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Ashley Hill

@afixation

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New to this whole social media thing. Expect pictures of my books, old movie stars, ancient Rome, and whatever else strikes my fancy.
Tacoma, WA.

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What I read in September.

Nazis and weasels and woods and imagined meetings. Some modern novels for a change and two that have been on the shelves since 2012.

The Magician's Book - one of those hybrid memoir/criticism books about books I'm so fond of. Engaging more with something I read and knocking another book off the never ending tbr at the same time is a win-win. Miller's feelings about the Christian symbolism of Narnia and her feelings about the books as a child vs her feelings as an adult and critic, were so relatable. I walked away knowing more about reading in childhood, CS Lewis as a man, reader, and scholar, and with a deeper appreciation for Narnia. Was also reacquainted with a younger Ashley who thought there wasn't anything cooler in books than spells and magic. Older me really still feels the same, I just get to call it religious themes and the search for the ineffable now.

My Stupid Intentions - a dark little fable from the POV of a weasel. About God, knowledge, writing, death. Disturbing and compelling with a killer last line.

The Director - loved it, will do a full post.

The Ten Year Affair - want to know exactly what it's like to be a straight white liberal American millennial of some monetary means but not quite middle class? This is it. Funnier than expected. All around well done.

Hans Christian Andersen Fairy Tales - adored these! Blue bats, mysterious bell chimes, sexy snow women - all the magic I could ask for. Strange, quirky, brimming with loneliness. Narnia's blend of pagan fairy stories and Christianity was the perfect set up for these - Andersen did it first. Edmund on the White Witch's sled is beat for beat Kai meeting the Snow Queen. Don't think I'll ever forget The Little Match Girl.

Five Weeks in the Country - based around the real time that Hans Christian Andersen stayed with Dickens at his house in the country for five weeks. Andersen is gawky, odd, sensitive, doesn't speak English and desperately wants to be loved by Dickens and his family. They don't. It was maybe a tad too long but a lovely kind of sad. Has me excited to read Dickens in December.

Happy October. It's the best month. by @afixation

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7 hours ago

Here are my overly ambitious plans for the rest of the year.

But also The Divine Comedy, Three Lives, The Confidence-Man, Rosemary's Baby, Melmoth the Wanderer, and The Sympathizer. Who knows where they all are at the moment. The book organizing is an ongoing project and it is going slooowly.

They're not all gonna happen but damn it I want to get through them all and about 50 more besides.

#bookstacks #readingplans by @afixation

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7 days ago

Time to say goodbye to another wonderful #nyrbsummer.

Read a total of 10 (yes, the Pym is in a different edition and yes it makes it hard for me to count it)
8 new to me writers
2 memoirs
1 very fun buddy read
1 masterpiece
1 new writer fixation

All were absolute gems. It's always amazing to fall for a new writer (Patrick White) or be reminded how brilliant a writer you've already read is (Sylvia Townsend Warner). Unsurprisingly, NYRB doesn't just kill it with their fiction - A Chance Meeting is one of the best nonfiction things I've read in a minute and I will think of this summer as the summer I hung out with Tulip and Salka ❤️

English, August supported my growing love of Indian novels and Fat City spoke in that particular American voice I adore. Margery Kempe reminded me that I actually love to read about love and sex when it's done well and Pym makes me happy every single time.

As for The Case of Comrade Tulayev. Well. I'm still sticking with the statement that it's one of the best books I've ever read.

I meant to read twelve and I only ended up reading two of the five that I set out at the beginning of the summer. I ain't mad about it though because what a summer.

Thanks as always to @thewrittenroute for being such a wonderful host and reading partner and for being a constant reminder of why reading is just the best.

Time to get cozy now and embrace the fall and yep, Charlotte is actually *the* cutest cat.

#nyrbclassics #salkaviertel #patrickwhite #victorserge #jrackerley #sylviatownsendwarner #rachelcohen #robertgluck #barbarapym #upmanyuchatterjee by @afixation

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24 days ago

Two queer writers, two novels decked out in medieval Catholicism. One about a failed love affair with Jesus; the other a marshy isolated convent. Both with something a lot more physical and mundane on their minds than their trappings would suggest. One concerned with the individual, the body, what it is to be a self. The other, with community, the passage of time, and whether the roof leaks. They span centuries and lack traditional plot. Both are immersive, full of concrete sensory detail, and taut meaningful sentences. Both are brilliant.

Glück’s Margery Kempe explores erotic obsession, middle aged breakdowns, denial of death and the general unrequitedness of life through the lens of 15th century failed saint, Margery Kempe. Margery sees Jesus and she is all want, aching for recognition, dilated on rejection. Alongside her story, is the story of the narrator and his pursuit of a wealthy young man named L. L who looks and behaves just like Jesus -
'I perform my story by lip-synching Margery's loud longing.'

