And this is why there are bookends, and more to come; this scene’s all accidental. I’d just looked through that charming row of books (…I have more bookends on the way!), including Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, after I’d just chosen my next book to read, which was Memories: A Story of German Love (1874) by F. Max Muller, one of the first books author, May Ziadeh translated, from German into her native Arabic.
This slice of a poetically delicious and fully encompassing book, Memories, I’d read just after Mrs. Dalloway (1925), another beautiful novel, written by Virginia Woolf, a reread grasped well. I read the English version of that Memories book, both books gifted to me from my wishlist.
As for Memories, the author, I read now, F. Max Muller was born on Dec. 6, 1823…and so we reach further back into history, but younger than Jane Austen…‘Uh Oh!’🎶…and the Sagittarian Invasion continues...’Another one!” 🎶
What I wrote of Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf…At times I had to stop myself from too much questioning its hold and atmosphere, like “There’s more than just the wind in London moving me in this novel, as I stand still reading it?” It gains interest and personal detail as it progresses…
As for more on Frost’s New Hampshire, I’d first written I’d thought Edna St. Vincent Millay replied to Frost in one of her poems (as she was about 20 years younger than he and from the same Northeastern region) in her playful, rhythmic, serious poem, “The Singing-Woman From The Wood’s Edge,” found online and in her collection, A Few Figs From Thistles. But to my surprise, her book was already published 3 yrs earlier in 1920! So it could’ve been Frost’s reply pub. in 1923.
Maybe Robert Frost in his poem, “Maple“ considers the question penned by Edna, What would I be…And what role have my parents had in that?
Edna considers subtly, Do I choose myself?…even if she teasingly suggests one doesn’t solely make one’s own identity from the start.
Robert Frost's poem, "Maple" focuses on the name as a running motif in this narrative poem with the lines: "A name with meaning could bring up a child, Taking the child out of the parents' hands. Better a meaningless name, I should say, As leaving more to nature and happy chance. Name children some names and see what you do." And there, Frost stops the rhyme scheme and leaves the last word of the poem unrhymed...and free, to chance...rough!
On Memories: A Story of German Love (1874) by F. Max Muller, a brief novel I completed reading early this morning with the sun, one with beautiful allegory (a fictional story that centers on symbolic wisdom), a few poems by classic authors placed in the narrative, and lively, quotable descriptions I’ve not seen in many other allegories I’ve read, I wrote:
If asked, I would advise myself to read this book for solace and wisdom…
…The little nourishing slice I’d felt like I was given, could unwrap and taste myself for that moment, lingers more fathomably reading this book…and sets my treasures in life securely where I would have them; you likely have your own treasures that may set your life just a little in place.
…And maybe bookends too? I say yes.😊📚😉🧚♂️