LiteraryTraveler.net

Photo by Daniel Peckham

The state with the prettiest name,
the state that floats in brackish water,
held together by mangrave roots
that bear while living oysters in clusters,
and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons,
dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks
like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass…

So begins Elizabeth Bishop’s famous ode to the state of Florida. Of course, in a traditional sense, this isn’t an ode, for while it speaks of Florida—almost sings of Florida—it doesn’t call to the region. Like many of Bishop’s poems, which are set apart by their precise descriptions and finely-observed detail, this poem describes Florida to an outsider. It captures a place filled with pelicans and rot and beauty and teenage flesh. Florida feels, to me, like an intimate portrayal drawn from a vast distance.

Yet Bishop didn’t experience Florida from a distance. After moving to Key West in the early 1930′s, Elizabeth decided to stay in the city, moving from apartment to house and enjoying the booming literary scene (as well as the lush surroundings).

Embarrassingly, this is new information for me. I have long admired Elizabeth Bishop’s poetry—I love her confessional style, her raw emotion, and her delicate balance of imagery and abstract—but I insisted on thinking of her as a Massachusetts girl, much like myself. However, the truth is that Bishop didn’t belong to Boston, and even her first book of poems bares testimony to that fact. Titled North and South, the collection jumps back and forth from Key West to Boston, moving from the cold brick and winter twilight of the North to the invading sun and carnival colors of America’s far south. It compares and contrasts the two, never really settling on either, playing to the strengths and terrible weaknesses of both.

But this is, in essence, what I admire so much about Bishop’s poetry. Before I began writing our Key West Friday series, I had never given much though to what I’m going to call her “landscape pieces.” I much preferred her descriptions of love, loss, and anger. But buried within these tantalizing images of a place I have never been (for I haven’t quite made it down to Florida quite yet) is something I can recognize. Reading her poems about Florida is a bit like looking at an old postcard. They provide a fragmented and slightly distorted and appealing picture of America.

Key West is, for Bishop, a place that is filled with growth and overrun with decay. She describes with equal the “enormous turtles, helpless and mild” that are doomed to “die and leave their barnacled shells on the beaches and the fireflies, who come after dark and “map the heavens in the marsh / until the moon rises.” In another poem, titled Florida Deserta, she spends the first stanza discussing summer clouds that “shade the houses / soothe they eyes” and “banish the break-bone fever” before launching into a description of the summer stars. She captures them converging “invisibly on each tin roof,” turning light into color and the shine of hundreds of scales. For Bishop, Florida is alive and pulsing, constantly moving with heat and the glittery refracted light of water and ocean.

After a more thorough exploration, I realize I have to give up Bishop as a fellow Bostonian. She’s much too American to be limited to a single city—even a single state. I think it is her particular skill for imagery, for drawing dreamscapes out of words, but after reading Elizabeth’s lines on Key West, it’s hard not to wonder: what else is out there, waiting with half-closed eyes?

Bishop, in her usual cryptic way, has one answer:

The alligator, who has five distinct calls:
friendliness, love, mating, war, and a warning–
whimpers and speaks in the throat
of the Indian Princess.

Last week, we talked about Ernest Hemingway, one of America’s greatest writers, most famous drinkers, and a sometimes resident of Key West. Today, we’re going to shift our focus (but only a little) to yet another classic American author known for his culinary quirks: Tennessee Williams.

While Williams is more often associated with New Orleans than with the great state of Florida, the playwright and author spent years commuting between Manhattan and his modest residence in Key West. A true literary traveler, Williams lived all over the world, establishing homes everywhere from London to Rome, only to move once more when the mood struck him. According to some, It was in his Key West home where Tennessee wrote the first draft of his most famous and arguably most widely-read play, A Street Car Named Desire. Visitors to the city can still see his small bungalow, located in the New Town neighborhood, though sadly, it is privately owned and no longer open to the public.

Despite his long-time affiliation with Key West, many of the recipes in Troy Gilbert’s cookbook, Dinner With Tennessee Williams: Recipes and Stories Inspired by America’s Southern Playwright, have a decidedly Louisisiana flavor. However, the off-beat little book—which features recipes created by Greg Picolo, a New Orleans native and chef at the Bistro Maison de Ville—can still be viewed as a surprisingly literary way to enjoy all types of Southern cuisine. The publisher describes the book thusly:

Like Hemingway to Cuba or Mark Twain to the Mississippi, certain writers are inextricably tied to their environments-the culture, the history, the people, the cuisine. The plays of Tennessee Williams evoke the ambiance and flavor of the South. Part food memoir and part cookbook, this fresh look at the world of this great American playwright-both in real life and in his plays-is the perfect book for literary lovers and food lovers alike.