Margery wants Jesus, the narrator wants L. They are the same story, superimposed on each other. It's unfettered passion, tender hilarity, heartbreak, chipped nails, bellys, breasts, the breath of crushed strawberries.

Townsend Warner's The Corner that Held Them on the other hand, is all housewifery, tannings, singeings, tithes, tolls, and rents. It is wind ruffled pools of rainwater and crannies of spare time. Composed of cellarists, accidie, hawks, and irony. It tells the story of the convent Oby, and despite there being many sensational happenings - a crashed spire, theft, murder, the black death, damnation - it is resoundingly unsensational. Instead, it is quiet, dry, elegant, and precise. The shifting story of a place, the passage of days round and round like a mill-wheel. A decade goes in a sentence, characters wander off the page, their story never resolved, burning away like candles. Oby is insignificant and yet Townsend Warner's writing has the gift of turning these women's small lives into the most splendid tapestry. It is a book beautifully alive and observant; as wakeful as an aspen.

Do yourself a favor and read them both. by @afixation

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a month ago

What I read in August.

Finished up Narnia, read two wild and very different memoirs, and three fantastic NYRB classics.

Memoir one, is the first autobiography in English and it's by a 15th century sobbing Englishwoman trying to become a saint. Margery Kempe was the daughter of a Mayor, had fourteen children, started a brewery and a mill, loved fancy clothes, and was possessed by devils for a while before a visitation from Jesus rescued her. After that, she swore herself to chastity and went on pilgrimages wearing white and generally annoying everyone within earshot of her because her love for Jesus manifested itself in loud and uncontrollable weeping. The people around her are usually in the process of ditching her or threatening to burn her alive if she doesn't shut up. She is epically full of shit and it's hard to decide how to feel about it. I often found her hilarious and fascinating but sometimes I wanted to wring her neck.

Memoir two, was by filmmaker Werner Herzog. This was for my book club with coworkers and I haven't actually seen many films by him but there wasn't a dull moment. Many crazy stories and experiences but most importantly - he's a guy who is curious and finds life interesting and it's never bad to spend time with someone like that.

Feelings about Robert Glück and The Corner That Held Them coming soon but the short verdict is 🔥🔥

I was satisfied by the end of Narnia. Cool witch, cool melancholy, like Scrub and Pole better than the Penvesies. The Silver Chair was probably my favorite of the series.

Also went on a brief vacation with my family in August and saw my cult guru/antifa general in person. Not a bad month.

Happy reading in September everyone ❤️

#wernerherzog #narnia #bookofmargerykempe #nyrbclassics by @afixation

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a month ago

'There's another world but it is in this one'

Awhile back, I talked about that light shining through the cloud moment we're sometimes lucky enough to have with a writer that goes above brilliance, admiration, emotional investment, and enjoyment. Something that strikes lightning in your brain and shouts THIS IS FOR ME. It's some combination of sympathy/possession/fascination and it was my experience reading Patrick White. Because *god damn* Riders in the Chariot was for me.

It's the story of four outsiders/outcasts in post-WWII Australia who are bound together by their visions of a mystical chariot: a mad spinster living in a decaying mansion, a Jewish professor who survived the Holocaust, a Christian washerwoman, and an indigenous artist raised by missionaries and suffering from tuberculosis. They are 'illuminates peacefully folded inside the envelopes of their flesh' and we get long sections of backstory for each of them. It's a book about exile, transcendence, the 'swinging trace-chains of light' - the infinite in everything. A book where 'reason finally holds a gun at its head - and doesn't always miss.'

It's a book that celebratorily shouts about cosmic beauty and suffering. It's 'panegyric blue', fervid, dense, soaked in technicolor. It's raw, physical, grotesque, *and* ineffable. A kaleidoscope of heavy languid archetypes, biblical undertones, and mythic motifs. It's overly designed and over the top and almost 700 pages. It's baroque, theatrical, and its symbolism will hit you over the head. It's got abuse, and bloody gobs of spit, and way too much use of 'The Jew' as an epithet. It treats the moral and spiritual life as an active quest with the utmost urgency and has very little humor.

It might not be everyone's cup of tea but I gulped it down so quick it scalded. Give me religious imagery, weird living spaces, and an overt use of color all day. Give me plain women, scholars, and writers that remind me of Iris Murdoch. Give me a rich atmosphere and the book equivalent of mise en scene. Give me twilight situations, decaying ochres, and eyelids gilded with splendour. Give me a vibe to suffocate under.

Give me more Patrick White. by @afixation

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a month ago

Books I've bought in the last two months.

All the fault of things I've been reading, bad impulse control, and you lot. Every book I read and love leads to 5 other books I want. by @afixation

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2 months ago

'A tidal wave of tenderness and love engulfed my incorrigible heart.'

