What details of your life could you pay more attention to?
Dear Reader,
After a long and tiring day at work, I look back today and regret not doing things the way I wanted – yet again. Since I spend more time in an office full of strangers with nothing in common with me other than working for the same employer, reflecting on today’s memories and actions brings me a feeling of sorrow and sympathy. It’s always this matter of diplomacy of interacting with others without offending them, which is what I should pay more attention to.
The art of social interaction is hard enough for me to achieve without having a poker face or a public mask – persona. I have seen people who ingratiate themselves with those whom they regard as socially beneficial and politically influential. I see them, all of whom are women, but I don’t see beauty in their visages, nor their minds and hearts. Those able-bodied, fair-weathered friends or sycophants are unashamed of their deeds, acting as if they were all above others, thinking themselves better than others.
Not that I begrudge them such a skill of flattering, but I realize that having the diplomatic forte may help me to live a more comfortable life for me and my two beautiful cats. Indeed, smile is the best global language where no spoken words are required. I can smile and smile beautifully, but my beautiful smile is unrelated to currying favor from the powers that be, so to speak. Still, it would work wonders if I could pay more attention to my facial expression and the whole demeanor of my body in a polished way so people would not be rude to me.
My wish is someone’s daily life or just a fancy, but it is still my wish to induce a good impression on me, no matter where you are from.
Letters of Note: Cats is an adoringly compiled individual narrative about their cats in an epistolary form by famous people, ranging from Nikola Testa, the Romanian prodigy of the electrical invention, to the unforgettable actress of the 20th century Elizabeth Taylor, and so on whose affection for their feline babies is universally communicable across time and space.
Of all those words from the hearts, Elizabeth Taylor’s letter to her dear cat, who went missing after being moved to a new Californian home from their Welsh home, profoundly touches my heart. Those loves, those memories, those longings all flow from artless words written in tears and project how much she misses her flurry child without florid elaboration. Her cat is not just a “pet” but a “companion” who has seen her in the saddest moment under the darkest sky without make-up. Reading her letter, I felt like I knew the actress personally, as she shared her insecurity without such a dear friend who used to stay by her side. How would I live without my two cats by my side? I would have written a similar letter to Toro and Camille.
The creator of this lovely anthology of letters, Shaun Usher, never seems to cease his creativity, zeal, and humanity after his first publication of Letters of Note: Correspondence Deserving of a Wider Audience in 2013, resulting in a decade-long successful Letters series. I have seen musicians exhausted with their creative flairs for making new albums, either by adhering to their prior hit album music style or morphing into a different avant-garde-styled musical experiment, but not Shaun Usher, whose fountain of creativity is welled from faith in humaneness universal in all humankind. It is not to lionize or canonize Usher for the Letters series, nor to idolize him mindlessly in the heat of instant adulation as a gullible reader, whom Edgar Allen Poe might have frowned upon, but as a reader of the unique third eye that can see a writer’s true colors. So, if you love cats with hearts and like to read and write letters – okay, I will also include emails for MZ generation readers – reading Letters of Cats will be a pleasure.
When Queen Elizabeth II left this world, she left the palace door open from upstairs and downstairs. And it’s not a Downtown Abby because it’s not a palace, and we are talking about King, Queen’s Consort, Prince and Princess, Duke and Dutches, and the people who serve them of all levels. Indeed, the Royals do not manage their affairs without their helpers. This is a book about those helpers, especially the upper ranks called “Courtiers,” who have existed since the days of yore. Glamorous and fanciful as they may sound, the courtiers are the royal equivalent of assistants and secretaries in bureaucratic and industrial organizations. This book is about these helpers who deserve to be cast spotlights for their physical and mental hard work.
Working with the royals, as it were, is not much different from working with lawyers or any corporate heads or any paying masters who are at the helm of your livelihood in the real world. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of your bosses for fear of rage-firing or losing their favor for your financial security, which will affect your and your family’s welfare. When I learned that King Charles III sacked his long-term employees in Clarance House who had been loyal in their service to him and his family before the coronation, I was immediately on the side of the forlorn subjects whose lives were now upended with the loss of their steady income. Indeed, some of them might have received compensation that would give them enough not to worry about their future. Still, losing a job is undoubtedly a blow to mental equanimity, let alone material necessities. According to the narrative, the royal temper is a legacy of Elizabeth I to his son Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex. Harry is notorious for his tempestuous tendencies that have made the courtiers disaffected and displeased with the person. His precarious and unpredictable behaviors and inconsiderate remarks towards people who assist him contribute to the criticism of his wife Megan, who is also infamous for arrogant and unthoughtful deportment. The couple might have won the public’s sympathy, not in the least thanks to the power of Oprah, who took them under her aegis against the racist royal family and the British general, who discriminated against Megan for her being “exotic.” Stephen King once said that if you want to know what kind of person they are, you must go backstage with them. I am not hell-bent on slandering the duke and dutchess. Still, it will be an injustice, discrimination even, to forego or ignore what the courtiers witness and think about the famous glittering couple who has become one of the most scintillating Tinsletown couples in the world.