Inside the conceptual cookbook, you can find recipes for dishes like Grilled Ahi Tuna with Pineapple Relish, Maw Maw Lola’s Fig Preserves, and Chop Suey Soup. All the dishes are inspired by Tennessee’s plays, and are accompanied with archived photographs from Williams’ life and quotes from his distinctive dialogue.

As holiday season fast approaches, we can’t help but think this would be the perfect gift for a budding chef, bookworm, or even world traveler. Food, literature, and a little bit of Southern charm? That’s pretty much all we need to escape this dreary New England winter.

Hemingway drinks in the Plaza Del Gastillo, July 1959.

Today’s edition of Key West Friday is going to focus on something very near and dear to my own heart: literary cocktails. More specifically, I want to talk about one of the greatest mixologists of the 20th century—I’m speaking of Ernest Hemingway, of course—and his personal creations.

Though some may think of Hemingway as just another author you had to read in high school, overlooking Hemingway’s massive influence on American culture, masculinity, and writing would be a sorry mistake. Even if we leave aside his incredible literary talents, Hemingway was far more than simply a writer. He was a celebrity before we truly had celebrities; he single-handedly defined a generation in a way that few authors have since. While his perpetually disillusioned anti-heroes certainly played a role in capturing and symbolically creating the post-war American, (Hemingway’s case is, I happen to believe, one of those chicken-or-the-egg issues. Did he simply record what he saw, and capture the disenchanted drifting of many young men, or did his novels contribute to a certain image of the American identity that was beginning to coalesce? I imagine it was a bit of both) his actual person was just as instrumental in the process. He was, according to those that knew him, a force of nature.

He let loose his forceful personality during his time in Key West, where he lived for several years before relocating to Cuba. During this time, Hemingway did little to reel in his natural vivaciousness, and found himself what PBS’s Michael Palin describes as “Hemingway’s wild adventures:”

In a rain-splattered Key West street, he duked it out with Wallace Stevens after the poet had insulted him. In his beloved boat, Pilar, he battled man-sized fish (managing to shoot himself in both legs while trying to gaff one shark). Hemingway belted back drinks at Sloppy Joe’s, a speakeasy that went legal after Prohibition ended. While at his favorite watering hole, he befriended a young journalist named Martha Gellhorn, who traveled with him to Spain to cover the civil war there. Eventually, she would become his third wife.

As Palin makes clear, these episodes were often fueled by alcohol. But what kind of alcohol?

Here we have to turn to another source. According to the wonderful site Codex 99, in 1937, Hemingway created a drink that Charles Barker later included in his book The Gentleman’s Companion. Hemingway called it a “picker-upper” but it went down in history as “Death in the Gulf Stream.” Despite the morose name, the actual mix sounds rather delicious. For those of you interested in celebrating Key West Friday at home, here’s the recipe for Hemingway’s scary little cocktail:

2 oz. Lucas Bols Oude Genever
4 dashes Angostura
1 lime
Add crushed ice to a thin tumbler. Lace the ice with 4 dashes of Angostura and add the juice and crushed peel of 1 lime. Nearly fill the tumbler with Genever.

Of course, you can always go the traditional route and make yourself a mojito, but we think this Death sounds much more impressive. Happy drinking.

Courtesy of Joanne Harris/Leonardo Cendamo Photography

“Publication was never my initial objective,” admits British author Joanne Harris. “I kept writing because I liked it, and on some level I guess I had to do it… but when my first book was published, I was absolutely delighted. And better even than just being published, I was actually read by people,” she told Literary Traveler, laughing.

In case you are unfamiliar with Harris’ work (or deceived by her humble attitude), she is one of the most popular British writers living today. Though her most famous novel may well be Chocolat, which was made even more memorable by the film with Johnny Depp, she has also penned everything from young adult novels (Runemarks) to cookbooks (The French Kitchen).

