LYING AWAKE
by Mark Salzman
(Knopf) $21

I have a thing about nuns–and the more ecstatic and visionary, the better.
So a lot of people told me I’d love Ron Hansen’s novel Mariette in Ecstasy, but boy were they wrong. I did not love it at all. Not only
did Hansen get the nun thing wrong, and the visionary thing, he also got the
basic woman thing wrong. His book read like the titillating fantasies of a Sensitive
Guy.

I confess I brought this skepticism to my reading of another book written by a white American guy about a visionary nun, Mark Salzman’s Lying Awake. Praise God, however–Salzman’s book is wonderful. It is a rich, complex portrayal of an oddly gifted nun, and a thoughtful story about how an artist makes art. Sister John of the Cross is a cloistered nun in a convent in present-day Los Angeles. Sometimes she gets a headache, then sees a heavenly light and feels an indwelling of God’s real presence. The poetry she writes from these experiences sells (which, as all poets with the exception of the so-called “Jewel” know, is something of a miracle itself), and her royalties help support the religious community. When Sister John is diagnosed with a mild form of epilepsy, she begins to wonder if her beautiful visions of God are just electric mix-ups in her brain, and if her special relationship with the divine is a sham. That is, she comes to doubt her vocations both as nun and as poet.

Salzman’s writing is as pure as a contemplative’s. His book is full of insights into what it is to long for faith, and what it is to lose it. It’s also great in its exploration of the mystery of artistic creation, and how devastating but humbling the loss of the gift of creativity can be. This is an inspired, lovely book. REBECCA BROWN

 

SHOPGIRL
by Steve Martin
(Hyperion) $17.95

The Steve Martin of Shopgirl is not the Steve Martin of the ’70s. This
is not the comedic freak who brought us The Jerk, or the one who
wrote the humor collection Pure Drivel. This is the older, more mature,
highly sophisticated Steve Martin. The one who was in The Spanish Prisoner.

In prose that smirks rather than guffaws, Martin takes one of those odd, calculated risks that could just as easily alienate his followers as elevate his craft. The most surprising aspect of this well-written novella is that the author doesn’t smack you in the face with a zany joke every chance he gets. Instead, he unfolds this sweet and sad love story with a sure hand and a great dash of wit and dry irony. When Neiman’s salesgirl Mirabelle is courted by bumbling older rich guy Ray Porter, Martin states: “He is single, he is kind, he tries to do the right thing, and he does not understand himself, or women, or his relationships with women.”

When Mirabelle ditches her boyfriend, who rambles philosophically about guitar
amps one night after sex, you begin to root for her. Martin paints her as the
underdog in a Los Angeles department store world where the cosmetics girls treat
people like step ladders. As she falls unknowingly in love with Ray, we witness
the cruel drama of just another rich guy who wants his freedom more than a commitment.
Although not entirely must-read material, Martin does pull off this entertaining
literary trick with enough convincing skill that it could make you forget Dead
Men Don’t Wear Plaid. KEVIN SAMPSELL

 

THE FIRST FOUR BOOKS OF POEMS
by W. S. Merwin
(Copper Canyon Press) $16

Copper Canyon Press reaches back to fill a gap with the reissue of this 1975
volume, the reverse successor to the second four released in 1993, which put
Merwin, in retrospect, at the head of the table of male poets of the ’60s and
’70s. (Most of this turbulent period’s best work came from women: Bishop, Sexton,
Rich.) The cover of this book deserves mention. It displays a gorgeous illustration
by the 19th-century landscape painter Frederick Church, complemented by elegant,
understated fields of color and typeface.

The first book, A Mask for Janus, which won Merwin the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize at the age of 25, is a tense and traditional set of poems that hint darkly at those apocalyptic voices to come while evoking a long, deep swim in the Great Works. The Dancing Bears and Green with Beasts expand Merwin’s ongoing concern with the animal kingdom; The Drunk in the Furnace, finishing the decade, starts to transform Merwin’s ’50s formalism into what will come next. I’ve had this book for months, and still I’ve barely cracked the last volume: There are simply too many stunning poems in the book entire to attempt to list them. It is necessary to spend years with a book like this, drifting from table to bookcase to nightstand and back, in order to familiarize oneself with all its wonders. GRANT COGSWELL