On Speed, Annie Dillard, & Being Good
Tuesday, May 18, 2010 at 2:00PM 
the sands of time. Target. taken with cell phone camera.
Are you fast?
How many words can you type per minute? Maybe you know that number. I used to. Now all I know is that I type fast. I also make a lot of typos, but I hit backspace fast, too.
How fast do you read? Now there's a words-per-minute count that isn't quantified so often. But you probably have a sense of yourself as a reader. Are you fast? Slow?
I have a friend from college who reads like the wind. The girl is fast. And she remembers everything, too. I'd thought I was a good reader until I met her.
Wait. When did "good" become a synonym for "fast"?
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I'm reading Annie Dillard's The Maytrees. Dillard brings me to my knees. Her writing makes me swoon. (Have you read her? Please do. And if, like me, you think you don't like her writing at first, give it some time and then another go. There was a time when I thought I didn't care for her work. Now I can't stop reading it with love and lust, envy and inspiration.)
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But back to being fast.
I've decided to read this novel slowly, to luxuriate in its richness. A few days ago I found myself feeling guilty about this while my performance-driven psyche pushed me to read faster, faster, faster. Why? Because then I'd be proving (to whom?) that I'm a good reader. And I like to be good at things.
I remember a professor at my last MFA residency saying that she'd taken all summer to read a book. She immersed herself in it. She lived with it. She was, I think, trying to give us permission to sink into the words we love, to put aside this need to do-do-do and go-go-go. Reading shouldn't be a competitive sport in which we strive to prove something about ourselves.
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The Maytrees is strange. I call it strange because its style, language, and structure are unusual, and because I don't yet have a better word for it. I'm 28 pages into it and I'm trying to decide if the writing is dense or sparse. Somehow it is managing to be both at once, as though an artist used thousands of slight brushstrokes to sketch the barest outline of an immense scene. (According to Cynthia, an MFA colleague, the book's structure is even stranger than I yet know from my position on page 28.)
I borrowed this book from the library, and there is a robin's egg blue comment card paperclipped into the back of it . There are two comments, each in a different handwriting. The first reads: "Couldn't get into this book." The second: "A chore to read -- disjointed pap." Maybe those readers would have felt otherwise had they slowed down and let the book work its way into them. Or not. Either way, I bristle at seeing Dillard's work called "pap." (Then again, it was an interesting choice of word. I'm guessing the commenter was either pretentiously erudite or British. And no, I'm not equating the two.)
I'm taking my time with this book and feeling good about it. I've banished this idea that I have to go fast in all things to be good at them. (There are times when speed is the key to unlocking greatness. Not every time is one of those times.) So I'm letting Annie's words simmer.
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And you. How are you equating things that don't really belong together? What story of "good" are you holding onto just to keep yourself boxed in all neat and tidy and presentable to the imagined world of social acceptance? Also, what words are you sinking into lately?
Reader Comments (7)
Dillard's prose in The Maytrees is so rich; it's like poetry, with alliteration and internal rhymes galore! I found that a little strange at first, wasn't sure what I thought of it, but I let myself love it, because that's what I wanted to do.
Another reason to go against our Type A impulses with this book is that it argues against them with a protagonist who lives attuned to the tides, whose life is leisurely and rhythmic, who achieves beauty and largeness not through external accomplishments but through wanting to be good in a different way, to be a large and forgiving soul. Thanks, Jenn, for reminding me how much I loved this book.
love how you wound all of these things together. this idea of good. sigh. it taps me on the shoulder every now and then and pushes me to almost forget who i am. but then i remember and push back. right now i am letting go of another layer of being the good daughter as i stand ready to make decisions as a mother.
I'm sinking into Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit (recommended by our friend Amelia), and getting ready to sink back into Shannon Hale's Bayern books. They are labeled YA fantasy, but they are beautiful and true and they make me feel so brave.
I found no fault with The Maytrees but relished every word, sentence, scene, and segue. I've read this novel twice.
Did you know you can apply to stay in one of the famous dune shacks on Cape Cod?
So glad to have Annie to talk over with Jenna this summer!
Liz - You are standing strong, my friend. Let me know what you think of Dillard when you dust off those books.
Katie - I think we need more books that make us feel brave.
Jodi - Thanks for the tip about the dune shacks! Can't wait to talk shop with you this summer.
I agree with your suggestion to persevere with Dillard. I admit to reading The Maytrees too fast because at first I didn't like the brusque tone. But the words just kept opening up and before I was halfway done I was loving it. I proceeded on to two other books and then just had to pick this one up to read it again. I just love it. And the structure--wow. I'm going to do another post on it, I think. I understand it so much better with this second read.
Thanks for the mention. And I'd love to know where you are now with The Maytrees...