Tag: creativity

Buy I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac today!

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac

I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac takes the reader from Kerouac's childhood years in Lowell, Massachusetts through his World War II years in New York City and across America, where the hapless writer searches for his voice as a writer and an artist. Using archival material such as journals, notebooks, diaries and letters as well as Kerouac's published books, this portrait serves to bring into focus the internal and external forces that forged the leader of the Beat Generation's highly-original poetry and prose.

$18.00

Or visit here

I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac takes the reader from Kerouac’s childhood years in Lowell, Massachusetts through his World War II years in New York City and across America, where the hapless writer searches for his voice as a writer and an artist. Using archival material such as journals, notebooks, diaries and letters as well as Kerouac’s published books, this portrait serves to bring into focus the internal and external forces that forged the leader of the Beat Generation’s highly-original poetry and prose.

Purchase of this book will help fund our film on Henry David Thoreau, Executive Produced by Terrence Malick!

Thank you!

Paul

[Update] Lost Notebook is Found

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

I evidently left it in a break room at work. Maybe people read it, maybe not? There’s something to say for having messy handwriting, that only the most determined will try to wade through a slew of retrograde cursive…

So, was it so important? Yes, to me it was.

Maybe an excerpt:

In a cave she walked after turning away, and the old man followed, walking his dog whose snout skimmed the wet sand and the rolling cold wash of the sea. The cove was set away from the beach proper, where large glacial erratics had been rolled into place to form a getty that stretched out about one-quarter mile into the sea.

As she strolled, her bare thighs wet with the splash of waves that deliciously licked them, her toes touched her shadows. Her feet were stark white under the sun. She did not look back. She knew already that he would follow abidingly, as readily as the dog. By the time she reached the getty, she began her ascent over the stones.

The old man stopped, unwilling at first to climb, but to stand and watch her lift her long tawny legs over the wet-dark boulders. The sea rolled around the old man’s shins and then his knees. The dog moved further away. He dropped the leash. The dog walked several feet away and sat squarely on its wet haunches shivering.

On the highest stone she stood looking at the sun, her neck craned and cheek tilted, feeling warm fingers trace the fineries of her hot skin. She closes her eyes listening to the sea. The bubbling gurgle between the rocks and the slapping hiss of the incoming tide began to sweep over the furthest reach of the getty.

For several minutes she stayed that way, as if in adoration or invocation to a god or some such pagan idolatry. Her hands unfastened the first of her garments. The straps of a thin top slipped off and dropped in a heap on the rock, her small breasts leaning into the hand of the hot sun. A strange thrill of union to her grand lineage, of legions of others like her stretched to the ancients in blind obedience to the equinox, thrilled her.

The whiteness of her face, like fire illuminating parchment, and eyes shining with no fixed color, but of all colors, and then lids rapturously closed as she sat with knees drawn like Venus in her grove, fixed to her supine posture, breasts upthrusted and sprayed of shining droplets from hand-tossed Atlantis waves, she slowly emptied a sigh into the unerring wind.

There was no mother, father, man or woman, but only the elements desirous of her as if all of it served in slavish devotion to her and her alone…”

Thanks for reading…

On Being An Outsider

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

And we all can claim this, of being outside the world, always looking in, wanting to be, and feeling at times happy not being, but realizing that this ‘otherness’ is you in the world distinctly lacking.

Of being talked over, trying to get a word into the tumult of the rushing seethe of a room, and nobody is listening.

I have always had the feeling of not belonging, it didn’t matter the setting. And, in not belonging, there was also the feeling of belonging with my self where nobody else wanted to be.

As a boy, the gang had ways of doing things, an understanding and invisible language that somehow eluded me.

I have been passed over and ruled out before I was ever considered in passing. Maybe they thought something was just ‘not right’ with me, and so felt it best to go with the other person. I don’t know. I wonder sometimes…

In a workplace setting, there I am again, sitting at a desk where others pass, without a word or a glance, and in retrospect it doesn’t matter (or maybe it does which is why I am writing this), but I feel this otherness, this isolation is complicit with my state of being, that it was always meant to be.

But I wasn’t completely alone. I was never lonely. I had much contentment with myself. There, alas, in the world of books, the other world opened up and invited me and made feel like I belonged. In there things made sense. People talked my language. Of this I have never disputed.

