40 Days and 40 Nights
Somewhere in the last part of The Subtle Art of not giving a F*ck, author Mark Manson drops this notion of reading 50 books in 50 days. Yep, after all the ‘fucks’ and the take aways, I muse over this novelty. It was something he attempted early in his writing days, when he was living on friend’s couches trying to make a writer of himself. 50 Non fiction books in 50 days. Could I even ponder such a tryst. I write this while my fingers practically bleed from the cold. I thought the lap top was frozen.
Outside the truck turns over the engine and the engine balks at the attempt. The third time is a charm. Ice is smashed in the driveways. It is 8.17am. It might be just right, to sit inside the house and just read. It is a bold notion, to ignore the rest of it. But this is ridiculus, especially since my Dad who I haven’t seen in a bunch of years is now in hospital and not well. And as of a few days ago might have to actually come and live with me.
Do you realise how achingly strange this will be? I can’t even attempt to encapsulate how I feel. The mere thought of having to care for him while I feel is noble and kind, does seem preposterous. I am at an age where I should be leaning into freedom now that my kids are getting older. And my father, the recluse and absent parent of my childhood and youth will possibly need full time care.
To begin, it will have to be an experiment at first. I told him that. If it doesn’t work, then an alternative. They call this a ‘Tower’ card moment in the Tarot. It’s a five of swords signifier and full blown Tower card crossed on top. But to just read one book a day, that could help.
I think, reading will be, like a meditation, a jewel to contemplate. In the past I have committed to 40 days of kundalini yoga, just a kriya and a chant and something changes. But you have to do it every day for 40 days, even if only for three minutes. But they say you need 40 days (consecutively) to break the spell of any negative habits, or bad karma or the such. After 40 days and nights I hope to arrive at something. Time will tell.
Day 1: Malte Herwig’s The Woman Who Says No - Francoise Gilot on her Life With and Without Picasso. I bought this book six months ago. Gilot was still alive then, at 101. I am in awe. I found it in a pile on my desk, the other desk, not the one I am typing this on. I have one round table near a window I sit at morning and night, when I am home. Every one will find me at the round table. The large oak table (Richard’s Grandfathers) I mostly have books on, art books and cookbooks, and an old computer. The books are large so they look nice in piles, like a still life, without the fruit.
Last Sunday I decide I will take a week off work, for self care. After my 22 year old daughter being overseas, and borrowing too much money and then finally returning with a boy from Britain. I am ready for a break. Stress, mild stress, high stress or low stress, I cannot tell. While overseas she kept saying, the plane is delayed, he’s got Covid, airport strikes, car accident. You name it, it happened, it took four months. London is not a cheap city for an Australian. We kept lending money like fools. But we just wanted her home, so we waited. Eventually he turns up, which was nice. Stays two months, while they wait to move to Melbourne. He cooks like a chef, cleans my car, drinks Jack Daniels and paints the cottage door black, like Downing Street. Eldest daughter, cooks, cleans up the kitchen, shops for us, washes their clothes, paints the cottage windows chalk white. I am just glad our bank account isn’t dwindling any more. They move to Melbourne. I have no idea where they are, what they are up to. I miss them both, at odd times. We wonder at it all, some times laughing and sometimes crying. It took 22 years for any drama to arrive. I guess we were lucky. She needs a job and I need a week off work, maybe two.
On the first day of self care time my brother calls me to tell me our Dad is in hospital. They do not know what is wrong, but he has skipped dialysis and hasn’t been eating. He is a Diabetic, and not the good kind. In the last two years he has ended up with failed kidneys, eye sight trouble, and two toes have gone black This is a lot. This is too much. The doctor tells me he is depressed and constipated. And now, so am I.
I will read forty books, in forty days. And real books only, physical in my hand kind of books, no audio - that almost feels like cheating. Am I a woman who likes to put pressure on herself? No, not really (maybe) but I need to stop and get off the merry go round. I need to not think about any body else. And maybe while this drama unfolds, I will muse over boundaries. Such a fascinating notion. I learnt that this year. But it took four months to work it out. Manson, the author of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck mentions in Chapter 8: The Importance of Saying No….. But maybe I should start again at Chapter 7: Failure is the Way Forward… This is a book about values, and honouring them.