Along with Bill Bryson, Joanne Harris was invited on board Cunard’s the Queen Mary 2 as part of their Literature & Liners series, where she spoke to the passengers about her two greatest passions: writing and food. After her book signing, we were able to sit down with Harris for a private interview—which we naturally recorded.

In this latest installment of Literary Traveler TV, Joanne Harris talks to our editors about the experience of traveling on such a grand old ship, how she became a writer, and perhaps most interestingly, her thoughts on the intersections between food, travel, and literature. “I think food has always been a popular theme in literature. I’ve been wrongly–but flatteringly—attributed this task of having brought food in fiction into popularity, but it’s not at all true. I think, with it’s link to travel, it’s also one of the most accessible ways to learn about another culture.”

Learn more about Joanne Harris and her literary musings by watching our video interview here. And for more Literary Traveler TV, please check out our YouTube channel.

There are few writers who can so seamlessly marry information with a strongly absurdest sense of humor. Bill Bryson is one of those rare authors. Unlike the dry, factual essayists we read in school, Bryson’s books are not only sidesplittingly funny, but also deeply authoritative and observant.

As you might be able to tell, we have been reading Bryson for years, and admiring his singular style and voice. From the first book we picked up on the Appalachian Trail, the 1998 A Walk in the Woods to his wildly popular A Short History of Nearly Everything.

In 2010, while traveling across the Atlantic on the Cunard’s Queen Mary 2, Literary Traveler got to meet the famous writer. Bill was taking the cruise as a special guest for their Liners & Literature series. During this time, he had a few duties: relax, enjoy himself, and speak to the other passengers about his impressive career, his thoughts on Britain, and his unique views on writing and reading.

“Everybody likes books that are about them,” he observed during our interview. “My book about growing up in Iowa seemed to really resonate with Americans. The other book that did very well in America was A Walk in the Woods… but the book that sold in Britain was Notes on a Small Island. I suppose it’s natural that people are most attracted to something about them.”

He also revealed the genesis of his writing career. “My dad had a great collection of hardback books from the 1930s and 40s, and he had a lot of books by PG Wodehouse. He had books by people like James Thurgood, Robert Benchley, and S.J. Perelman—four really, really funny writers. I picked up these books when I was thirteen and fell in love with the idea of being able to use language as a way of making people laugh.”

To learn more about Bill Bryson, take a few minutes to watch our full interview with the author, shot on board the Queen Mary 2. Covering everything from baseball to the Brits, it’s the perfect way to get to know one of the most beloved humor writers living today. See the clip at Literary Traveler TV here.

Courtesy of Cunard

Last summer, your editors at Literary Traveler were lucky enough to cross the Atlantic on the majestic and elegant Queen Mary 2. The week-long Transatlantic cruise offered most everything we overworked writers need—excellent food, plenty of rest and relaxation, and of course, a bit of literary stimulation.

The trip we attended on the grand old liner wasn’t your average cruise. Literary Traveler was invited to attend one of their Cunard Insights enrichment programs, the 2010 Literature and Liners trip, alongside influential authors like Kate Atkinson, John Berendt, Bill Bryson, and Joanne Harris. During our stay, we were able to attend Q&As with the authors, panel discussions, and book signings.

In order to better document the journey, we also brought our camera. To learn more about the Queen Mary 2—including details about its history, the various amenities available onboard, and the surprising attractions that draws thousands of passengers each year—take a look at our video on YouTube. And stay tuned for further details about the author discussions with Bill Bryson and Joanne Harris.

Lucian Freud, Girl with Roses, 1947

Last week, Lucian Freud, one of the greatest painters of the 20th century, and grandson of Sigmund Freud, passed away in his London home. He was 88.

With a family history like his, it isn’t surprising that Lucien was brimming with talent. Though he started off his career a bit rocky (he was a gambler, womanizer, and a wild card), in the post-World War II years, he became one of the most significant artists working in Europe. His slightly abstracted, often grotesque paintings came to define a new wave of figurative art. Like the Secessionists before him, and the German Expressionists, his portraits were filled with a sense of vulnerability, intimacy, and occasionally, dread.

While you can compare some of Freud’s paintings to earlier artists like Egon Schiele and Otto Dix, he quickly created a style of portraiture that was all his own. I admit to finding his portraits incredibly disturbing—in a good way. Freud’s subjects stare out from the canvas, wide-eyed and distorted, with a fleshiness and weight that is at once exaggerated and oddly true to life. His portraits are neither beautiful nor smooth. They are not pretty to look at, but they convey something real, something human.

