{"id":136299,"date":"2019-05-10T13:56:54","date_gmt":"2019-05-10T17:56:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=136299"},"modified":"2019-05-10T14:27:31","modified_gmt":"2019-05-10T18:27:31","slug":"books-only-a-mother-could-love","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/05\/10\/books-only-a-mother-could-love\/","title":{"rendered":"Books Only a Mother Could Love"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Ali Smith. Photo: Christian Sinibaldi. \u00a9 Christian Sinibaldi.<\/p><\/div>\n

Dear Mum, I know it\u2019s not Mother\u2019s Day in Scotland, but it is here in America. The Queen has two birthdays\u2014maybe you can have two Mother\u2019s Days? Anyway, I\u2019m only halfway through Ali Smith\u2019s Artful<\/em><\/a>, but it\u2019s already sad and clever and beautiful. The book is composed of four lectures on literature, tangled up with a narrative of mourning, and is gently self-aware in a way that isn\u2019t annoying. You\u2019d like it, I think. I\u2019ve just ordered another copy online and had it posted to you. I\u2019m sorry it won\u2019t arrive in time for Sunday (I didn\u2019t have much forewarning regarding this extra Mother\u2019s Day). What else from New York? I just read Emmanuel Carr\u00e8re\u2019s My Life as a<\/em>\u00a0Russian Novel<\/em><\/a>, and it was a splendid, if somewhat traumatic, experience. Carr\u00e8re lays bare his faults in such a way as to make one feel very aware of one\u2019s own. It, too, is sad and clever and beautiful, but I can\u2019t recommend it to you, owing to it being occasionally pornographic. If you want to read it, you\u2019ll have to find it for yourself; I can\u2019t be involved. Anyway, Happy Mother\u2019s Day! Again. \u2014Robin Jones\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I have what might be called an anecdotal family (and they all read these staff picks\u2014hello, everyone). We relate to each other through our own dialect of stories; when we get together, our conversations are mostly recitations of stories we\u2019ve told and heard a thousand times already. Natalia Ginzburg coined a term for this: a \u201cfamily lexicon,\u201d which is also the title of one of her novels<\/a>, an excellent gift for the maternal figures of any such family. I also recommend for anyone from a family of raconteurs Occasional Magic<\/em><\/a>, the most recent anthology from the famed storytelling organization The Moth. This is not what I\u2019m getting my mother (I can\u2019t give that away here), but I sent her a copy earlier this year to rave reviews. I haven\u2019t read it, but I\u2019m sure she\u2019ll want to tell me all about it. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

This past Passover, my French mother insisted that we celebrate together. My family doesn\u2019t always celebrate, but when we do, it is off-kilter and tongue-in-cheek\u2014my dad reads from T<\/em>he Communist Manifesto<\/em> instead of the Haggadah, while my mother, who became a Jew in a quick-conversion night class in the seventies to please her father-in-law, throws wine-drop plagues on her plate such as \u201cclimate change\u201d and \u201csocial media.\u201d This year, when we sat in the living room after dinner to read, my mother and I had both unknowingly brought the same book: Isabella Hammad\u2019s The Parisian<\/em><\/a>. Written with the perfect poise and lyricism of the greatest eighteenth-century literature, the novel follows Midhat Kamal, a romantic turn-of-the-century aesthete from the town of Nablus, in Ottoman Palestine. Hammad is a master of the small social detail: the way a sleeve might be rolled up just a bit too far or a man might run his tie between his fingers as he speaks or a woman might lift a single strand of hair from her forehead with one finger. Before the backdrop of perfectly observed conversational slights and lustful glances, the drama of the Middle East unfolds. My mother and I each retreated to our bedrooms that night, and I could hear her through the thin floorboards in the room above me, turning the pages. \u201cOh,\u201d we said to each other the next morning, bags under our eyes from staying up too late. \u201cIt\u2019s really<\/em> good.\u201d \u2014Nadja Spiegelman<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Anne Carson. Photo: Peter Smith. \u00a9 Peter Smith.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Having reached a point where it feels like I am still growing up but am actually just growing older, one of the things I\u2019ve found particularly disorienting is how the most fundamental relationship I have is changing. In many ways and at many times I am still my mother\u2019s child. Sometimes it feels like those roles reverse; at others, she is my best friend; and more often than I like, we are strangers to each other, both incomprehensible, both uncomprehending. I think we both would like to find a bridge across that gap, when it appears, so maybe it is less self-centered than I fear to want, this Mother\u2019s Day, to give her Anne Carson\u2019s Autobiography of Red<\/em><\/a>. I read Carson\u2019s novel-in-verse once, years ago, and have never since been able to revisit it (\u201cAre there many little boys who think they are a\u2009\/\u2009Monster?\u201d). But sometimes a warped mirror shows the clearest picture, and distance can bring you closer. The book is buried somewhere in my apartment, but if I could dig it out, that\u2019s the hand across the water I would offer, curious to see what would come back from the other side. \u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong><\/p>\n

