Claudia's Blog

There is a river, wide and swift flowing at times. It has no beginning, not that we can see. And it ends, well, it ends differently for each of us. The river is timeless. We are not. We are each in our own small boats, navigating white water, thrilling to the adventure. We embrace the calm, never knowing how long it might last. And, once in a while, we toss out a line to someone along the way or someone pitches a rope to us. Creating a connection which may last the entire journey, or be a brief as a sunset.

This is how I feel each time I read a memoir. As though a line has been tossed out over the rushing water and I have grabbed it. And for a day or a week or perhaps the rest of my life, I will be connected to another through what they have written. Oh, to be perfectly honest, there are times I catch the slender rope and after spending a few hours with my new companion, I toss it back. Like a fish too small, or an old rubber boot I have no use for. I do so knowing full well that something else will come along.

This past year has been a superb time on the river. I have forged (admittedly one way) relationships with writers both well known and not so. Some of the memoirs I read were newly released, others simply newly discovered. I thought I’d take this time, while for me at any rate the river is calm, and throw these lines your way. They are in no particular order of importance. I simply reached out and grabbed them as they flew overhead.

“All Over but the Shoutin’” by Rick Bragg

This Southern writer who ended up winning a Pulitzer Prize while a reporter for the New York Times penned a memoir about his hard scrabble childhood in a small, dirt-poor community in Alabama and his mother, a remarkable woman who was the backbone of the family. Eighteen years without a new dress? Could you do that?

“Blue Nights” by Joan Didion

Didion never fails to move me with her stark prose. Her knife sharp telling of what it was to lose her daughter Quintana Roo so quickly after the death of her husband had me weeping in the night. Her grief palpable. This slim book packs an elegant wallop.

“Runaway Waltz” by Fredric Morton

Morton, nominated for the National Book Award and author of more than a dozen books including “The Rothchilds” which became a Tony Award winning musical, was a new discovery. His memoir, published a few years back, only made it to me this past December. In a series of essays he tells us the story of his immigrant family coming from Vienna and settling in New York City. But his world comes to include some of the most rich and famous movers and shakers on both sides of the pond.

“On Gold Mountain” by Lisa See

See has written a memoir which travels back in time to 1867 when her great-great-grandfather immigrated to America from China. This is a fascinating peek at a mixed-marriage between his son, Fong See and a caucasian woman and the life they build in Los Angeles’s Chinatown. See, a talented novelist and daughter of brilliant writer Carolyn See, has the skill to take the reader right into this foreign territory.

“Just Kids” by Patti Smith

So. Smith has written a book filled with (at least to me) surprises. I had assumed when picking it up, that it would be filled with tales of wild partying and excessive drug use. But, Smith, it turns out, spent much more time eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking hot cocoa than messing with much more dangerous substances. All the better for remembering her life with artist Robert Mapplethorpe, who did dance on the edge of danger. This is a great peek not just at their lives but at a time in New York City which no longer exists. When artists really could find themselves living at the Chelsea Hotel surrounded by other creative individuals trading art for rooms and soaking up the energy all around.

“Then Again” by Diane Keaton

You might think this is some kind of Hollywood tell all written by a movie star who wants to dish. You would be wrong. This is a memoir evenly divided between Keaton and her mother who wrote and kept journals for decades. After her death, Keaton wanted to honor her mother, as well as explore her life through the scrapbooks and diaries she left. And there were 30 or so. Sure, Warren Beaty and Woody Allen make it into the pages, but nothing jucy going on here. They, along with others, have been a part of Keaton’s life, so they are there. But this is much more a memoir of two women. One who found her place in the world and one who never did.

I’ve had, as you can see, some interesting traveling companions this year. I plan on loading up the boat again in 2012. Let me know if you make a new connection on the river. Toss me a line of your own.