Skip to main content

Beverly Cleary, 1916-2021

 I'm writing today in gratitude for Beverly Cleary, who was a "spiritual" writer. She didn't talk about God (at least not much, in my memory), but she was aware of powerful, overlooked currents in everyday life, and her writing was wondrous.

One of my favorites, among Cleary's inventions, is Leigh Botts. He is lonely in California, and he writes to the humor-novelist Boyd Henshaw, who basically says: "You have a shitty situation, but why don't you stop waiting for change? Why don't you yourself make some changes?"

Leigh begins to write, and his writing makes him a deeper reader, and his reading makes him inventive and empathic. The world around him doesn't get notably "better," but Leigh himself becomes stronger, and the lost, powerless page-one kid begins to seem like a distant memory. 

The book seems like a magic trick: Cleary describes personal change over time, and she doesn't make you aware of her machinations and tricks. The furniture glides on and off mid-scene, as in a well-staged play. You're in a dream.

The other moment I like very much is Ramona and Beezus with their mother. Beezus is royally pissed because she doesn't want an at-home haircut. Why must she be sensible all the time?

We expect Mom to blow her fuse. But--in an audacious twist--Mom empathizes. "I know what you mean," she says. "I hate being sensible all the time."

The girls are stunned.

Mrs. Quimby: "I'd like to go sit outside and blow dandelion fluff all over the yard."

Beezus is so shocked, she forgets that she was formerly looking for an *insensible* ally. "You CAN'T blow fluff on the yard!" she says. "YOU WOULD CAUSE THE GROWTH OF WEEDS!"

Mrs. Quimby smiles.

Ramona--made shy by Mrs. Q's self-disclosure--has a thought. She admits (quietly): "I'd like to blow dandelion fluff with you....Mom...."

Cleary wrote about universal human experience, and she wrote with an eye on minutiae, and she gave one long master-class--book after book after book--on how to tell a story.

To a gifted humorist/philosopher/memoirist/fabulist/mom/librarian: Goodbye, rest well, and thanks.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...