More Thoughts on Glaciers, by Alexis M. Smith

When you really think about it, I probably shouldn't have been so surprised.

[start/quote]"
  
   If I'm going to be really honest: my feelings for "Glaciers" are slightly more complicated than I generally like my feelings for books to be, particularly because I've pressed myself to spit out a what-out-of-what-stars rating and review... A style of assessment I've found to be seldom honest or all that representative of what a book is or could be to me or anyone else when it really comes down to it.

     I'm a fairly straightforward person, inclined to the critical and often cynical side of things probably more than is expressly healthy for a 22 year-old. So that leads me to conclude that my uncharacteristically muddled feelings are either expressive of the huge amount of stress I've been under recently as a soon-to-be graduate or, in fact, are a testament to Ms. Smith's ability to evoke the same kind of romanticized and achingly bittersweet nostalgia and longing in me that her narrator so often relates to everything from melting glaciers, not-quite-found-and-too-soon-lost loves, and the 'perfect dresses' of the world that (when reasonably considered) will most likely never be seen by one's true love... That is, at least not on the first date. 

     Again with the being honest, but... I didn't actually connect with Isabel very strongly for about 3/4 of the novel. This is usually a huge problem for me and the main factor which very much applied to my less than average enjoyment (if we're going by general internet buzz standards) of "Where'd You Go, Bernadette" later this month. And so, you might imagine how surprised I was when I discovered that this distance from Isabel seemed to impact me hardly at all as I powered through "Glaciers" with more 'heedless pleasure' than I ever did poor, yuppy, for-some-reason-not-very-funny-to-me (probably because I was trying to take it, like everything else in my life, a shade and a half too seriously) "Bernadette." 
     So, despite my initially not-so-strong emotional connection to the thinks-very-hard-about-every-little-detail Isabel, it was the language and Smith's particular turns of phrase and expert way of painting pictures across the page that really kept getting me invested in visualizing one recollected memory after another past association after another childhood retelling after... You get the gist. 
     I honestly *could not* get enough and am now convinced that I would eagerly eat up a collection of Ms. Smith's short stories with a spoon and lick my fingers afterwards with minimum embarrassment whether said finger-licking occurred in public or no.
The thing I loved best about "Glaciers" is that you really *do* get the picture. Perhaps not entirely of Isabel herself (although I'd argue that the last 1/4 of the novel goes a long way towards rectifying that in a very short amount of time), but of her memories and the associations she's built that surround the significant objects which so populate and characterize her daily life, giving it a color and dimension that in my mind resembles watercolor paintings still wet to the touch.
     Admittedly, this book paints a very much romanticized picture of Portland, the 'vintage' label, relationships, books, and... Okay, basically everything, but which remarkably at the same time is the very thing about "Glaciers" that makes a certain type of person (see 'prone to nostalgia' or 'one who already has a fondness for endlessly romanticizing the past') fall head over heels for it.
     These little stories of Isabel's are both artistically and strategically knit together so that they run seamlessly back like little rivers to "Glaciers" unifying theme of love and eventual loss, taking you on a Dalloway-like journey that ends (but doesn't really end) in bittersweet longing for something set just out of reach. And perhaps it's because I'm one of those closet romantics (albeit an extremely unsuccessful one) who is easily beguiled by anything with a charming history that made me fall just a little bit in love whilst peeping through these little rose-tinted windows into Isabel's world of memories.
     An unabashed love letter to sentimentality and romance surrounding all the temporary wonders we encounter every day of our lives, I give "Glaciers" an unapologetic 4/5 stars for the genuinely surprising amount it was able to make me feel over the course of a few short hours on a Tuesday afternoon.

"[end/quote]

     
In any case, this is what I ended up writing in the little Goodreads' review box this morning. Who'd have thought I'd had so many more nebulous thoughts floating around inside of me about it. I guess it really did get to me more than I thought!

And again, I probably shouldn't have been so surprised.

