books and men

I just read that Kurt  Vonnegut died last week, and found this poem by him that made me catch my breath:

Requiem

When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
“It is done.”
People did not like it here.

I associate Kurt Vonnegut with my yearsandyears friend Scott, who is a big fan of Vonnegut's writing, and who gave me a copy of Bluebeard to read early on in our friendship, when he found out that I was studying art in school (that gives you a clue how long we've been friends...).  It was a really good book and parts of that story come back to me now and then, even all these years after reading it.  I haven't read as much Vonnegut as I would like to, and I hadn't read any of his poetry before.  I wonder when he wrote this one?  It is so timely, but I suspect it is not really so recent.  I am less mourning the death of Vonnegut than feeling grateful for his life and writing, and also for the friendship that was formed over a connection forged by his words.

I have another friend who I also associate with a particular author.  Steve and I were counselors together at a summer church camp when I was a teenager.  He was a few years older than me, and I admit I had a bit of a crush.  OK, a REALLY BIG crush.  I'm sure Steve was well aware of my crush over the years (I was 15 when we met, and probably not very subtle), though we really never discussed it.  He was always a perfect gentleman to me, very sweet and protective.  Steve was a Lit major and a big fan of John Irving. One year, between summers, I checked out a couple of John Irving's books, just to see what the fuss was about (and so I'd have something to talk to Steve about the next summer).  I liked those books so much that I read everything he'd published up to then - and he's a prolific writer.  Since then, I have shared Steve's love of Irving, and  though I've lost touch with Steve now, I imagine him out there in the world somewhere, reading the latest Irving novel along with me.  Unfortunately, I haven't liked the last few books he's written very much, though I plod all the way through them anyway.  I should go back and read the old ones again.  My long talks with Steve over campfires after our kids were asleep in the cabins were probably my inspiration to study literature and creative writing when I got to college myself.  I'd always loved to read, but the way he talked about characters and themes and metaphor made me realize that a book could be so much more than an entertaining story and I wanted to know more about how that worked.  That exploration has turned into a  life-long love of words and writing.  The last time I talked to Steve, irony of ironies, he called me up kinda out of the blue and asked me out - about a year after I got married to Lisa. 

Recently I have been becoming good friends with another man, who also gives me books to read.  No particular author in this case, and so far all non-fiction, but it is nice, this intellectual connection that we share.  I hope it continues to grow.

I seem to have a bit of a weakness for men who read.  They make the best of friends.  Reading this, I realize there are other similarities to these three relationships.  All three of these men are sweet, gentle and a bit vulnerable in their own ways, but also have big strong personalities and are plenty manly.  They are all several years older than I am, though never treated me like I was too young to bother talking to about serious things (even when I was 15).  They are each consummate gentleman, and a tiny bit old-fashioned.  They have all acted fiercely protective of me at one time or another, have offered their honest advice when I have sought it, and have supported me even when I've made a life choice that went against their advice.  And in a couple of cases, they've also soothed me when those choices eventually caused me pain, but have not pointed out that they predicted that outcome.  They are all three sensualists - lovers of good food and fine wine and observant of beauty in the world.  With each of them I have had long, wandering and wonderful conversations, often late into the night.  I believe I'm a little bit in love with each of them, but it is the kind of love that only wants deep happiness in their lives, in whatever shape life creates that for them. 

There have also been a couple of men who gave me books to read but I didn't like the books.  Those men are no longer in my life.  I guess it is a measure of our compatibility - if I like the books you like, I will probably like you, too.  And if we share a love of the same books, you'll live in my heart forever.

Comments

[niki]

Such a beautiful, thoughtful and insightful post.
Bluebeard is by far my favorite of all Vonnegut's books. Walking into the barn to see that amazing and huge, heart wrenching painting is something that plays in my head very often prompted by the tiniest of things.

I have been thinking a lot about that book lately and perhaps now it is time to read it again.

It is funny, Irving is who followed my Vonnegut reading spree so very long ago. And then Richard Brautigan. Have you read any of his books? If you haven't, then I've got a book to send to you.

[John Bumgarner]

Nice entry. I am an enthusiastic Vonnegut fan and I think that your poem captures his just, albeit simultaneously regretted, sentiment regarding humanity as a whole.

I was reading Palm Sunday over Spring break. I have read nearly all his fiction and much of his literary criiticism.

Your observations and sharing are appreciated.