I’m reading one book a day for as long as this COVID-19 shelter-in-place lasts. These were the ones I read last week.

Has it really been over a month since most of the U.S. started quarantining? If I were any less compulsive about documenting every thought with to-do lists, journal entries, even the posts published here, time would simply dissolve away into some vague concept from another lifetime. Today, tomorrow, yesterday; all a blur.

So, I write to stay sane. Read to refute stagnancy. Reflect to remember it all.

DAY 30: CLOSE UP AND PERSONAL, THE PRIVATE DIARIES OF CATHERINE DENEUVE

For as long as I can remember I’ve always kept a journal, even before I knew it was a common practice among girls, even before I covered black and white composition notebooks with flaming “KEEP OUTs,” and certainly before discovering that store-bought ones were a viable, effective solution because they came with a lock and set of two keys. This impulse to keep a diary made me crave introspection outside of my own thoughts—so naturally, I was drawn to reading those of others, too. I started with fiction (mainly of “The Royal Diaries” or “Dear America” franchise). I later was gifted Anne Frank’s, and just like that, an entire genre was unveiled before my eyes.

I could delve into the psychology behind why I’m so drawn to them, but I won’t; it’s hardly revolutionary, simply human. Since then, I’ve collected literary diaries. Catherine Deneuve’s Close Up and Personal is a beautiful compilation of diaries she kept while filming. There’s a distinct lack of vanity and vapidness in her entries. She’s simply a fly on the wall observing, taking notes like this one during the production of The April Fools:

“At the square we come across… a band and choirs of gaudily dressed, conservative young Americans singing charmlessly about peace and equality, refusing to acknowledge their own racism.”

There are glamorous anecdotes, too—impossible to avoid, given the nature of her career—but never without a dose of reality.

Only she’s a star.

DAY 31: MIAMI

Didion is a queen of words, a master storyteller; she is the only one who could make American history riveting for me.

There’s so much I don’t know (or simply never learned) about the country my parents chose to stay in. If Didion had written all of the U.S. history textbooks in public school, I would’ve been more interested. How did I not know that JFK was allegedly the second most hated man in Miami (according to one mayoral candidate)? That he had once told Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.—again, allegedly—”if we have to get rid of these 800 men, it is much better to dump them in Cuba than in the United States, especially if that is where they want to go”?

DAY 32: DEMOCRACY

Another oddly shaped book by Didion: tall, with wide margins and inky, serif typeface. It’s surprisingly satisfying to hold, and though it takes some getting used to while reading, it adds to the strangeness of Didion’s Democracy. True, her novels are a little unsettling (and arguably anti-feminist to some), but they’re true to the time and honest in every moment.

Here she is, the omniscient narrator—even when she’s not—in my head:

“Aerialists know that to look down is to fall.

Writers know it too.

Look down and that prolonged spell of suspended judgement in which a novel is written snaps, and recovery requires that we practice magic. We keep our attention fixed on the wire, plan long walks, solitary evenings, measured drinks at sundown and careful meals at careful hours. We avoid addressing the thing directly during the less propitious times of day. We straighten our offices, arrange and rearrange certain objects, talismans, props.”

Isn’t she just brilliant?

DAY 33: THE PILLOW BOOK OF SEI SHONAGON

Some books sit on my shelves for years, waiting for the perfect day—a paragon of mood and setting—to be read. It’s idealistic (romantic, even), but I’m sappy like that. I’d been saving The Pillow Book for That Perfect Occasion when at last, it came: a morning that was grey, but bright; prime time for cozying up in a new Agent Provocateur set and fresh pair of thick, white cotton socks.

These are the musings of Sei Shōnagon, a Japanese writer and diarist (most notably, though, a lady of the court) around the year 1000. It’s glamorous in context alone—but what sold me was Ivan Morris’s commitment to the purity of the text. In the introduction, he clarifies that his reason against translating most proper names was not a result of “Translators’ Despair,” but a concerted effort to “avoid the type of false exoticism that can result from identifying the Emperor’s residence, for example, as ‘the Pure and Fresh Palace.’ Names should not be made to sound more colorful in translation than they do to the reader of the original Japanese.” Knowing this meant that I could read with peace of mind. Pausing to cringe at a “westernized” interpretation of Asian culture or identity would ruin it all.

Instead, he has preserved Shōnagon as a witty, sharp lyricist. Between day-to-day entries are umbrellas of topics that assert her authority as an artist: “Things That Lose by Being Painted” (pinks, cherry blossoms, yellow roses), “Things That Gain by Being Painted” (pines, autumn fields, mountain villages, a very cold winter scene), “Things That Give a Clean Feeling” (a rush mat, the play of the light on water), “Things That Give an Unclean Feeling” (a rat’s nest, the containers used for oil). Even the most banal of observations are made beautiful at worst, revelations at best.

And: how could I not be drawn to a book titled The Pillow Book? Forget “journal,” or “diary;” how pleb.

DAY 34: THE PARIS REVIEW (ISSUE 230)

This isn’t a book, technically—but because The Paris Review is a keep-forever kind of publication, it’s an anthology that lives on my bookshelf. My favorite feature was the interview with translator Michael Hofmann; I highly recommend getting your hands on this issue (which is still available) if you’re interested in language and how it shapes our understanding of the world.

That I’d reach for this after The Pillow Book, a gorgeous, meticulous work of translation by Ivan Morris can’t be coincidental, can it?

DAY 35: DELTA OF VENUS

For whatever naive reason I didn’t realize that Delta Venus would be as explicit as it was. I should have know better, of course; it clearly introduces itself as erotica, and it’s Anaïs Nin, after all.

A warning: some of the imagery is disturbing. But if you, like me, mainly read books for structure over storyline, Delta Venus is a great study. There’s no doubt that Nin is an incredible, fearless writer—even by today’s standards.

DAY 36: CONTEMPORARY CHINESE WOMEN WRITERS III

I bought this copy of Contemporary Chinese Women Writers III at Bloodroot (a feminist restaurant and bookstore) while waiting for my mushroom quiche. There was no first edition, no second book of what looks to be a series—and yet, stumbling upon this lone copy felt serendipitous. I was curious for obvious reasons: until the last few years, Amy Tan was my only exposure to a Chinese narrative. I made a vow to make up for lost time and read as many works by Asian authors as possible, if just for selfish purposes, to finally sink into something I can truly, deeply connect with. (More on the ones read thus far another time.)

I’m not yet adept enough to put into words how it feels reading someone who is like you, especially when you’ve so rarely felt that sort of camaraderie and understanding before. You feel seen. Heard. Acknowledged. Relieved. Because even something as simple as this—

“‘My parents always taught me work was beauty…”

—says it all.

.   .   .

xx