This post is not about life in France; it's about a book. Literature and life communicate, so my guess is that, although unplanned, some reference to France will find its way into the comments that follow.
I've just returned to my village after a too-short month's visit with my family, my head more prone to dancing with recent literary adventures than yet another how-to-survive-the-cold-winter-months-in-an-uninsulated-house-with-no-hot-water-in-the-bath" adventure... go figure.
I've just finished reading Sebastian Matthews' gem of a book, In My Father's Footsteps. Thanks for the loan, Basil, good call. I appreciate being introduced to Matthews - Harris - Matthews poetry.
Sebastian Matthews is the son of Marie Harris and William Matthews. Here's a link for each poet; your own Google search will take you to many others:
http://3bythefire.blogspot.com/
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/132
http://www.marieharris.com/
In My Father's Footsteps is a memoire of sorts. I qualify it like this because part way through the book, it takes a turn into literature. This is a blog and I have lessons to prep, so let's forego the irritation of having to define "literature." I've had that argument one too many times with too many elitist French folks (told you so!).
Midway or so through the narrative, Matthews' focus turns away from the father's life towards the son's, a change of direction that, for several pages, felt like an aside that would shortly end, with the narrative turning its attention back to the father. I could have been looking over Sebastian's shoulder at a party waiting for his father to show up, while trying to stay tuned in (and look tuned in) to what S. was telling me about himself. The change of (apparent) narrative focus caught me saying, "wait a minute, I'm interested in your Dad; enough about you, what about your Dad? When's he supposed to show up?"
I don't know if the provocation was intentional, but I found it an exquistie marriage of form and content, of literature and life.
The focus turns to Matthews' quest to better understand his father, his relationship with him, and Matthews' relationship with himself. Matthews' narrative evolves adeptly -- and in sometimes uncomfortable forthrightness -- towards equilibrium: the father fades more into the background as the son puts himself in the psychological limelight. The transition/change up, while remaining very personal, takes the narrative to a more universal level that spins around self-identity and choice, and ultimately acceptance.
I particularly appreciated the risotto passage at the end of the book, on pages 268-270. It reminded me of the one and only time in my life that I made risotto for my own father. During the course of that meal preparation, complete with music and a glass of wine (in my hand not his: he doesn't drink), we found a moment of common ground. Nice feeling...and the risotto was a success, too.
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