My Private Property, Mary Ruefle

In the squash and longing, Ruefle’s language steams up the windows.  I remember being in a car, kissing so long that the heat pushed back.  It’s like that.  Her brain and ideas sizzling along the floor and tendrils coming up the stoop of your house and into the front door and the back.  “When I wander in the forest, I am drawn toward language,” she writes.  The fissures into elegance are everywhere in this book.  A rain of wild.  The only part that confused the owl part of my brain which flies at night and can see the difference between a bat and a bird was the description of menopause which made universal the personal.  I cannot tell you what childbirth will be like for you, but for me, it was quick and painful and the second child, my boy, was born after twenty minutes at the hospital.  It was 8:20 am.  I was home for lunch at noon.  His father brought me bagels, cream cheese, smoked salmon, red onions and capers just like I liked my bagels back when I allowed myself to eat bagels which was a long time ago.  But that was me, maybe your birth experience will be different, maybe you’d prefer donuts to bagels.  Maybe you find smoked salmon fishy and capers annoying, their little green selves sliding about the plate.  But Ruefle is in the smoky char of thingness with this book, into the project of sadness and shrunken heads.  I’d follow

Published in: on July 19, 2018 at 11:44 am  Leave a Comment  

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