It’s always a tragedy when a great figure like Freud passes, but in many ways, Freud’s career had run its course. I can’t be alone in preferring his earlier work to his later portraits, though some of his most recent work is perhaps more recognizable, due to the status of his subjects. His depiction of Queen Elizabeth II, for example, is not really a traditional royal portrait, but it has gained widespread fame nonetheless. A painting he did in 2002 of a pregnant Kate Moss has the same odd combination of celebrity draw and high-brow artistic appeal.

Despite his later triumphs, when reading his obituaries I’m struck again and again by his first forays into figurative art. In paintings like “Girl With a Kitten” and “Girl With Roses,” Freud calls to mind the old masters and the traditional Flemish portraits. To me, these pieces look like a modernized version of Jan Van Eyck’s pieces, imbued with (unsurprisingly) a 20th century awareness of the complexity of the human psyche. There is something deeply psychological about Freud’s distortions, which both flatten the face and draw forth the eyes, which gaze distractedly. It feels at once both intimate and distant, smooth and slightly frayed. The subjects bare many of the markers of female beauty, yet under Freud’s brush they are thinned, flattened, and made far more ghostly.

Freud’s death is a terrible loss for the art world, but his artistic contributions will not be forgotten. As he once told his biographer, ”For me the paint is the person,” and through his creations, Lucian lives on.

Andrew Wyeth’s art is quiet. In contrast to many of his contemporaries, whose works scream out for attention through bright colors and bold shapes (Rothko and Mondrian), or seduce with lush layers of paint and incomprehensible abstractions (Pollock and de Kooning), Wyeth’s paintings are subtle. They whisper their intention to the viewer. Muted colors and barren landscapes mark Wyeth’s most recognizable works, but all of his paintings share a common sense of stark intimacy.

I’m not the only one who feels this way about Wyeth’s art. Earlier this month, the house in Maine depicted in his most famous work, Christiana’s World (above), was named a national landmark. “It’s now affirmation that it’s an American icon,” said Christropher Brownawell, executive director of the Farnsworth Art Museum in Rockland, in an interview with the Associated Press. On July 1, the U.S. Secretary of the Interior, Ken Salazar, announced that The Olson House, along with 14 other locations, is now officially recognized by the U.S. Government.

The news shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone familiar with American art. Though he didn’t fit into any of the major artistic movements of the 1940s, Wyeth was an exceedingly popular artist; something about his pieces felt recognizable in that post-depression era. I like to think it’s because his scenes are so touching and instill an immediate familiarity in the viewer: we can’t help but feel as though we’ve been there. His style may not have been as flashy as that of his contemporaries, but Wyeth’s work has long been recognized as different, respected in its own right. Quietly, it captured the era.

Painted in 1948, Christina’s World was titled after the woman who inspired the image, Wyeth’s neighbor, Christina Olson. But while the painting is ostensibly about her, Wyeth did not use Olson as a primary model. Instead, he called upon his wife to pose for the scene, recreating the moment he looked out the window and saw his neighbor, who suffered from polio, making her slow crawl across the yard. Looking at this painting, I believe I can see the love he had for his wife, and the sad respect he had for his subject. The landscape is bleak and muted, but there is a tenderness in the way Wyeth depicts Olson. I feel instinctively, as many have before me, that this piece captures something essentially human, something even bigger than the scene, more important than the farmhouse.

Though I’ve seen the painting in person—it hangs in the Museum of Modern Art in New York—I haven’t yet visited the location in Cushing, Maine. But somehow, I feel as though I have been there, as though the moment he depicted is not in a place or a time, but happening constantly. It’s an ineffable thing, but one I’m not quite ready to mar with a visit to the actual location. But despite my personal reluctance, I’m happy to know that no matter what, the Olson House will be there when I’m ready to see it.

Pangloss and Schoenhof's bookstores, January 1983. Image courtesy of HarvardSquare.com

In the past few months, two bookstores in my neighborhood have closed their doors. This might not be a surprise, considering the dire state of brick-and-motor stores around the country, but I happen to live in one of the most academic regions in the United States, where reading is second only to breathing. Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a historical hotbed of the bookstores, should be a natural habitat of the printed word. Unfortunately, it seems that even here, there is no sanctuary from competing online retailers.