From books came a new mode of self-expression. I found that I could write with relative ease even though my grades in English classes were relatively dismal. I could not identify grammar particles for the life of me, but I could construct sentences and then paragraphs and, eventually, long spates of prose with relative ease.

With that came an understanding of the world jostled into abstraction, yet somehow making sense in a convoluted way, as if my understanding was drawn from some kind of Utopian yearning that would never mesh with the concrete ‘wants’ and ‘whys’ of the rest of society.

I see the poverty of the world stems from poverty of the mind. I see that there will never be a time when all is resolved like an alg`ebraic equation. There will always be struggle without resolve. There will be voices louder than my own shouting outrage into the whirlwind. I will always, too, not understand, and fight my own struggles, as many as are thrown at me without mercy, wonder how others have the time to do it.

I see daily the world of men, and I feel like I am not one of them though I am among them. I wonder what it is that made them that way, to assume this ‘manliness’ and tout it as superior to all else. These boasts and jostling, posturing and buried aggression. I don’t feel like I belong then even among my gender.

Nor do I feel even that I belong among my race, my species, genus or world order. There is something else unlatched from the mother spaceship of humanity that drifts e into some other orbit.

I don’t know what it is, and perhaps I will never find out. It isn’t my right or duty to find out. It is my duty to just BE.

In being there is no outside or inside. There is no rightful place. I write and conduct the order of my life out of structured consciousness that is neither inclusive or preclusive of some understanding.

I want to be like all of you, but you do not want to be like all of me. But in all of us, there is a multitude of possibilities.

There is never truly an outside. We’re all outsiders looking in to somewhere else, never feeling that we quite belong, or want to belong.

Or is there even an inside?

from The White Peacock (I)

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The White Peacock (1911), D.H. Lawrence’s first novel, was inspired by a painting, “An Idyll” painted by Maurice Greiffenhagen in 1891. Lawrence proclaimed that the painting had “a profound effect” on him. He later wrote, “As for Greiffenhagen’s ‘Idyll’, it moves me almost as if I were in love myself. Under its intoxication, I have flirted madly this Christmas.” I explore this effect in the second half of this essay.

Here, there is another painting under scrutiny by Lawrence, in the same chapter (III) as the “Idyll” reference, titled “A Vendor of Visions”, young Leticia (or “Lettie”) Tempest denounces her beau’s brother, George Beardsall, as a provincial. George is part of a love triangle with Lettie and Leslie Beardsall. Lettie, subsequently (and unhappily) marries Leslie, but will remain sexually drawn to George. In the third chapter, they sit in a drawing room where she retrieves her collection of art books.

Prior to this, she has been a tease. She tells George “you are only a boy.” She yields her own sense of feminine mystery in a coy and effectual manner. She is protected by a ring of chaperones and the creature comforts of opulence and tradition. She lacks for naught but experience, to which she flirts with a sensate desire to succumb, yet holds herself back.

Lettie toys with recklessness. She frivolously plays on doomed George’s desire for wanting more out of life. He can never escape her fixed grasp on his heart and his life will never be fulfilled as long as she coyly taunts him with what he will never have.

After she carries in a great pile of art books, he tells her that she is “strong.”

“I know how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me”–she kneeled before the fire. “Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and fall of my breathing, some look at my neck, and a few–not you among them–look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I’m a fine specimen, strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!”

But George must reach through the fire to seize the gem. Lettie must reach through the gem stone of George to seize the fire she desires so cravenly.

For Lettie, she feels that her superiority, her cultured upbringing, is a tool that she can yield over George’s haplessness. She is condescending, despite likely knowing that she could just as easily be over her head. The other women present, Lettie’s mother, Alice and Sybil all hint that he is “slow.” There is a distinct feeling of “otherness” here. Alice quips to George, “your people,” as if he rose from some other inferior race that they find charming, like a trained ape juggling balls in a Victorian drawing room.

