By Alexandra
LeggatBy Alexandra
Leggat
The other day, I was
thinking about Christmas. Something I try not to do until I have
to - December 24th. I thought about the time my brother asked
me what I wanted for Christmas and I said a book that will change
my life and laughed a little. He said, okay. And that Christmas,
1988, I received Adieux - A Farewell to Sartre - eight
years after Sartre's death. I have always loved the existentialists
- growing up they got me through my teens. They were my saviours.
When I finished Age of Reason, I threw it across my floor
in disdain. It was ugly, it was disturbing - it was brilliant.
What a brilliant book, I thought, to evoke such feeling in me.
I loved it because I hated it - if you know what I mean.
The Blood of Others and The Mandarins by Simone
de Beauvoir will always be at the top of my list of beautifully,
intelligently written literature. I admire the fact that such
a strong, willful, intellectual as de Beauvoir never lacked warmth,
empathy and femininity in her work. Individually, their books
effected me but Adieux, reading Adieux was like
being in a room with the two of them, at their breakfast table,
in the café, in the study and truly experiencing the unique
relationship these two great minds shared. It moved me in a way
that nothing was thrown across my floor at its completion except
a lack of faith.
A few years passed and my brother came home for Christmas again.
Thought I'd bring you another book that might change your life,
he said, and handed me, Faces in the Water by Janet Frame.
I had never read Janet Frame and was intrigued. That night I crawled
into bed, probably in a new pair of pajamas and didn't stop reading
until Boxing Day was pounding on my window. This autobiographical
story haunts me. Not just because its style is truly unique but
because it breathes. Its honesty is matchless not only in the
anecdotes but in its unselfconsciousness - in its will to simply
be expressed. You may think I'm going overboard, but in a time
when I feel so many books are written from the head and not from
the soul, this book also gave me faith, as a young woman who wants
to write books.
Well as you can imagine, another few years passed. But my brother
didn't come home for Christmas. Nothing arrived in the mail. I
was mainly reading books that I had to for school and reviews
and I was desperate for inspiration. Unbeknownst to me, my brother
had informed my mother of what to get and she bought me Timebends,
Arthur Miller's biography. I had read and acted in a few of Arthur
Miller's plays in theatre school but I didn't know that much about
him. What impressed me most about this man was his individuality,
his belief in what he did on his terms. Even when he began to
experience early success with his plays, he continued to work
in a factory. He said, how could he write about the working class
if he were no longer a part of it. Something I found admirable.
One of the many things I found admirable.
There are an abundance of well written books, but only a handful
that are truly awe-inspiring - that I can actually say have had
an effect on my life. Then, there's Samuel Beckett - but that's
another issue altogether.