This wasn’t always the case. Back in the 1950′s, Harvard Square was home to over 20 different independent booksellers that specialized in everything from obscure poetry to children’s books. Now, independently owned shops like the Harvard Bookstore, Raven Bookstore, Schoenhof’s Foreign Books, and Grolier Poetry Book Shop are far and few between. And while you can buy almost anything at the Harvard Coop, it is owned by Barnes & Noble (the antithesis of a cooperative), thus making it a disappointing substitute for the Square’s former tenants.

According to The Boston Globe, the most recent closures are the direct result of the economy and the increased digitalization, which has hit publishing even harder than most industries. The Globe Corner Bookstore, which specialized in travel books and narratives, will now be operated solely online, and the Curious George & Friends bookshop (the only one of its kind in the world) has also been forced to shut down to the dismay of its many fans.  And as Brian McGrory wrote in the article, Vanishing ink in Hub’s core, the damage is not limited to the Cambridge side of the Charles River; the closure of the Borders location at Downtown Crossing highlights this “stunning fact:”

After Borders is gone, it will leave Boston, the literary capital of the United States, with exactly one major bookstore within the city limits. That store is the Barnes & Noble in the Prudential Center, and who knows how long it will be around.To put this in perspective, Columbus, Ohio, has more major bookstores than Boston — many more. So do San Diego and San Jose and just about any other city you can name. It wasn’t that long ago when the Harvard Bookstore stood on Newbury Street across from the massive Waterstone’s, not far from the Brentano’s in the Copley Mall.

While the closures have been met with sadness, it seems like there’s nothing to do about the dearth of bookstores in the area. Hillel J. Stavis and Donna T. Friedman, co-owners of the Curious George bookshop, have plead repeatedly for funds to keep their business going, but no one stepped forward. “From the perspective of a viable business, a Cambridge landmark and as a viable non-profit, we hope that an angel contributor will step forward,” Stavis said at a City Council meeting earlier this year.

As a Cambridge resident, I share the disappointment of many locals who consider bookstores a valuable part of our cultural and physical landscape. Instead of mourning the loss of two great establishments, however, I’ve decided to view this as a reminder. Retailers like Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble have their uses—there is no better place to buy up-to-date text books or trashy and disposable paperbacks—but it’s important to support local business. Instead of spending my money online, I’m going to make a concerted effort to visit the few shops we have left in the flesh, starting with the Harvard Square Bookshop. 

After all, this can be a very effective way to change the course of events—and recent trends shows that it does work. Earlier this year, Rodney’s Bookstore, located in Central Square, announced their going out of business sale. Prices were slashed 50% on all stock, and the entire area mourned the loss of a landmark business. Every time I walked by on my way to the train, I felt an uneasy mix of sadness and greedy excitement at the thought of all those half-priced hardcovers. However, when the fateful day finally came, Rodney’s announced that, thanks to their many fans, they were able to raise enough funds to stay in business. Now I feel a certain satisfaction when I walk by the quirky shop. Maybe my purchases, driven by my desire for discounted books, helped save Rodney’s. At least, that’s what I like to think.

Image courtesy of Andy Goldsworthy

I was introduced to the art of Andy Goldsworthy when I was eight years old. I was staying at a friend’s house overnight for a giggly, girly sleepover that we expected to last all night. After my friend fell asleep earlier than anticipated, I began looking through the books on her parent’s coffee table. I was a little bit restless and slightly homesick, but quickly forgot such pressing issues and focused on the pages in front of me, which were covered with familiar items arranged in entirely unfamiliar ways. I may not have remembered the artist’s name, but I can recall those images vividly. The book was unlike the science books my parents owned, unlike the big encyclopedias we had lying around. Even as a kid, I could tell the photos in it were something special.

I find it unsurprising that my first foray into contemporary art came by way of coffee table, especially considering Goldsworthy’s massive popularity. The Boston Globe’s Sebastian Smee recently called him “one of the most popular artists alive,” and wrote about the very same glossy pages I once poured over in the quiet hours of the night. “Goldsworthy’s works are known to art lovers — and millions who would never willingly go by that description — largely through his handsome books, which reproduce sumptuous photographs of his installations in picturesque natural settings. You find these books on the coffee tables of bankers, lawyers, journalists, farmers, and teachers all over the world. They are ridiculously seductive, disarmingly emotional.”

