Magazines have long been fond of asking well-known writers to recommend books appropriate to certain times of year, usually as Christmas gifts or so-called “beach reading.” The results tend to be surprisingly conventional and unrewarding, with pleasing exceptions. Consider this:  “Since I long ago gave up reading for any reason except pleasure, my literary diet does not vary much by the season. If anything, I find I am apt to indulge myself in less trivial fare during holiday months than in the winter -- I have more leisure for savoring and less need to drug myself to sleep with something uncerebral.”   The writer is the much-underrated American poet Phyllis McGinley (1905-78) responding to the “Recommended Summer Reading” feature in the Summer 1962 issue of The American Scholar. Among her co-respondents are other members of the journal’s editorial board, including Alfred Kazin and the historian of the South, C. Vann Woodward (The Strange Carrer of Jim Crow). Sorry to say, most of responses are dull. McGinley distinguishes herself by enthusiasm, good taste and no evidence of showing off.   Like her, I’ve never understood how reading in the summer differs from any other time of the year. The choice of reading matter is an internal affair, not subject to the influence of sunlight, warm temperatures and other external factors. McGinley makes an exception for travel:   “On a motoring trip, for instance, my husband and I always carry along A. E. Housman. You have to be young to enjoy Housman, and young is what one is inclined to feel while driving happily along strange roads. Enclosed, insulated from real life by speed, movement and the abandonment of domestic duties, the adolescent pessimism, the pseudoclassic despair and the impeccable music of that verse seem satisfying as they did when we were college freshmen. It does not do for bedtime reading but it is delightful to chant aloud en route.”   I’m charmed by the scene of a middle-aged American couple, sometime during the Kennedy administration, reciting in tandem one of Housman’s lyrics while touring the country. McGinley recommends other good titles – Kim, Mrs. Gaskell’s Cranford, Austen’s Persuasion, H.D.F. Kitto’s The Greeks, Adam Bede, Trevelyan’s History of England. That final three-volume work is, she writes, “as romantic and satisfactory a book as one could ask. In fact, a vacation is a natural and proper time to renew one’s friendships with early enthusiasms. The wells of joy are apt to be livelier in pleasant weather.”   In his introductory lecture as professor of Latin at University College, London, in 1892, Housman says: “The sum of things to be known is inexhaustible, and however long we read, we shall never come to the end of our story-book.”

I read Andrey Platonov’s novel Chevengur (1929) not too long ago and the collection of stories Soul (1935-46) last month.  Here we will have some notes.  These are the Robert and Elizabeth Chandler translations (four additional translators assist with Soul).  Those dates are for the completion of the writing; publication was always a complex story for poor Platonov. Platonov was a rationalist and engineer but also a mystic.  He was a true believer in the, or let’s say a, Soviet experiment, but also fully understood, for rationalist and mystical reasons, that the experiment would always fail.  He had a great writer’s imagination but – no, this should be “and” – had lifelong trouble adapting himself to Soviet censorship.  He was hardly alone there. I think I will stick with the Soul collection today, and quote from the novella “Soul,” “published” in a single proof copy in 1935, in censored form in 1966, and finally complete in 1999. Which is also when the Chandlers published their English version. “Soul,” like much of Platonov, is mercilessly grim: He foresaw that it would probably be his lot to die here and that his nation would be lost, too, ending up as corpses in the desert.  Chagataev felt no regret for himself: Stalin was alive and would bring about the universal happiness of the unhappy anyway, but it was a shame that the Dzhan nation, who had a greater need for life and happiness than any other nation of the Soviet Union, would by then be dead.  (75) Ambiguous phrase there, "the univeersal happiness of the unhappy."  Chagataev is a young engineer, tasked with leading his “nation,” a nomadic tribe subsisting, barely, in the deserts and marshes between the Caspian and Aral Seas, to Soviet civilization.  Which he does, eventually – happy ending! The entire Dzhan nation was now living without an everyday sense of its death, working at finding food for itself in the desert, lake and the Ust-Yurt Mountains, just as most of humanity normally lives in the world.  (108) An unconvincing happy ending given what happens along the way.  Platonov foreshadows the environmental destruction of the Aral Sea and the demographic decline of Russia (the nomads, by the time Chagataev returns to them, are almost all elderly, somehow living off grass and hot water).  Horrible things happen to everyone for many pages.  Chagataev is almost eaten by carrion birds.  But only almost! Chagataev felt the pain of his sorrow: his nation did not need communism.  It needed oblivion – until the wind had chilled its body and slowly squandered it in space.  (“Soul,” 102) Animals are treated terribly in “Soul,” and in other stories, no worse than the human animals, but still, the reader sensitive to such things should beware, and in particular get nowhere near the story “The Cow” (written 1938, published 1958) which is like an entry in a “saddest story ever written” contest.  Possibly my favorite thing in “Soul” is a few pages on a flock of feral sheep: And for several years the sheep had lived in the desert with their sheep dogs; the dogs had taken to eating the sheep, but then the dogs had all died or run away in melancholy yearning, and the sheep had been left on their own, gradually dying of old age, or being killed by wild beasts, or straying into waterless sands.  (62) “[D]ying of old age” is remarkable; the “melancholy yearning” of the absent dogs is a superb Gogolian touch. The other stories in the Soul collection are also good if you have the emotional strength to read them. Chevengur tomorrow.