These last words of Salka Viertel's memoir, The Kindness of Strangers, say a lot about what it's like to sit with her and read about her life. She's warm, generous and has the gift of welcoming people and inspiring trust. She's spunky, feels a lot, laughs a lot, a woman of many friends. It's no wonder she was host to so many interesting people. I wanted to be with her forever.

Born in the Austro-Hungarian empire, she was a theater actress who married a director and emigrated to Hollywood in the 1920s. She ended up working for MGM, developing and writing projects for Greta Garbo. She had tea with Rilke, dinner with Einstein, lunch with Kafka, meetings with Upton Sinclair. F.W. Murnau, Sergei Eisenstein, the Mann brothers, the Huxleys, Arnold Schoenberg, and Bertolt Brecht were all regulars at her house. Christopher Isherwood lived above the garage.

There are of course many tasty tidbits about these people. Such as the ludicrously cross-purposes meeting between Irving Thalberg and Arnold Schoenberg. Or the dinner where Thomas and Heinrich Mann both read out pages of appreciation for each other's work. Or the weeks Brecht and Salka spent working on a screenplay and the poem he left under her door after a night spent sharing their grief over the barbarism overtaking Europe. The way he would escort her fat, old dachshund to the door and bow as she went out.

You won't feel these people's lack when they aren't there though. You will love Salka's adventures on stage, her description of cherries in Prague and of the greasy goose meat that saved her from influenza. She lived through momentous change and two world wars. She also had a full family and they are fascinating in their own right.

Which brings me to Prater Violet, Isherwood's fictional account of working on a film with Salka's husband, Bertholdt Viertel. It's a wonderful book, about art and the coming war, with their poignant friendship as its heart. Isherwood's portrayal of Bertholdt is hilarious. He's passionate, charismatic, full of exclamations. A bit exhausting. I adored him.

My own incorrigible heart misses him and Salka already. by @afixation

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2 months ago

What I read in July.

Read three fantastic NYRB Classics. Revisited writers I've read and liked but haven't revisited in years. Spent a chunk of time in the film industry of the 30's. Read one of my favorite writers with one of my favorite people on this app. Continued my Narnia journey.

Will post about The Kindness of Strangers and Prater Violet but for now let me just say that Salka Viertel and Christopher Isherwood are excellent company and I loved every minute with them.

The Pat Hobby Stories - every one of these was a gem. Who knew Fitzgerald could be so funny? He wrote these for Esquire while living in Hollywood during the last year or so of his life. They are loosely connected and all feature Pat Hobby, a 49 year old hack screenwriter who used to be someone in Hollywood but now is just barely getting by fixing up dialogue and contributing lines like - “Boil some water—lots of it.” He's lazy, a schemer, a drunk, a failure and so entertaining. Shenanigans + punchy 30s American dialogue + the absurdity of the studios = a winning combo.

The Color Purple - loved it. Had no idea it was epistolary, spiritual, so much about sisters, or that a big chunk of it would be in Africa. Very compelling relationships - will be a long time before I forget Celie and Mr.'s conversations on the porch. The pains and joys of tough and resilient women. A classic that didn't disappoint.

Voyage of the Dawn Treader - had some of the most fun fantasy pieces of the series so far - a lily sea, water that drinks like light, retired stars, a pool with the midas touch, dragons! I still love when Aslan shows up and it's fun to see how they get into Narnia each time.

August is going to be trying to squeeze in a lot more NYRBs, falling more behind on the Bible and Tristram Shandy, and time with Margery Kempe. Which guys. She is absolutely ridiculous. So far she's wandering around and sobbing continually over Jesus and making everyone around her wish she was dead. I can't put it down.

#thecolorpurple #narnia #cslewis #alicewalker #salkaviertel #christopherisherwood #praterviolet #pathobbystories #fscottfitzgerald #nyrbsummer by @afixation

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2 months ago

Two fantastic novels with very different tones, written in different times and very different places but connected by aimless and unhappy young men and their half-hearted struggles to find a worthwhile life.

Young man one, Agastya (August to his friends), is training to become a bureaucrat in the middle of nowhere India. He's middle class privileged bored and spends his days hazaar fucked, baking in the heat of his room, smoking marijuana, watching the ceiling, and finding excuses. His book is funny, the language profane and sharp with a melancholy that will settle on you like a film. A world of mosquito nets, jeep rides, and jogs at 2 am. Shit on the street, sacred pools full of fish, drunks next door and forests full of Naxalites. A steady soundtrack of Hindi film music and the lights of sugarcane juice stalls in the dark. Lying, masturbating, and reading Marcus Aurelius.

'Agastya was enraged at himself . . . for being in the job he was, for not having planned his life with intelligence, for having dared to believe that he was adaptable enough to any job and circumstance, for not knowing how to change either, for wasting a life.'

