In Praise of Elizaberg

(Photo of sun and clouds, Kate's LRDC, June 2009)



I have been on a reading binge lately...Mostly books by Elizabeth Berg (shortened to "Elizaberg" for convenience's sake by my sister, Melissa, because Ms. Berg and her books were the subject of so many of our frequent messages to each other.)

Melissa has read everything she's written, but I, thankfully, have only completed about half the list. (I'm glad I'm me, because I'd be really sad if I had no more Elizabeth Berg books to look forward to...But she'll either have to start writing faster, or I'll have to start reading slower so that that doesn't happen!)

So many times since I have begun writing this blog I have found myself at a loss for words to describe something -- Something I had seen, something I had felt or heard. And although I may not have written it, I have often thought, If only I were a poet!

That is how I feel when have finished a book that makes me close my eyes and clasp it to my chest as I lie back in my chair and sigh, Thank you! I try to imagine all of the wonderful things I will tell people that will make them want to read the book, too, because you just can't keep something so good to yourself! Unfortunately, all I can come up with is, "This book was just awesome!" (I've said that so often, believe me -- I'm sick of hearing it myself!)

True to Form (which I have just finished) is one of those books. But, Aha! This time I dogeared pages that contained Elizaberg lines I could quote later so that perhaps you would be able to understand what I'm trying to say!

For example:

I take in a huge breath and look at the sky as hard as I can. I feel like I'm trying to eat it with my eyes. I wish there would be certain things you come across and you could say, ok, that's one. Put that away for me to pull out later just exactly as it is now. My dream is for me to be a poet who could make things like this sky come to life for someone else. If you see a sunset and try and describe it to someone in normal words, all you can say is, 'Boy, I saw a great sunset last night.' But if you are a poet, you give it to someone to feel for themselves. Like you make a little seed of what you saw, they swallow it, and it blooms again inside their own heart.

Right there -- the Number One reason why I love Elizabeth Berg...If I were trying to share something wonderful with her, and I told her that I just couldn't find the right words, she would know exactly what I was talking about! (Although she seems to have found the perfect words to say what she wanted!)

I have read about ten of her novels, two books of short stories, and am currently reading a book she wrote about writing; but I have yet to come across a collection of her poetry that has been putlished. I hope that someday I will. I'm sure she has written poetry, because I imagine that there is a little bit of every character she has created in Elizabeth Berg herself. (What am I saying? Her novels are poetry!)

In True to Form, the poetic young hopeful is 13-1/2 year old Katie Nash, who made her debut in Berg's first novel, Durable Goods.

...Whenever I start a poem, I feel like my heart is about to break. Because of all there is, because of how every single thing can have such a pure beauty that aches to be known. I take a deep breath, and then all there is is the scritch scritch scritch of my pen, trying to say something so true. What if it works? Then when I read it again, the little voice inside will say Yes. Yes. Yes. And there will be this rare excitement that makes me bend over myself with pleasure, then rise up smiling, my fingers pressed over my mouth as though to keep things from bursting out. I am lucky on the inside.

I couldn't believe how much I could relate to such a young heroine. True, she was created by a 50-something woman, but she was so real -- and so lovable -- that I instantly felt this overwhelming tenderness toward her -- as if she belonged to me.

It is beautiful outside, the kind of day where the sun touches you like mothers touch their babies' cheeks. Your breath rides in your chest like a slow-swaying hammock, and your eyes see in the rich way: Yellow isn't yellow, it's butterscotch; the red on the roses is velvet. On days like this, you wish everything would slow down; you wish time could stop for a while. But of course that never happens. When a good thing comes along, time is like a flirty girl lifting her skirt and running away, laughing over her shoulder at you...

I couldn't have said it any better myself. Not even close!

(Sigh.)