My daughter is a wonderful painter, before she left she completed some watercolours for my book chapters, hopefully the last three will turn up soon, I have a book to publish!On the day she was meant to arrive back at the Sydney airport, my Mum went in for a major heart operation, to repair a valve. The same day was completely crazy to me. How can the universe orchestrate this? Mothers and Daughters, looking up and looking down. Mum’s recovery was full on. I must have driven to Sydney six times that two weeks. Maybe I do need to break some karmic retribution, or something. The truth is, I was planning to go to Italy later this year, not drive my Dad to dialysis weekly. Who knows how this will work? Maybe I slip a Kundalini yoga Kriya in, while I am between the pages…. I need a circuit breaker.
I have always admired Francoise Gilot, a fierce and powerful woman, resolute, driven, and a painter. To leave Pablo Picasso with her two children, Claude and Paloma is a defining act. This book is a revelation. Over a few years Herwig meets Gilot at her Atelier in Paris and New York. Gilot mostly lives in New York, but spends two months of the year in France. Gilot is loyal to herself and her work, even in her nineties. She doesn’t care if the art world buys her art or not, but they do. Every day she paints. Gilot is a best selling author (Life With Picasso) and has a degree in Philosophy from the Sorbonne but prefers to paint art on canvas. The book is full of Gilot’s hard won wisdom and personal philosophy on life and art. She never chose the easy path, preferring the experience over a boring life. I know how the feels.
7.45pm when I realise I still have half a book to go!Day 2: New York by Lily Brett. A collection of essays on living in New York. Every now and then I laugh out loud. That is Lily Brett. Somewhere between the humane and the outrageous. Slightly eccentric, but a realistic. Her parents survived Auschwitz married. After six months searching they found each other. Brett was born in Germany. The family moved to Australia, to Melbourne to start again. Brett’s life is entrenched in their history (understandably). She writes with humour, sarcasm, beauty. Observation and a dry wit her ally. It has been a while since I read this, longer for her former books, fiction and non fiction. Her books wins prizes, many. A favourite fiction read, You Gotta Have Balls I will go and read again. She lives in New York with her husband, David Rankin the abstract painter.
Day 3: The Crossroads of Should and Must: Find and Follow Your Passion by Ella Luna. It occurs to me, I may have bitten off more than I can chew. But I love a mission. It takes my mind off things. Yes, I have a week off work, but I am on a see-saw of angst, worry, exhaustion, anticipation. I accept a random call back for a podcast interview even though I am swimming. I wonder if it is a good idea. I decide to trust, since I love the author and her work. It is so nice that Italy always calls me back. We talk Tuscany, summer, cookbooks and food. I am delighted by conversation and life. Relieved. I love that I can do this even if my life seems complicated. It was never this complicated before.
I open the book randomly, a little bibliomancy in my stride, “Solitude is how we quiet the voice, the incessant chatter. It’s how we create the necessary calm, empty spaces. Vision needs solitude. Leadership needs solitude. Courage needs solitude”. Bam. I read the book from start to finish in three sittings. No wrestling. You must follow your thing.
I put on my coat, my gloves, my hat, get the dog and walk to the post office. I post a book order to Sydney, happy that some one gets me. I call my Dad, talk to the Specialists and ponder life. It is all a test I know that, maybe it is time for life to really reveal itself, in all of its paint splattered and beautiful colours.
Day 4: Venice: Poems by Ange Mlinko. Right now, it is about starting and finishing. Each book a completion, a full circle. A contemplation, a gift. In solitude I read. In solitude I stare at the glass vessel and the seven gerbera faces in the vase. My life is spilling over the edges, but I turn the page and I am here. Grateful, aware, undaunted. Or so, I tell myself. A book of poetry is serious. You cannot read a line and just move on. You must embrace, enact, engage. I sit and read the line again. I always mark the pages. A slim volume and a pencil to underscore.