Unhappy young men two and three, Billy Tully and Ernie Munger, are not particularly good boxers in Stockton, California. They are of the struggling to make ends meet variety of unfulfilled. They just need one big fight to take them to 'Fat City' and the ever elusive good life. Their book is a slow sigh of insignificance, less about fighting and more about submission. The language is one of accuracy and control, the potent allegiance of fate. Its melancholy is suspended amongst the brown distances, the balmy air, diesel fumes, dimly lit houses, and liquid singing of blackbirds. Didion and Denis Johnson are fans.

'He felt the guilt of inaction, of simply waiting while his life went to waste. No one was worth the gift of his own life, no one could possibly be worth that, it belonged to him alone, and he did not deserve it either, because he was letting it waste. It was getting away from him and he made no effort to stop it. He did not know how.'

The mind is restless, Krishna, but at least we have novels like these.

#nyrbsummer by @afixation

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2 months ago

' . . . when you did call, when the rainy day finally came that was the right day, and you thought, without troubling about it much or feeling inadequate or guilty, you just thought, freely, "I think I'll call Peggy Guggenheim Ernst today," and you just picked up the phone, casually, and called, and she didn't answer, a man did, and it wasn't Max Ernst, and you weren't even really that shaken, and you just said, "This is Joseph Cornell," and the man's voice got instantly warmer and said, "Ah, this is Marcel Duchamp," why then you would just float with the unexpected delight of it.'

Are you utterly charmed by this interaction? If not, there's a chance your joy centers are out of order. Or maybe you aren't familiar with these two artists. Don't worry I wasn't very familiar either but Rachel Cohen will introduce you to them and to anyone else you might not be familiar with in this wonderful, playful, brilliant book.

A Chance Meeting is a series of double portrait biographical essays centered around encounters between figures from American cultural life. Some encounters are brief - a lunch, a photo taken - and others last years, lifetimes. Cohen weaves a web of connections, looping backwards and forwards, in and out of these lives, a pattern of inspiration, camaraderie, history. It is meticulously researched but also imaginative, making you feel as though you are right there, just out of sight.

And such moments! A friend bringing Charlie Chaplin to meet Hart Crane at 2 am. Elizabeth Bishop going for a cold swim with Robert Lowell. Marianne Moore getting a drink after a boxing match with Norman Mailer. Mark Twain roasting Ulysses S. Grant. William James taking an evening stroll with his student Gertrude Stein. The charge between James Baldwin and Norman Mailer. The affection between Baldwin and Beauford Delaney. A chance rainy day phone call between Joseph Cornell and Marcel Duchamp.

This felt like a precursor to the writings of Maria Popova and Olivia Laing. Cohen read stacks of letters, diaries, and books and she's gonna tell you the best bits and more besides. Unexpected delight upon unexpected delight. You gotta meet these people. by @afixation

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3 months ago

‘I am Leonora Eyre,’ she said to herself and the declaration gave her courage and a feeling of security.’

One of the appeals of a Pym novel, is a sense of the resiliency and durability of her characters. I think its one of the reasons people often think of them as comforting or ‘cozy’. There is loneliness, longing, and the daily bruisings and disappointments of life, but there’s also a cup of tea and small rituals to bear one up and get one through.

The Sweet Dove Died feels like a warped mirror variant of Pym’s usual bolstering. Leonora Eyre is different from any other Pym protagonist I’ve read in that she is not at all ‘excellent’. She is vain, disdainful, and uncaring. Middle-aged, manipulative, and elegant, she appraises the people around her on how suitably they will add to her milieu. She isn’t fond of tea, the company of women, or the Church of England. She is dreadful in a droll way and Pym makes magic with her.

The plot such as it is, involves a series of overlapping triangles involving Leonora and a handsome young man named James. Leonora is drawn to James despite their age difference, or more likely because of it, and they have a relationship of sorts. He comes over for dinner, she flatters and flirts with him. They tell each other about their days and read the Sotheby’s catalog out loud. There is no real intimacy but they are attached.

To complicate things, there’s James’ fussy antique dealing uncle, Humphrey, who is interested in Leonora, and James’ two brief affairs first with a bohemian girl named Phoebe, followed by Ned, a slightly sadistic Keats studying American.

Leonora is inevitably cast aside and the full realization of her unhappiness comes upon her one day in the street. It is a moment of debasement, disintegration, defeat. In typical Pym fashion it is both very affecting and amusing.

Leonora’s resiliency stems from becoming *more* herself. Her aloofness and ridiculous refinement hardening into a twisted courage and triumph. Truly bound by a beautiful silk thread of her own making.

It’s funny and sad. It’s that Pym magic and it felt even more magical this time than usual because I read it alongside @thewrittenroute ❤️ by @afixation

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3 months ago