Until I get up the courage and the wherewithal to review Where'd You Go, Bernadette,
Torey

On the Quintessential English Major Aesthetic

      

     C'mon guys, let's face it: English majors have got to be some of the hardiest people out there in the bloodthirsty world of academia. They are the subject of constant ridicule, faced with at least twice the amount of reading required of most other majors, and most importantly— they have had to endure years of exposure to some of the most pretentious individuals that have ever had the gall to stick their pinched little noses in the air.
     At the beginning of this academic year, I was still an English and Anthropology double major (yes, yes— boo hiss to you too, I'm one of those girls). In fact, technically I'm still considered as such. However, only a month and a half ago, I was still grappling with the then difficult decision of "shall I make my senior year hell by still trying to double major, or should I actually do the sensible thing and drop one? But then, which one?!?"
     My history as an English major and just English majordom/classes in general have always been touchy issues for me. And not just because of the exorbitant amounts of reading because, let's face it, it's not like a whole lot of reading is going to scare me off of anything anytime soon. No, it wasn't the reading. And no, again, it certainly wasn't the subject matter (I love me some archaic prose, artistic run-on sentences, and convoluted narratives, yo!). However, there was one thing that just kept on digging at me and digging at me and that was jabbed painfully in between my ribs over and over again like a stitch in my side that every so often, when I was least expecting and most unprepared for it, kicked into high gear and caused me to limp sullenly off the field.

Ugh.

     It's the people, folks, the people.
Or, rather, a distinctive and annoying subgroup that's attached itself like a parasite to the larger wonderful, open-hearted, intelligent 
(albeit forever economically impoverished) English Major culture.

You know the sort: the holier-than-thou, new-age hipsters all the low-brow collegiate newspapers poke fun at in just about every issue except, you know, of the more literary variety. They tie their scarves with such artistic flair that you are tempted to ask if they've yet called on the Darcys of Devonshire this year and sport a side part or bob that rivals the do's of the most fashionable social climbers of the Roaring 20's. They strive to be the artistic avatars of their own tastes which, while admittedly the purpose of clothing and fashion in general— is exaggerated to the point of caricature by these individuals. And so they exhibit their tastes and express their ideals in such a way that their initial aesthetic appeal is overcome by the sheer height of the ivory tower atop which they so obviously see themselves standing, staring down at all the little people as if we were tiny specs upon a toy globe they painted in the 4th grade and which they no longer find amusing or worthy of their attention.

They are those that give the loud and proud nerds, the devoted bookworms, and the unapologetic lovers of everything literary a bad name.

   

And I am sick and tired of every single goddamned one of them.

Seriously.

     The worst part is that these types aren't even reserved for students... universities actually hire these pompous toads in hordes for some inexplicable reason I can never hope to fathom.

Believe me, it's true; I've had classes with them.

That is all.

Torey

A Note on Letter Writing

     A short text or email can only say so much and last so long… Write a letter instead; it is much more easily stowed away in drawers and stolen out again for second, third, and fourth readings. I’ve kept every single one I’ve ever received and have taken great care in the writing of every one I’ve sent… There’s just something more inexplicably personal to the writing of such messages and the reading of another’s handwriting than can ever be found in the uniform text of an email or instant message. Never give it up, I say. And never I shall. 

     On another note, did you know that the poet John Keats once said that if he glimpsed a note with his lover’s handwriting - the very same one whom he had only recently been forced to part from due to a debilitating illness on his part and the constraints of that particular era’s propriety on hers - that he would dissolve completely into despair for love and want of her at the very sight? It probably is just the uncompromisingly romantic side of me, but I find this little fact not only ridiculously heart wrenching, but also something that truly speaks to the monumental level of intimacy that the handwritten note can carry as opposed to our more modern modes of communication.

     Would John Keats have felt nearly as moved after scanning a message sent from his fair lady’s cell or gmail account? I think not.

[rant/FINIS]

Apologies as they are due,

Torey