Reverence. I think they call it that. I don’t know anymore. I wonder. Every thing is bubbling up, something, everything. I don’t really know who I am any more. Three kids, but one has left and another dallies between apartments, or places. But, always with my car. “Mum, I will be home tomorrow. I am staying at ……. And I ponder, do I have a life? Not, “Mum, can I have your car until tomorrow, do you mind?”Definitive. I like that in a person. Where can I get some? I read pages of poetry and sip Pukka tea, ad nauseam. I stare out the window. It is a lot, in one day. Poetry needs to marinate, to sink beneath the surface. Perhaps, one page at a time. Not in one day. I over capitalise. Her words echo, but do not absorb, nor translate. Maybe they never will. Maybe it is just me. Not a poet, but a sponge. I guess it’s a mother thing.
Day 5: The War of Art: Break through the Blocks and Win your Inner Creative Battles by Steven Pressfield. Creativity, oh boy. Three pages in, I realise what I have done. 40 days is pure procrastination. No doubt. I see it immediately. Pressfield doesn’t have to spell it out. In fact, half the book could be deleted. He likely knew that. Forget Tiger Woods and forget the Muses. Prioritise full stop. If it matters, it matters, full stop. More pages of pencil and asterix. Lots. “So, if you are paralysed with fear, it’s a good sign. It shows you what you have to do”. Bloody Pressfield, you did it. Muse, or no muse, I feel lit.
Day 6: Cinnamon and Salt: Cicchetti in Venice by Emiko Davies. I need some Venice and I need it now. I open Emiko’s cookbook on the food scene of the Venetian lagoon and I am in. Beautiful visuals and a great read if you like to understand the rich and fascinating cuisine that is in this magical and beautiful city. Emiko’s books never disappoint. The recipes work and her research is thorough. She weaves the art and history, the significant topography of the watery city and the culture of street food that makes a city like Venice such a unique traveling and eating adventure. I went there and found out for myself. I was transported in more ways than one.
Dad is stable, okay. I still don’t know what I am doing. I will let you in on a secret. I am aware that this could be a mistake. Taking on my dad. When the Renal Health Care support staff says, we can organise transitional care I felt a palpable relief. Yes, let’s start there. He lives in another part of the country. It’s like the distance between the city of London and Madrid, Spain. Australia is big. I live near the capital city Canberra and he lives in Tasmania. One day at a time. One book at a time.
Reading at home turns out to be the balm I neededDay 7: On Quiet by Nikki Gemmell. I am a fan of Gemmell. Once upon a time she secreted herself away in a room and wrote a book as ‘Anonymous’. The book was The Bride Stripped Bare. The book was a hit at the Frankfurt Book Fair, everyone wanted it. The book spoke to a woman’s secret life, desire and love. Later she was outed by a Journalist. Gemmel’s writing is true and bold. I say claim that.
Still in a tumble I walk to the cafe. I take the book and my cashmere scarf and sit at the back in the corner. I start to read this slim volume, a petite book for day 7. But it’s too dark, the page is not lit. I sip my coffee, eat carrot cake with too many sultanas (too sweet), the stereo music switches on. The only problem is the speaker is above my head. I laugh at the trickster in the sky. Yeah, go ahead with your head full of ideas and musings. Ponder the quiet why don’t you?
Day 8: Un Amico Italiano - Eat Pray Love in Rome by Luca Spaghetti. Simply put, I love this book. Delight in a jar. Shake it up and you have the frothy combination of life and magic spilling out the top. In 2003 Luca Spaghetti met Elizabeth Gilbert. At first he went as a favour, for a friend. He told himself something like…. Just have one drink and one meal and his mate from New Jersey will be happy. She’s a writer, she would likely prefer tea at 5pm. Done, move on.
Soon Spaghetti realises how wrong he was. Soon they became fast friends enjoying countless lunches in back lit Trattorias in Trastevere and motoring all over Rome on his scooter searching for gelato. But that’s not all. Spaghetti writes with warmth, joy and humour. He is a passionate man and Roman above all. The thing is, sometimes you don’t know what life is going to throw at you. Best to be there, ready for an invitation, or an email, or something.