Seductive is the right word for Goldsworthy’s work. While beautiful, it also carries a touch of the uncanny. According to Freud, the uncanny is that which we can recognize, yet still feel is slightly off. Many translators have given a literal interpretation of the German word as “unhomely,” and though they don’t carry the connotations of Freud’s recognition, Goldsworthy’s installations are often un-homey. They exist in situations we can easily recognize—beach, woods, lake—but reveal patterns and a sense of artistry that does not truly belong in nature. While the artist’s interference is visible in every piece, it always feels slightly disguised by the natural materials and simple shapes. Undeniably lovely, Goldsworthy’s works also contain elements that are at once eerie and dramatic.

While I’ve admired his pieces for years, I have never had the chance to see them in person until this spring, when the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Lincoln, Massachusetts, opened their new exhibit Snow. Featuring a small cross-section of Goldsworthy’s work, including a collection of the aforementioned photographs, two large snowball drawings, and the video, the collection serves as an introduction to the upcoming large-scale Sculpture Park installation. The massive granite structure, aptly-titled Snow House, is still in its beginning stages, but the deCordova Museum hopes to have it on view by winter 2013.

Though we have some time before we can see the permanent structure, it sounds as though Snow House will be worth the wait for Goldsworthy’s fans. The piece will be interactive and continually changing, much like the natural phenomena that inspire his work. “Andy’s going to create in our sculpture park — sort of dug into the hillside — a granite-lined chamber, big enough to walk into,” Capasso described in an interview with WBUR, “and every winter when it snows our staff and various community groups will create a nine-foot diameter snowball inside this piece of architecture.”

The deCordova is still seeking help funding the project. Interested parties can donate to the artistic cause online or by calling Catalina Rojo, the museum’s Development Coordinator.

Though I love paperbacks and adore my Kindle, there is nothing that feels quite as literary, quite as solid and impressive, as a leather-bound book. I’ll admit, my current collection is made primarily of used books and well-thumbed paperbacks, but I treasure the few nice books I own. Someday, I like to think, I’ll have floor-to-ceiling shelves, displaying a Hogwarts-esque collection of weighty old classics, covered in just the right amount of dust.

My library fantasies were recently reawakened when I stumbled across a collaboration between Brooklyn-based designer  Jessica Hische and Barnes & Noble. Working with art director Jo Obarowski, Hische created an exclusive series of covers for a collection of classic novels. The books, which are available only in Barnes & Noble stores and on their website, are very reasonably priced. For $63, you can get the entire boxed set, which includes a copy of Dracula, Pride and Prejudice, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Though I already own many of these books, I’m still considering getting Hische’s set—mainly because they’re so gorgeous. I am not an expert in typography, but even I can see that the fonts are truly wonderful; each one is clearly chosen to fit the subject matter within. For example, the cover for Dracula is done in a vivid red and black, dripping blood and decorated with creeping vines that morph into batwings, rather than the expected three-pointed ivy leaves. In contrast, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn brings to mind a vintage fairground flier. Cattails extend from the sunburst corners and little leafy tendrils underline each carefully-set letter. The titles are in turn eerie and spectacular, whimsical and romantic.

A quick look through Hische’s portfolio shows that this isn’t unusual for the designer. Under her hand, letters don’t look like stark symbols, but individual pieces of art. We are so surrounded by the written word that it no longer feels at all miraculous (after all, a highway sign rarely evokes emotion, much less a feeling of admiration for the chosen font), but projects like this serve as a reminder that this doesn’t have to be the case. Books were once hard to come by, and letters were once treated with a sacred and artistic respect.

Leaving aside for a moment my personal bibliophile tendencies, I have to point out that this box set would make a perfect gift for a recent graduate—particularly if that newly minted scholar happened to major in English. Or you could consider them the first step toward the creation of your own perfect library, which is precisely what I plan to do.

On Monday, the Museum of Fine Arts announced plans to make restitution to the heir of a Jewish art dealer killed in the Holocaust after determining that a 17th century Dutch painting housed in the permanent collection at the Boston museum was seized by Nazis in World War II.  The image in question is an oil portrait of a wealthy couple seated in their living room, created in the late 1600s by Eglon van der Neer. Though the MFA Boston acquired it for $7,500 back in 1941 from a New York art dealer, the painting is now valued at nearly $550,000.