Lettie sits with George and flips through the pages of an art book. When she arrives to George Clausen’s watercolor of peasants hoeing for turnips, she uses the opportunity to square George off for his seeming lack of culture:

“You’d be just that colour in the sunset,” she said, thus bringing him back to the subject, “and if you looked at the ground you’d find there was a sense of warm gold fire in it, and once you’d perceived the colour, it would strengthen till you’d see nothing else. You are blind; you are only half-born; you are gross with good living and heavy sleeping. You are a piano which will only play a dozen common notes. Sunset is nothing to you–it merely happens anywhere. Oh, but you make me feel as if I’d like to make you suffer. If you’d ever been sick; if you’d ever been born into a home where there was something oppressed you, and you couldn’t understand; if ever you’d believed, or even doubted, you might have been a man by now. You never grow up, like bulbs which spend all summer getting fat and fleshy, but never wakening the germ of a flower. As for me, the flower is born in me, but it wants bringing forth. Things don’t flower if they’re overfed. You have to suffer before you blossom in this life. When death is just touching a plant, it forces it into a passion of flowering. You wonder how I have touched death. You don’t know. There’s always a sense of death in this home. I believe my mother hated my father before I was born. That was death in her veins for me before I was born. It makes a difference–“

George doesn’t know how to respond. He is, Lawrence writes, “like a child who feels the tale but does not understand the words.”

She asks George if he is “bewildered,” and he seems very much so, until she flips the page and he is confronted with “An Idyll.”

“There…” he states, and here the table turns on Lettie, for she has indeed tread too deep into uncharted waters.

Read more from the White Peacock (II).

from The White Peacock (II)

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ 1 Comment

In D.H. Lawrence’s first novel, The White Peacock, we have the two, George and Lettie, looking at pictures in an art book. She first shows him Clausen’s painting of peasants hoeing turnips (see previous blog post). He then sees and reacts to the painting (much like Lawrence after seeing it and consequently wrote the first of three drafts of his first novel, The White Peacock).

It is Maurice Greiffinhagen’s “An Idyll” (1891).

The obsession with the painting by Lawrence is very much in accordance with Dostoevsky’s obsession with Holbein’s painting of the dead Christ lying in his tomb (which influenced the writing of The Idiot).

The following exchange takes place between George and Lettie:

They turned on, chatting casually, till George suddenly exclaimed, “There!”

It was Maurice Greiffinhagen’s “Idyll”.

“What of it?” she asked, gradually flushing. She remembered her own enthusiasm over the picture.

“Wouldn’t it be fine?” he exclaimed, looking at her with glowing eyes, his teeth showing white in a smile that was not amusement.

“What?” she asked, dropping her head in confusion. “That–a girl like that–half afraid–and passion!” He lit up curiously.

“She may well be half afraid, when the barbarian comes out in his glory, skins and all.”

“But don’t you like it?” he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Make love to the next girl you meet, and by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your arms. She’ll have need to be more than half afraid, won’t she?”

It is a scene fraught with sexual tension. Lettie possibly feels that George is brutish (unlike his brother and her beau, Leslie) and therefore unresponsive to things like art and sunsets, as she claims he is when she shows him the Clausen painting.

Response to art is irregardless of social class. It is reactive. It incites in George the very feeling stirring between them. Lettie feels that should she fall under a similar opium-daze, that he would take brutally take advantage of her: “by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your arms. She’ll have need to be more than half afraid.”

The painting itself which hangs in the National Liverpool Museum, a lusty shepherd firmly embraces a yielding maid on a slope of pasturage. Despite the abundant display of female nudity in many of the paintings surrounding it in the High Victorian gallery at the Walker Art Gallery, such explicit embracing scenes are rare.

The shepherd is seen taking the young maiden with a sudden powerful movement. Her body slumps powerless in his arms. The fairness of her skin contrasts with his swarthy skin tones. He, like George, seems to be a man accustomed to working outdoors. She is a parlor princess, perhaps out on a walk unchaperoned.

Her expression may be seen as ecstatic, but it seems more likely that she is surrendering to the young man’s passion than actively participating in the act of embracing. Should she had taken on a more active role, it would have been unacceptable to a Victorian audience.

The woman’s complacency and her serene rapturous gaze captures the passionate spontaneity of the moment.

Greiffenhagen’s reliance on color as the painting’s expressive medium is striking. The vibrant warm red of the poppies splayed at the lovers’ feet contrasts with the wash of blues and greens in the background. The execution of the work is evident in loose and quick brushstrokes. The artist develops form through color much like a French Impressionist.

Lawrence’s obsession with the painting is well-documented. In 1929 he declared
“all my life I have gone back to painting, because it gave me a form of delight that words can never give.” ‘An Idyll’ embodied passion for him.

