Thanks for the goat

It’s my job to sit in a back room (or a secret lair?) and catalog all the new stuff that the library receives.  This hardly sounds glamorous, but it’s an important job.  If we didn’t have a cataloger, then we could just take everything the library owns and throw it in a giant bin – a bin the size of the building.  Then, when you need to do research, you could come over and root through the bin and pick out a few random things, and hope that you find something you can use.  There would be no organization to any of it.

That’s really the crux of my job.  I am also a philosopher by training, and I like to tell my former classmates that I am an applied metaphysician, since my job is to describe the things that exist and how they are related to each other.  (That might also sound as boring as the tax code, but there’s a pretty interesting popular book on the topic, called Everything is miscellaneous.  It’s about the new world order.  Or disorder, as the case may be.)

It all sounds coldly clinical, but sometimes it’s anything but.

Libraries receive gifts of books from the families of people who have passed away.  I think this is a wonderful gesture; it’s as though the intellectual life of the deceased continues to live on through his or her books.  We received a large gift of books a few weeks ago on behalf of a deceased person, and I’ve been adding them to the collection.  The books have many bookmarks, business cards, small scraps of paper, news clippings, and other items tucked in them.  The owner used to write notes about these books on these scraps, so each book has a number of his comments tucked inside.

The more I see these items, the more I feel sorry that I never had a chance to take this man out for a cup of coffee while he was alive.  I never knew him personally, but he sounds like he was an interesting, well-read person.  His books cover many subject areas, and I just think it would have been edifying to talk to him.  So each bookmark I find, each business card with notes scribbled on the back, makes me just a little sad because of what humanity loses whenever someone dies.

Yesterday, though, I was cataloging some of his books, and feeling blue because of it, and a news clipping fell out of one of them.  It’s just a picture, with no caption.  It’s a little girl at what appears to be a petting zoo.  The picture was composed such that the little girl is off to the side, and there is a goat front and center, with his head very close to the camera.  It’s a very silly picture, and it made me laugh.

So, I want to send a message across the cosmos:  That really brightened my day.  I never met you, and yet here you are, making me laugh. Thanks for the goat.

Review: A happy marriage, by Rafael Yglesias

Yglesias, Rafael. A happy marriage: a novel. New York: Scribner, 2009. (Publisher’s description)

Yglesias’s novel is beautifully wrought, with meticulously crafted characters moving through the heartbreaking denouement of a thirty-year romance. Enrique, the protagonist, is saddled with the burden of herding his family through the final days of his wife Margaret’s life. In between the episodes of final goodbyes and medical crises, the reader sees how their romance started and how it unfolded through their years of happy marriage.

Of course, it could hardly be happy in the sense of blissfully moving from one joyous moment to the next. They have their problems, including the near dissolution of their marriage in its early years. What makes the reader cheer from the sidelines, even while it is revealed that Enrique had an affair, is the way he desperately wants to tell his wife, at the end of her life, how much he loves her, how much her very existence has made life worth living. His fear, as he coordinates a social calendar of final goodbyes for her friends and family, is that he won’t have a chance to tell her. This fear is pervasive, and seeing how these final days unfold make the novel engrossing.

Yglesias employs beautiful turns of phrase throughout the novel, putting words to feelings that many have experienced while dealing with the illness and death of a loved one. Enrique reveals how difficult it is to help other people cope emotionally, when he is trying so hard himself to do that as well: they were “demanding he put Band-Aids on their scrapes while he was bleeding to death” (88). Enrique deals with the demands of family, particularly Margaret’s parents concern with funeral arrangements. In passages like this, Yglesias shines in describing Margaret’s mother’s need to control the arrangements, to have them just the way her family has always had them, because the need for something familiar would almost make one feel safe in the midst of the uncertainty of a life without Margaret (184).

There are witty passages as well, like Enrique’s internal debate about selecting pants to wear on his first date with Margaret (129). Enrique and Margaret are great conversational foils, never devolving into the pattern of saying the same things to each other repeatedly, nor remaining silent because, after all these years, there is nothing left to say. Their relationship is alive and vibrant, and they still can surprise each other when they open their mouths. This is something beautiful to see, and it makes the ending of the novel so hard to bear.

The first chapter didn’t draw me in to the novel the way that the second – and each subsequent chapter – did. I do not mention this as a critique, but rather so that readers know that they might not be enthralled on first meeting the characters, but it is worth hanging on for a few more pages to let this story get a running start.

I think the great strength of this novel is the detailed expression of the emotions that swirl around the beginning and end of this marriage. These characters are vibrantly alive, and will remain lodged in my mind for some time now. It is an excellent read, even if it leaves the reader in tears.