Postnote: I read this book in one day. At 11.27pm I finished it. I was waiting for my daughter to arrive home, hoping no kangaroos had jumped out on the journey back from the theatre (they are hazardous in our area and feed late at night all over the countryside). Life is funny, I go to bed tired, but heart full. A perfect read. A book full of heart. Wonder is a golden thing to hold onto.
Day 9-10: Journey from Venice by Ruth Cracknell. At the market I buy a white cyclamen with variegated green leaves, a little house present. I woke up with a stupid sore throat. It takes me all day to open my next book, Journey from Venice. Life. Too many conversations to specialists and nurses to find out more about Mr Illusive. When Ruth Cracknell went to Venice with her husband on a special well planned three week stay she had no idea what was in store for her. Ten days were sublime and serene, taking in all of the watery and magical poetry that Venice exudes. Each day a gift.
One bad nose bleed leads to a stroke and the nightmare begins. Ruth’s husband Eric is very ill and needs help, fast. In between intensive care visits and the Italian hospital system, the dream life ruptures. Their children fly over (a true challenge from Australia if in a rush) and a long tedious stay on the marshy lagoon has this family come together while arrangements are made for an emergency evacuation. A beautiful portrayal of loss and love. I wonder, why we take time for granted. I get out the lap top and peruse flights to see my Dad.
Day 11: Four Seasons in Rome: On Twins, Insomnia and the Biggest Funeral in the History of the World by Anthony Doerr. When Doerr accepts a writing invitation to spend a year in Rome under the auspices of the American Academy where he writes and researches his next book of fiction, not only has Doerr taken on the privilege of living life in a new country, but he and his wife are new parents to twin boys. Season by season, Doerr shares tales and observations of living in Rome, parenting, and the joy and beauty of discovering the Eternal City. A book that seeps in very quick. A delight.
At the market Liv and I sit and eat Turkish Pide bread loaded with spinach and feta… Olivia is my youngest - fourteen and a true character. She says, “Mum I want to go overseas”.
And I respond, “yes, have I done that to you? With all my yearnings!”, “It’s the films I watch. But I was jealous when you went to Italy last time”. I reply, “I did want to take you, it was financial, I guess”.
We both gorge ourselves, it is hard to stop, hot bread, melted cheeses mingling. I say, “If we went to Italy for just ten days, would you want to go?” Without a second thought, Liv says, “I would go for one”. I feel my heart bloom. Yes, the right answer.
Day 11: The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. Not Italian, but universal. This work has been here all along waiting for me to pick it up and remember. Less suffering, more love. Nothing is personal. Don’t take it personal, it is theirs not yours. Sigh. A small book of wisdom and powerful tools to know. Simple things like that. Perhaps I read it every four weeks. That would be wise.
Day 12: A Month in Siena by Hisham Matar. Pulitzer prize winning writer Matar journeys to Siena, Tuscany to study the Sienese School of Art paintings. I admit I have only picked books that are vital and strong. I want to read something pure and lasting. Many I have read before, or simply not finished. I guess I was side-tracked by life. I have chosen the books for their capabilities and possibilities, sometimes you just know something is calling you from the page. This is one of them.
Paired back prose, luminous words and beautiful jewels to unveil. Matar is in Siena, grieving the loss of his father (believed missing and dead) as he comes to terms with the recent publication of a book. Over one month he walks the city, studies Italian and visits Duccio and Lorenzetti and many more paintings of the local traditions to bathe in their charms and virtues.
Day 13-14: Pleasures and Landscapes: A Traveller’s Tales from Europe by Sybille Bedford. Yes, I need two days to finish this one. I admit, if I was on a travel writing bender, perhaps dazzled with a dozen places to try, sample and judge, I would want this book in my back pocket. Bedford writes with clarity, candour and slight wit, not fuzzy on the edges. She does not reveal if she is happy or sad in a place, but shares the history, the mood on the street, the roads to conquer, the words to practise, the food to taste, the wine to sip, the sun to seek. Bedford has spent a lot of time on the road knowing Europe and following the call. On the back cover, the Financial Times quip, “She cannot write a dull page”. It is true.