He was utterly fascinated by the painting, confessing in a 1908 letter that “the painting moved me almost as much as if I had fallen in love myself.” He made three copies of ‘An Idyll’, one of which he began drawing the night his mother died in 1910.

‘An Idyll’s” appearance in The White Peacock is as sudden and rapturous as George toward Lettie. The painting stirs passionate feelings in George which Lettie is at odds to compensate. Only moments before she had denounced him as a man unable to properly appreciate a sunset. When he suddenly reacts to “An Idyll,” she is taken aback by his response.

His critique of the maiden in the painting mirrors Lettie’s emotional being at that moment: “a girl like that–half afraid–and passion!”

It is almost a case of aesthetic arrest, like Joyce’s Dedaulus glimpsing a young woman bathing in a stream. The frenzied wayward journey of passion leads straight to the heart, with tributaries branching off to the loins and eyes:

“He was breathlessly quivering under the new sensation of heavy, unappeased fire in his breast, and in the muscles of his arms. He glanced at her bosom and shivered.”

It is as though the two had come across a dirty picture in the midst of an album of family photos. Awkwardly they must quantify their barely-disguised passion for each other, but also, suppress it with Victorian-era modesty. Lettie is quick to denounce him as a provincial. She is unable to appreciate his genuine interaction with the painting, which is the very goal of art itself, to stir a response.

“Didn’t you know the picture before?” she said, in a low, toneless voice.

He shut his eyes and shrank with shame.

“No, I’ve never seen it before,” he said.

“I’m surprised,” she said. “It is a very common one.”

“Is it?” he answered, and this make-belief conversation fell. She looked up, and found his eyes. They gazed at each other for a moment before they hid their faces again. It was a torture to each of them to look thus nakedly at the other, a dazzled, shrinking pain that they forced themselves to undergo for a moment, that they might the moment after tremble with a fierce sensation that filled their veins with fluid, fiery electricity. She sought, almost in panic, for something to say.

“I believe it’s in Liverpool, the picture,” she contrived to say.

He dared not kill this conversation, he was too self-conscious. He forced himself to reply, “I didn’t know there was a gallery in Liverpool.”

“Oh yes, a very good one,” she said.

They are loaded guns, both unable to shoot straight, or at all. Lawrence’s mastery of the novel form is in full display here, like the peacock of the title. The hallmarks of his emerging strength as a writer is evident. He is able to evoke both the masculine and feminine aspects convincingly. Lawrence inhabits both the male and female sensibility, kindling a fire that must either be extinguished or built to full flame. Lettie opts for the former, taking the art books and leaving the room, but still aware of her power over George. Her Exit Stage Left sees her holding the books just below her breasts, as if by accentuating them she can still bring George’s fervor to an even higher pitch.

“Their eyes met in the briefest flash of a glance, then both turned their faces aside. Thus averted, one from the other, they made talk. At last she rose, gathered the books together, and carried them off. At the door she turned. She must steal another keen moment: “Are you admiring my strength?” she asked. Her pose was fine. With her head thrown back, the roundness of her throat ran finely down to the bosom, which swelled above the pile of books held by her straight arms. He looked at her. Their lips smiled curiously. She put back her throat as if she were drinking. They felt the blood beating madly in their necks. Then, suddenly breaking into a slight trembling, she turned round and left the room.”

Reading this last night, it only built my appreciation for Lawrence even more, that every work of his, either as a budding novelist, or later, when his heart threatened to become more jaded and his sensibilities bruised by a life of penury and hardship, never extinguishes his ever-burning flame of kindled desire and satiation.

When Lettie sees George out the door, he takes her hand: “They smiled again at each other, and, with a blind movement, he broke the spell and was gone.”

For his troubles, George marries the wrong woman and eventually slides into alcoholism and suicide. Lettie too marries the wrong brother.

A spell. That’s what it is. Lawrence was under a spell with “An Idyll.” George, the same. Lettie under a spell of passionate yearning from George’s response, and myself from reading all of it.

Taos Elegy

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Sunrise: Sangre de Cristo Mts.
6:30 a.m.

Clouds like tattered rags
squat as furrowed shaman brows
over heights of lava rock and shale,
bested by Spanish conquest of
Don Fernando, yet eternal still
to endure.

