It is
no secret that I am totally enamored with JCO and for more than just her marvelous psychological and philosophical novels. I think there is a silent attraction to her photographic image as well. I feel the same way about Michele Anna Jordan, another three-named evocative author. The iconic photographs of these women bring to mind an image for me of torch-singers of yore, with their musical story-telling, carrying the ennui of a full life, well-lived.
To my knowledge, this is the first memoir published under the JCO brand name. The author is very careful to be clear and truthful about many things in this book. One of these things is the careful nurturing of the JCO authorship brand. She, the person, is Joyce Smith, wife of Ray Smith, a married couple who jointly publish the Ontario Review of North American Literature.
Since I retired in 2001, I’ve attended a dozen classes and read half a dozen books on memoirs. JCO sets the bar at a higher rung with this work. As I read through the book, I kept stopping and exclaiming to myself, “WOW. This is so intimate and truthful! And we have been taught to hold back a bit on the intimacy, to shade the truth to protect one’s friends and loved ones.” I did just that on my recent posting of Memories of Paris.
JCO is such a good writer that she gets away with it. She gibes at friends and doctors; not with salacious gossip, just with her true thoughts. There’s a lot of stream of consciousness in this book; she includes e-mails and cards and letters, quotes from sundry authors. Because of her pain and grief, it is endearing. The reader gives her full rein to vent, rant, quibble, kvetch, but most often run away from facing her widowhood.
The Widow’s Handbook is a sort of subtitle for this book. That’s her most frequent audience through all the rambling, delusions and fears. She talks of suicide incessantly throughout, more so at the end; Sylvia Plath is explored often. She tries, unsuccessfully, to separate the Widow from JCO. Are writers predisposed to suicide? She makes comments like, “For writers, being a writer always seems to be of dubious value.” Another is, “Being a writer is in defiance of Darwin’s observation that the more highly specialized a species, the more likelihood of extinction.”
It is gardening at the end, which helps her attain the one-year goal. Hands in the earth, she embraces the annual regeneration of seed and solar cycle.
no secret that I am totally enamored with JCO and for more than just her marvelous psychological and philosophical novels. I think there is a silent attraction to her photographic image as well. I feel the same way about Michele Anna Jordan, another three-named evocative author. The iconic photographs of these women bring to mind an image for me of torch-singers of yore, with their musical story-telling, carrying the ennui of a full life, well-lived.To my knowledge, this is the first memoir published under the JCO brand name. The author is very careful to be clear and truthful about many things in this book. One of these things is the careful nurturing of the JCO authorship brand. She, the person, is Joyce Smith, wife of Ray Smith, a married couple who jointly publish the Ontario Review of North American Literature.
Since I retired in 2001, I’ve attended a dozen classes and read half a dozen books on memoirs. JCO sets the bar at a higher rung with this work. As I read through the book, I kept stopping and exclaiming to myself, “WOW. This is so intimate and truthful! And we have been taught to hold back a bit on the intimacy, to shade the truth to protect one’s friends and loved ones.” I did just that on my recent posting of Memories of Paris.
JCO is such a good writer that she gets away with it. She gibes at friends and doctors; not with salacious gossip, just with her true thoughts. There’s a lot of stream of consciousness in this book; she includes e-mails and cards and letters, quotes from sundry authors. Because of her pain and grief, it is endearing. The reader gives her full rein to vent, rant, quibble, kvetch, but most often run away from facing her widowhood.
The Widow’s Handbook is a sort of subtitle for this book. That’s her most frequent audience through all the rambling, delusions and fears. She talks of suicide incessantly throughout, more so at the end; Sylvia Plath is explored often. She tries, unsuccessfully, to separate the Widow from JCO. Are writers predisposed to suicide? She makes comments like, “For writers, being a writer always seems to be of dubious value.” Another is, “Being a writer is in defiance of Darwin’s observation that the more highly specialized a species, the more likelihood of extinction.”
It is gardening at the end, which helps her attain the one-year goal. Hands in the earth, she embraces the annual regeneration of seed and solar cycle.
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