth Hardwick's finest fiction but one of the outstanding contributions to American literature of the last fifty years."
Great. An important contribution to American literature and I couldn't even get halfway through the book! What does this say about me as a reader? Can I only make it through books that are completely plot driven and in no way experimental (not sure this is considered experimental, but it seems to me that it isn't your standard sort of novel)? Elizabeth Hardwick is one of the founders of The New York Review of Books, which I am guessing was meant to be an alternative to the New York Times Book Review. She wrote a scathing article in Harpers about what she felt was the decline in book reviewing (this was in 1959). She was also married to the poet Robert Lowell. There is something very poetic about her prose, so this union of author/critic and poet is not at all surprising. I hate to even wonder what she must think of book loggers!
I am not going to return my copy of the book to the library just yet. I am hoping that the Slaves posts and discussion will inspire me to pick the book up again and continue on (now that there will be no pressure to finish by a certain day). I hate to be negative about any book--just because I didn't groove with this book right now doesn't mean it might not appeal to other readers (and perhaps I need to approach it later when I am in a different mood). Just to give you a taste of her writing, here is a passage that I enjoyed:
"In my youth, at home in Kentucky, there was a dance place just outside of town called Joyland Park. In the summer the great bands arrived, Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Chick Webb, sometimes for a Friday and Saturday or merely for one night. When I speak of the great bands it must not be taken to mean that we thought of them as such. No, they were part of the summer nights and hot dog stands, the fetid swimming pool heavy with chlorine, the screaming roller coaster, the old rain-splintered picnic tables, the broken iron swings. And the bands were also part of Southern drunkenness, couples drinking Coke and whiskey, vomiting, being unfaithful, lovelorn, frantic. The black musicians, with their cumbersome instruments, their tuxedos, were simply there to beat out time for stumbling, cuddling fox-trotting of the period."
Her writing is very visual, but also very straightforward here. Unfortunately for me, it didn't all read this easily. It just didn't mesh. I kept looking for a thread I could follow, and it wasn't there. I think part of the problem is I tried to read it in a big swallow, and it seems I might have had more success starting this earlier and just reading a small section at a time. This is definitely not a race to the finish to find out what happens sort of book. This is a take your time, be leisurely and enjoy the words sort of book, I think. I wonder if there is some connection between my inability to read poetry and my failure to get through a book like this? Hmm. And to think this was the book I voted for (and have abandoned--at least temporarily). Now I am sort of wishing I had picked Rafael Sabatini's Captain Blood instead. Pirates, swashbuckling adventures...