It seems to me that this book wants to give a fair chance to the people who rendered their services to these whimsical and capricious royal families, given that the courtiers have become targets of criticism for discrimination against Harry and Megan. Charles’s infamous temper is comparingly forgivable because that’s what kings and queens have been like, as it is their blood-blood characteristic. But Harry is a proud prince who champions equality on the one hand and hypocrisy on the other hand. If he really cares about his wife’s privacy and respectful treatment against racial discrimination that the couple so always clamoursuly voices about, then they should also equally care about those of the people who work for and under them, no matter how different opinions they may have. People who believe Harry and Megan deserve sympathy should look closely around them because there should be those who really deserve sympathy and understanding in situations far worse than the rich and famous duke and dutchess. In light of the above, I like reading this book that draws the curtains behind the royal stages where the courtiers busy themselves pleasing the spoiled royals. By the way, Princes William and Harry lounge around the palace in flip-flops and treat their guests or interview their employees at interviews to tea in a nondescript mug, not a royal china teacup.
What seems abnormal may be normal to you. Seeing dead people may not be the most pleasant talent, but if that’s what you are born with, then it’s normal, and you have to live with it through Kubla-Ross’s famous five stages of dying. That happens to Jamie in his narrative of the coming-of-age proclamation of his identity in this story.
Dead people are like quiet people lurking in the background of Jamie’s life. They appear to him as the last moments of their earthly lives, talking and joking to Jamie, who can see and hear them, albeit rather unreluctantly, because he’s not much pleased with his uncanny ability. But then it’s the discerning talent -says the Bible – that helps him know who he is, like an epiphany of a family secret locked in his uncle’s lost memories, thanks to nature’s force of dementia. However, this story is not so much a psychological thriller as a supernatural drama that is so characteristic of Stephen King’s novels, with a level of uncanniness combined with realism that makes his stories all the more real and relatable. The settings, the dialogues, and the jobs the characters have are not far-fetched, fanciful, or bourgeoisie, all of which attest to King’s engagingly realistic storytelling skills.
Later is a three-fold story of horror without goriness, mystery without glamour, and bildungsroman without teenage angst. King has a unique knack for incorporating popular entertainment with serious literature that attracts readers of all generations and classes. He is a literary descendant of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Washington Irving, and Edgar Allen Poe, who defined American literature in the constellation of the World’s Literature for the joy of the beholders from generation to generation. All in all, this book will be one of the stars in the constellation.
When I first learned of this sensationally titled book with the pinky perky cover photo of the author from the New York Times Book Review, I knew I had to read it because of its boldness and frankness that I believe would strike the chords of many who must have felt or wished it (let’s be honest). However, it was more like seeking a kindred spirit in such a titled book because I felt exhilarated with camaraderie and, once exonerated from such membership, a desire to revolt against mothers.
But the book isn’t an angst-ridden, hate-filled, violence-saturated memoir nowadays in-vogue among celebrities who live to tell their dark life histories. Although it isn’t precisely wholesomely hall-mark like loving family history, it is worth pointing out the moments of love and warmth that childhood memories sometimes invoke because we thrive as human beings on those memories. McCurdy’s mother may not have been perfect, but who is an ideal mother anyway? The Bard once said that look not with the eye but with the mind. She was the one who saw talents in her daughter, encouraged them, and made them blossom into a pink dandelion when many parents either ignore or overlook the bests of their children for their future. Although I can understand McCurdy’s disaffection with her passionate mother controlling her life, I am envious of having such a mother who was willing to sacrifice her hard labor for her daughter’s success.
The cover photo is puzzling. The author has a smile but not smiling, or instead trying to smile but is subdued as if her emotions are changing instantly or frozen in the moments between joy and sadness, independence and confusion in the transition of belonging to freedom. I can’t honestly fathom what the author thinks inside, but one thing is certain she loves her mother, who is now unburdened with the cares and pain of the world. Perhaps, that is why she is glad her mother died.
Elsie Robinson (1883-1956) was an unforgettable writer whose nationally syndicated column “Listen, World!” spanned over 30 years and garnered more than 20 million readers. Yet, her legacy has not met with the justice of recognition, forgotten in the careless oblivion under the shadows of her contemporary starry women writers. Nelie Bly was sensational as an undercover in a mental asylum and an ambitious challenger to Phileas Fogg of Around the World in 80 days. But Elsie Robinson was a champion of writers whose heartfelt writings touched the finer tissues of the millions of hearts who found solace and support in her words. She was honest, and her words were real, alive, and alike, and there was none other like her.
Robinson was my kind of model writer who wrote from her experience and heart. Edgar Allan Poe would praise a type of writer with a passion for intoxicating the heart and the truth to satisfy reason. The fates had let her go through trials of life, but her mind exceeded the compass of her wheels. She didn’t mind working as a miner as a single mother before a tide of fortune finally took her to her literary career in the Oakland Tribune. While her peers and contemporary writers took the naval-gazing, angst-ridden narratives a la mode, Robinson used her writing to communicate with readers seeking elbow room in her column. They recognized themselves in the plight of a stranger and found commonalities in it, making them feel that they were not uniquely flawed. I guess that’s why Robinson didn’t get recognition as much as her contemporary peers, who enjoyed the stardom of literary legacy. She wanted to tell her woebegone readers their problems were not theirs but yours, mine, and ours.
Like Kurt Vonnegut, Robinson wanted to let readers know that to express ourselves in the form of art is to allow our souls to grow, however poor or good, by encouraging us to write our own columns. In that regard, blogging is a great platform to express one’s artistic self without fear of rejection or ridicule, freed from the devil’s advocates of literary purists intent upon finding grammar faults in anyone’s writings. To that end, Robinson is a scintillating writer with an eye for truth and a heart for passion – like the sun in the twilight, remitting the splendor while retaining magnitude, dazzling the eyes of the beholders with the hearts’ contents. As a result, Robinson has become one of my darling writers.
Flame, Glass and Ink are Poems, essays, and reading notes by Stefania Joori Suh 
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