Most of my childhood memories feature my mother with some sort of book in her general vicinity. Now that I\u2019m an adult, we frequently give each other book recommendations, and though our tastes don\u2019t always overlap, she\u2019s introduced me to some true gems over the years, including her battered copy of Ursula K. Le Guin\u2019s The Left Hand of Darkness<\/em><\/a>. Since she\u2019s a big science fiction fan, one book I\u2019ve been telling her to read for years is Joanna Russ\u2019s The Female Man<\/em><\/a>. First published in 1975, it\u2019s a feminist sci-fi classic, with a plot that features the collision of four different worlds: one in which the Great Depression never ended; one that\u2019s just New York in the seventies; one in which men don\u2019t exist; and finally, one in which men and women are quite literally at war. For a chaser, follow it up with Russ\u2019s incendiary How to Suppress Women\u2019s Writing<\/em><\/a>. Better yet: pay mothers for their domestic labor!\u00a0\u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

Now that I\u2019m a working woman, I know why my father stayed late at the office. We go all in: he for that sinking ship, the United States Congress, and I for this fine racing yacht. When I was a kid, I loved when he stayed late. I loved my father, of course, but if Dad missed dinner, there was a chance my mom would read to my sister and me at the table. If being read to is a chief pleasure of my existence, being read to while eating is a step above. Mom surely read many, many different books over the years, and in the winter, fall, and spring as well, but in my recollection, it is always summer, and the doors are always open to the backyard, and she is always pausing to take a bite of salad dressed with her own perfect mustard dressing before reading the next line of Ruth Reichl\u2019s Tender at the Bone<\/em><\/a>\u2014the first food writing I loved. Finding Reichl\u2019s name in The New Yorker<\/em> decades later was a shock because so good was the book and so good was the listening at my own table that it had seemed like a private fairy tale. Hardly a fantasy, Reichl\u2019s memoir is filled with harrowing stories, such as the one of her frustrated mother poisoning all the guests with fiercely spoiled food that, in her defiant worldview, was perfectly good. My own mother paused before reading us a section in which Ruth comes into her own cooking matzo brei for her drunk friends one late-night early morning; like Audrey Hepburn at the end of Sabrina<\/em>, with little flourish and a dearth of ingredients, Reichl proves you can make a souffl\u00e9 occasion with dry crackers and conviviality. My mother went back to work after taking time off to be at home with my sister and me. I know now this wasn\u2019t easy\u2014both the leaving and the returning\u2014and a woman\u2019s worth is still undercalculated at the office and at home. But living constantly with that one moment\u2014the June evening, the radish on her fork, the next delicious page under her left hand\u2014seems worth it. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Ruth Reichl. Photo: Michael Singer. \u00a9 Michael Singer.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, in honor of Mother\u2019s Day, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 recommends books to their moms\u2014and yours.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-136299","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nBooks Only a Mother Could Love by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, in honor of Mother\u2019s Day, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 recommends books to their moms\u2014and yours.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/05\/10\/books-only-a-mother-could-love\/\" \/>\n<meta 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