A ragged coyote limps across
a field, turns warily eyeing
down Cam Del Paseo Pueblo Norte,
trotting dust into spirit clouds.

Seraphic cherub sits
on marble tombstone,
chubby chin on palm
brooding over a child’s
collection
of toys:

Matchbox cars, toy soldiers
and a plastic dinosaur.

Daughter: Mercedes E. Avila
1920-1945
sleeps like desert doll beneath
wooden frame of fence pickets.
Gopher holes tunnel
a labyrinthine network
around her,
bonding
the
living
with the dead.

Taos, New Mexico
(April 9, 2016)

The rind and the fruit.

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

In D.H. Lawrence’s writings, he describes the rind and the fruit as metaphor.

When one peels the rind, therein the fruit is tender, retaining its juices and seeds. Within is life, the bursting seed awaiting implantation into the soil and the redolent waves of the sun nurturing it into budding. The rind merely peels away. It is discarded. It becomes mold in the earth.

Lawrence writes of the rind in Women In Love after Anna and Will marry. They enjoy honeymoon bliss in a little cottage, absorbed in each other. All is soothing and complacent to compassion. They are, for lack of a better word, complete. Will is born anew:

“He surveyed the rind of the world: houses factories, trams, the discarded rind; people scurrying about, work going on, all on the discarded surface. An earthquake (the marriage) had burst it all from the inside. It was as if the surface of the world had been broken away entirely: Ilkeston, streets, church, people, work, rule-of-the-day, all intact; and yet peeled away into unreality, leaving here exposed the inside, the reality; one’s own being, strange feelings and passions and yearnings and beliefs and aspirations, suddenly become present, revealed to the permanent bedrock, knitted one rock with the woman one loved.”

As Will slips into blissful dreamland, Anna plans a tea-party which throws Will into a tizzy.

“The wonder was going to pass away again. All the love, the magnificent new order was going to be lost, she would forfeit it all for the outside things. She would admit the outside world again, she would throw away the living fruit for the ostensible rind. He began to hate this in her.”

This reveals the differences between the two. She longs for outside things, the rind; he, for the living fruit that is them. It is not the tea-party per se that becomes the issue, but that the trifling matter becomes portentous of their future.

Lawrence’s metaphor of the rind is a tool for his philosophy.

“This goes on within the rind. But the rind remains permanent, falsely absolute, my false absolute knowledge of good and evil. Till the work of corruption is finished; then the rind also, the public form, the civilization, the established consciousness of mankind disappears as well in the mouth of the worm, taken unutterably asunder by the hands of the angels of separation. It ceases to be, all the civilization and all the consciousness, it passes utterly away, a temporary cohesion in the flux. It was this, this rind, this persistent temporary cohesion, that was evil, that alone was evil. And it destroys us all before itself is destroyed.”

Lawrence’s “rind” is the origin of evil. It is the hope one settles for after glimpsing the rainbow, but instead takes refuge in the “rind of the world.”

Whatever form the rind appears, it must be dismantled or diminished in order to reach the fruit of the matter.

“It became at last,” writes Lawrence, “a collective activity, a war, when, within the great rind of virtue we thresh destruction further and further, till our whole civilization is like a great rind full of corruption, o breaking down, a mere shell threatened with collapse upon itself.”

Then …

“And the road of corruption leads back to one’s eternity.”

Lawrence indulges in the fruit, where the wet pulp and soft seeds are rapacious with the sweet and bitter pulp of destiny and promulgation.

It is in his poem, “Pomegranate” that he declares:

You tell me I am wrong.
Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong?
I am not wrong.

The fleshly seeds of the pomegranate are matters of truth that remain obstinate in the light of falsity.

Or when Lawrence writes in “Figs”:

Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it ;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light ;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilization, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.

The cloying sweetness, its feminine essence overpowers the senses. It is all that it should be. The fruit is declarative and profound. We are righted by its righteousness and journey. The fig’s rind is peeled away and the pulp opens up sweetly with its ferment. It rewards the tongue with its truth. It rewards the soil with its seed.

The crux of the matter lies in the fruit, not the rind. The rind is the world, that binding shell that colludes the real fruit of the matter. It is rioting in Charlottesville, it is nukes in North Korea, it is the pettiness of everyday squabbles, and earthly battles we pursue instead of the living fruit of who we are and what we contain. It is this Lawrence warns of … where “the tiger rises supreme, the last brindled flame upon the darkness; the deer melts away, a bloodstained shadow received into the utter pallor of light; each having leapt forward into eternity, at opposite extremes.”

