Stalingrad by Vasily Grossman

As soon as I heard about it, I wanted it. And I counted down the days until it was to make its appearance...and when it did, I hit the bookstores, hoping to find a copy on the shelves so that I could take a few hits. But it didn't show up on the shelves of either Barnes and Noble store...or the Books-A-Million store...or either of the Half-Price Books stores. And I don't usually go to Carmichael's so I don't know if it showed up there or not.

I thought about just going ahead and buying it. But at a list price of $27.95, Amazon price of $18.01, and Kindle price of $17.99, that wasn't likely. So I downloaded a free preview and whetted the knife of my appetite on that.

And when I finished those pages, I was ready to throw my money down, but first I thought I'd check the Louisville Free Public Library one more time (I'd been checking it every day for a long time)...and there it was. I put in my request. I was 1 of 1 requests for the title. And it arrived yesterday, and I picked it up today.

Oh, my...it's big. 

RAIL big.

I have a few pages of Antony and Cleopatra  to finish up tonight to keep up with my My Shake-speare Project, but as soon as I do, ahmo be getting me a piece of Stalingrad, man.

News as it happens.

As It Happens, Part One:

As excited as I was to get my hands on this book...which, by the way, bore this stamp--

--and I picked it up on August 3rd, so

it is 홑 off the presses indeed...but I was also weary and having some heart issues, so I only read about half of the introduction before succumbing to sleep. But there was a line which really struck me, so I came back to it this morning. 

To continue to write when you have been ignored, neglected, mocked, and / or abused...that does take some guts, doesn't it? And, indeed, that does say a lot about your character.

And I have spent a very large portion of my life writing. Thousands and thousands of pages. With very little success. And I've received very little support. Most of my friends and all of my family completely ignore me as a writer. I managed to persevere...if belly-aching mightily...for many years. But when my heart started screaming five months ago, it drowned out most of my ambition. I would sit down to write and think, "What's the use? I'll be dead soon, and this is just shit that no one will ever see." And it didn't stop me completely, but it was pretty damned close.

And I think that's understandable. It makes me think back to a writing conference I attended in 1979, wherein a guest writer was speaking, and she said something like, "One of the most painful questions I've ever been asked by an audience members was, 'How do I know when it's time to give up?'" I remember thinking at the time, "Never!" Because you write because you write. You write because that's what you are, who you are, what you do. You write in the way that Jacqueline talks about St. Lucy and Jennifer Connelly and Laura Mooney and St. James.

But my heart attacked me, and I gave up.

I don't want to be an unread writer. But I think I don't want to be a writer who gives up even more than that. 

I think I want to get back on that horse.

Thanks, Robert Chandler. Thanks, Vasily Grossman.


As It Happens, Part Deux:

Is it just me, or does reading this make you think "Trump," "Illegal Immigrants," and "Moscow Mitch"? 

Also, this is how you replace The War on Terror, isn't it? It was about time to get a new straw man up and running.