Day 15: Living in Tuscany by Barbara & Rene Stoeltie. Today I need a little word relief. Here there are the visuals and the magic of the Tuscan home. Warmth, natural tones, golds, frescoes on walls, terracotta urns, landscapes to dream over and twenty short stories of the casa or villa attached to the photographic journey. It is funny how over time, my house has morphed into a similar colour palette. A dream.
Day 16: Twilight in Italy and other essays by DH Lawrence: I type DH and wonder what exactly the two letters stand for. In 1912 the author spent a year in Italy on the shores of Lake Garda in the north, pondering the land, the people, the times, the lemon houses and writing amongst other things Sons and Lovers.
I read and underline sentences. Books and words are starting to trip up on themselves, so many sentences. I have to look at my phone to see what I photographed, which book was first. A musing, a little ponder. Is it reckless to read so many books in a row? Perhaps. But something is percolating in all of this. And Twilight in Italy I like at times and find arduous at others. Perhaps not a guide to Italy but a salve on a rainy day.
Post Note: David Herbert
Day 17: Love that Moves the Sun and Other Stars by Dante Alighieri: To read a canto or two is a beautiful and supreme thing. To follow the falls and peaks of a line, to read and listen to the page turn, humming. A small volume suffused in light. Yes, the softer option in the realm of possible poems, Paradiso. The books of poetry I read while sublime seem to ask too much in one day. Best to ponder a page a day, to marinate and diffuse.
Divina Commedia - Completed in 1321, the year of Dante’s death.
Day 18: In Other Words by Jhumpa Lahiri: A book to save for a day of quite. I read chapters and in between fetching mugs of herbal tea I edit an interview in Garage Band. Headphones on and Headphones off. I move the pages right to left. I sometimes peruse the Italian page on the left, the words echo out, pulse on the page. Then they fall back in line and I concentrate on the English side of the page. Sometimes it feels like cheating, but I am feeble. I am not game.
Lahiri writes with eloquence and beauty. No stranger to a perfect sentence, a calm follows me. I have a sore heart, an anxiety, leaden in my gut. A child to worry over. But I read page by page and feel the words linger, heal and perform little magic tricks to my suffering. I think I choose this suffering, because I cannot fix it. So I worry and read and sip tea and remember why words are like chocolate, unctuous and silky on the tongue, sweet to my lip.
Day 19: Only in Naples: Lessons in Food and Famiglia from an Italian Mother-in-Law by Katherine Wilson. And this is when I realise I have bitten off more than I can chew. With two fiction books to read for the Podcast (Casalvento: House of the Wind & A Recipe from Rome) and an impending journey to see Dad, well then I decide that this is it! But I did get on the plane with this book Only in Naples and it was the best companion for those days traveling to Tasmania and back. I let my mission go, but I did garner some beautiful things along the way. Reading is a passion, and a love and it felt so good to finish these books, especially a few that I had started and then not completed, mostly because of the podcast research getting in the way, and maybe a little bit of scattering my energies too far!
I enjoyed this book about Katherine moving to Italy to work in Naples. It was such a delight. I love a food memoir and I loved that this book is funny. A real gem of a read about family life in Italy!
Family Lexicon by Natalia Ginzburg. This is not exactly non fiction, but the true story of Natalia Ginzburg’s childhood. It was one of those books that crosses over since the author suggests it was based on facts of her childhood growing up in Turin, in Northern Italy, at the time of Fascism. I wanted to mention it even though I listened on Audible and it is a fiction title. A 10/10 from me for this work. The author obviously for the high marks (Ginzburg won the Strega Price for Fiction), but the narration too. Brilliant audio by Peg Boyers, I described it on Instagram as ‘theatre in my ears’. Translated by Jenny McPhee….
You might be wondering what is next? (assuming you made it this far on the blog!) Well yes, after reading Pressfield’s book on the War of Art, I realised I had huge resistance around finishing my own book (a mere block you could say) so I am back to writing and completing my work of non-fiction. It is a test of endurance, but it needs to be done! I cannot wait to share it, so stay tuned. In the Shadow of a Cypress: An Italian Adventure is coming soon.