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Left in a hefty anthology titled The Faber Book of War Poetry (ed. Kenneth Baker, 1996) was a postcard from O’Gara & Wilson, Ltd. Booksellers in Chicago. More than forty years ago I visited that shop near the University of Chicago and purchased a partial set of Conrad for a decent price. They bundled the books and I carried them back to Ohio on the train. The card suggests a seriousness of purpose often missing from bookstores today:   “Chicago’s Oldest Bookstore Established 1882 200,000 Titles in Stock Used Books Bought & Sold Small Collections or Complete Libraries No Quantity Too Large – House Calls Made”   Smaller copy says O’Gara & Wilson carries books “in almost all fields, but we are especially interested in American history, art, Balkan and Central European history, English and American literature, Greek and Latin classics, medieval history and literature, military history, philosophy, religion & theology.” In other words, a serious bookstore for serious readers. This is not Harlequin Romance country.   Joseph Epstein’s great friend, the late sociologist Edward Shils, who taught at the University of Chicago, published “The Bookshop in America” in the winter 1963 issue of Daedalus. In it, Shils calls bookshops “an almost indispensable part of life. Like libraries, one goes to them for what one knows and wants and to discover books one did not know before.” He continues:   “I have gone to bookshops to buy and browse. I have gone to them to buy books I wanted, and because I just wanted to buy a book, and much of the time just because I wanted to be among books to inhale their presence.”   He speaks for me. I have gone to bookstores I knew from prior sad experience were lousy, just to wander among the shelves, hopelessly hoping for treasure. In such places, I have been tempted to buy books I already owned just to salvage something tangible out of disappointment. Shils formulates a theory of good bookstores contrary to conventional economic sense:    “A bookshop, in order to be good, must have a large stock of books for which there is not likely to be a great demand but for which there will be an occasional demand. This means, unlike the retail trade in groceries, or the practice in industry to produce on order, a bookshop must render its capital inert by putting a lot of it into slow-moving lines.”   Shils is writing, of course, long before the Age of Amazon. I looked online to see if O’Gara & Wilson is still in business. It is, but relocated to Chesterton, Ind., fifty miles southeast of Chicago. I wish I could visit. More power to the new owners Doug and Jill Wilson. Shils writes:     “The wonder is, given the unremunerativeness of the business, that bookshops exist at all. It takes a special kind of person, somewhat daft in a socially useful and quite pleasant way but nonetheless somewhat off his head, to give himself to bookselling. Why should anyone who has or who can obtain $10,000 or $20,000 invest it in a bookshop to sell serious books when, if he were an economically reasonable person, he would do better to open a beauty parlor or a hamburger and barbecue shop, or put his money into the stock market? The bookseller must be one of those odd people who just love the proximity of books.”

Italy's Matera as a case study for revitalizing small governments and creating a future of interconnected villages.