Try to Praise the Mutilated World
We lost a powerful, gorgeous poet this week, when Adam Zagajewski died at age 75. Zagajewski told us, among other things, that we must try to praise the mutilated world (see his heart-wrenchingly beautiful poem at the end of this letter). This certainly feels difficult and urgent when we’ve had two mass shootings in a week’s time. The heartbreak becomes hard to hold, “too heavy for Superman to lift” as the Flamin’ Lips/Iron & Wine song goes.
Between these shootings and the migrant children pouring over the border, too many to shelter in a humane way, their stories ringing around us, well, the news has been hurting me, and, I imagine, hurting you.
I want gun control and immigration reform right now and it feels like despair to know that’s not going to happen the way I want it to, not while republicans in the house and senate are as we speak voting against the reauthorization of the Violence Against Women Act. And meanwhile all the things of daily life keep coming, the deadlines don’t stop, the tasks roll toward us, sometimes rolling right past, undone.
I do know that during this whole grueling year, art has been one of my main sources of sanity and solace. Sometimes it feels irrelevant, fruitless. But mostly it feels real. It feels big, like a force with potential to effect change, however slowly. My arts community has been my activist community, as well as my church. I would be lost without these artist companions.
I will be in conversation with one activist/artist, Jen Pastiloff (Being Human), this Thursday (virtually) at 7 Central at Literati Books. We’ll be moderated by Amy Eaton as we discuss making art in a mutilated world, making art through the body, and change-making through both. I hope you’ll join us.
I also wanted to let you know that journalist and National Book Critics Circle member Marion Winik reviewed The Part That Burns for the Star Tribune, which absolutely thrilled me because I am a huge fan of Winik’s work. Her memoir First Comes Love broke my heart and made me laugh out loud at the same time back in 2000, when I was going through a terrifying divorce. It’s a wonderful feeling to have her read my work, compare it to the genius Lidia Yuknavitch’s Chronology of Water, and casually tell me on the side, “You did it, lady.” Did I? If Marion Winik says so, maybe?!
Lastly, I wanted to tell you two things. The first is that if you want a signed (like, old-fashioned, pre-pandemic style signed-on-the-title-page) copy of The Part That Burns, you can order one from Moon Palace or Magers & Quinn.
Second, my 53rd birthday is in just over two weeks, and I am trying my damndest to reach a goal of 100 Amazon reviews after which I will never, ever, ever, EVER think about Amazon again … (until my next book). Amazon controls who sees a book, whether a book comes up in searches, whether it gets suggested, whether it’s easy or hard to find. All of it. And the Amazon deck is stacked heavily against small presses, to the point of absurdity. So those reviews really matter. Not so much WHAT they say, but just that they exist at all—it’s a matter of how many, how fast. I don’t know about you, but I take some real pleasure in beating the behemoth. Indie presses are vital to a diverse, vibrant literary world. Indie presses take risks on new books that The Big 5 would never consider, and are committed to inclusive, eclectic, groundbreaking work by a range of voices in a way that The Big 5 have yet to demonstrate. Amazon reviews keep indie presses (and authors) afloat. It’s hard for authors to beg for reviews. It’s humiliating. A lot of writers can’t force themselves to do it, and their books languish in the jaws of Amazon’s fiercely unfair algorithms. But I’ve decided to go ahead and beg because it’s been working and what is humiliation, anyway? Better than death by Amazon. I only need 39 more reviews to hit the goal by April 9. And a review can one line. A couple of words, even! Or just a star rating. Seriously, any review helps. If you are able to post a review, you can consider yourself an agent for change in protecting the future of indie presses. You’ll give me an incredible birthday. And, I’ll be eternally grateful to stop obsessing about Amazon forever (for now). You can post a review here (you have to scroll down to where it says, “Write a Review,” which, on a computer, is after all the editorial blurbs and product information, on the left hand side).
Oh, and one more thing: the Ixtapa retreat is full, but Writing in the Dark will open for registration later this week. I hope to write with some of you this spring, and I can’t wait to teach again. I’ve missed you very much. Your company makes the work of trying to praise this mutilated world just a little bit easier, even though it’s never really easy, is it?
Warmly,
Jeannine
Try to Praise the Mutilated World
by Adam Zagajewski (translated by Clare Cavanagh)
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