What is your rind? What is your fruit?

There’s Nothing Like a Cheap Paperback …

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ 3 Comments

I believe a cheap paperback of great literature dresses up a book shelf better than overpriced hardcovers and oversized trade paperbacks… I mean just those small ones that fit right in the back of your pocket like it was always meant to be there. There’s plenty I found through my years bought for a nickel or a quarter, or maybe I stole from some flea market table where I didn’t have the dime or quarter, but the title or author drew me to such extremities. I feel guilty about that…

There’s a whole line of Faulkner paperbacks I have with split black spines and mysterious photos of a vanished America that retains the hate and desperation of its people in the American south, of fronds of Spanish Moss and blood soaking in puddles within a rutted wagon wheel path. All the Snopes and Compsons in the world took up a couple of feet on the bookshelf near The Tibetan Book of the Dead and Women In Love.

I have a really aged copy of Kerouac’s The Subterraneans sent to me from Terry Malick. He said he had it as a boy when he worked on a farm where he drove a tractor to harvest wheat. He kept it in the glove box. He told me one December evening in Austin that he “wanted to look cool,” but he never really understood the book at all. A few months back he mailed it to me with a neat inscription.

Cheap dirty paperbacks, the pages pungent of must and experience. If we could lift the prints from the cover, how many murderers and saints have clutched these titles in a search for redemption and resolution?

Maxwell Bodenheim was murdered clutching a copy of Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us, and as he laid there in the Bowery cold water flat, the blood sea of his heart pumped out his life essence to stain his Arrow collar shirt.

Once I rode a trolley to Tijuana from San Diego holding a thick paperback of Steinbeck’s East of Eden. I never have been able to read it the same way again, with the lift of spring flowers wafting through the air imagining the Salinas Valley.

Right here with me is a Vintage paperback of Faulkner’s Flags In the Dust with its front cover photo of a dilapidated home and Weeping Lilac Tree and I remember reading it, the first time reading Faulkner, and being entranced with the language (and this was not even vintage Faulkner in his prime!):

“They drank again. It was high ere, and the air moved with gray coolness. On either hand lay a valley filled with shadow and with ceaseless whip-poor-wills; beyond these valleys the silver earth rolled on into the sky. Across it, sourceless and mournful and far, a dog howled. Before them the lights on the courthouse clock were steadfast and yellow and unwinking in the dissolving distance, but in all other directions the world rolled away in slumbrous ridges, milkily opaline.”

These words turned me on to Faulkner, and at the time, I think it was a little bookstore in a Massachusetts mall, there was a shelf of them, all Vintage books, each equally enigmatic. Light In August had its cover of a window shade with the mysterious yellow light tinging it, and The Sound and the Fury had its little country cemetery awash in sunset blood red sky.

Pocket paperbacks: a dishwasher in Detroit washing pans with a volume of Stephen King jammed in his back pocket; a socialite reading Lolita in the back of a limousine; an old man reading Beckett on a park bench; a sailor reading Jack London’s Call of the Wild; a bored teen reading Naked Lunch. I would defer to a quality paperback of Ulysses over a grand Folio edition. In between its beat-up pulpy pages, a secret pulses like a buried ember in its bed of ashes, waiting to spark into full flame.

As a kid, we went to flea markets spread out over the lot of a drive-in theater, and there was table after table of people with books, many of them remaindered. We knew they were remaindered because they tore the front cover off, thus stripping the book of its character. Dirt cheap, then, wasn’t always better. I was weaned from young adult fiction to Stephen King back then. I distinctly remember finding an almost-newish copy of the Signet edition of Salems Lot with its slick black embossed vampire girl with that one crimson drop of blood seeping out of the corner of her mouth and no title on the cover. A collectible now, it was commonplace then … and I could never pick up the novel again, because that edition kept with it the entire mystique of the little village taken over by everyday vampires. Who could ever forget floating Danny Click in that book?

I’m not one for memory lane type of blogging, but picking up this copy of Carl Jung’s edited collection Man and His Symbols published by Dell flooded me with memories.

What’s your favorite pocket paperback book?