Though stories like this always carry a tinge of sadness and unease—considering the bloody history of such a simple object—it seems like the MFA handled the circumstances in best way it could: with complete transparency. Unlike several other institutions, including the Leopold Museum in Vienna and the MoMA in New York, the MFA Boston was proactive in making the truth known. According to an article in The Boston Globe, the MFA Boston published an image of the painting online back in 2000, along with six other pieces, asking for additional information about the work and divulging their own questions about its history. With a little help from Google, a heir of the original owner, Walter Westfeld, found the piece and began working with the MFA Boston’s curator to discover exactly where the 29-by-27-inch canvas came from.

With the help of Westfeld’s relatives, the MFA Boston has been able to piece together certain bits of information to form a (somewhat) complete picture. As it turns out, the van deer Neer was most likely seized from Westfeld before he was taken off to Auschwitz. Back in 1941, when they first acquired the piece, the MFA Boston was told only that it was “brought to this country by a refugee some time ago.” However, in 1943, the museum became aware of the possibility that it was not what it originally seemed. A French dealer named Robert Lebel contacted the museum and explained that he had sold it to Westfeld a few years prior, and that the rightful owner (Walter Westfeld) was seized shortly thereafter, along with all of his possessions. Though there is no way to be completely certain that Westfeld didn’t sell it of his own volition, museum officials concluded that it was extremely unlikely.

Anyone who reads this recognizes the inherent sadness in the painting’s violent past, but it is important to remember how much it means to the family that the MFA Boston was willing to be open and honest about its collection—and open and honest with its pocketbook. The descendants of Walter Westfeld (now known as Westfields) have had a difficult time locating Walter’s original possessions. In recent years, they have tried everything from suing the German government for restitution to appealing to American lawyers for aid. Though there really isn’t a “happy ending,” it seems that everything is finally as it should be. The art will continue to educate generations of viewers, and the Westfeld family will finally have some small form of justice granted to them.

“We feel very good and very thankful for how the museum dealt with us,’’ Fred Westfield told The Boston Globe. “We had a lot of help from some of the people at the museum over the years, once we started to claim that the painting really did belong to us.’’

Reading this week’s feature article, on Edward Gorey’s creepy Cape Cod, I was put in mind of a book I once saw during one of my many trips to upstate New York.

I first went to visit the Clermont mansion in Germantown, New York in the winter of 2008.  I had gone to see the impressive grounds, which boast a beautifully manicured garden and a breathtaking view across the Hudson River.  Unfortunately, the weather was not amenable to strolling around, so I wound up being forced inside to examine the relics of a family long dead.

This turned out to be an unexpected blessing.  The old house was filled with fascinating artifacts, including a very old, very famous portrait of Andrew Jackson.  My favorite item, however, was (naturally) a large, leather-bound book.  Kept safe under its layer of glass, the book was opened to a page depicting a small girl in several different situations.  In the first, she tucked a poker into the fire.  In the second, she leaned closer.  In the third, she ran as her dress spread out behind her, ablaze with orange flames.  The moral?  Don’t play with fire.

This was, surprisingly, a children’s book.  Back when it was written, childhood was seen as a dangerous time, filled with unexpected perils.  Death was always around every corner.  Nowadays, we tend to favor happy books with happier endings, though this was not always the case.

Perhaps this is why Edward Gorey is one of my favorite children’s authors, along with Roald Dahl.  Both realized that childhood was not always fun and games; sometimes it felt dark and dangerous.  Their works don’t coddle children or shelter them from the world.  Instead, they recognize the weirdness of being a kid, the sense that everything is bigger and more threatening than most adults would like to admit.

Join us this week as we examine the life and works of Edward Gorey in our latest feature article, A Brief History of Edward Gorey’s Creepy Cape Cod, part two of our Dark New England series.

(An LT extra, check out a review of the Hudson Valley’s Pumpkin Blaze!)

For as long as I can remember, autumn has always been my favorite season. I love Halloween, the lengthening evenings, and the way dead leaves crunch underfoot. I love the colors of New England fall, all blazing reds and oranges and the clear blue of the October sky. I love back-to-school shopping and donning wool scarves. But what I love most is the smell.

Fall air smells like nothing else in the world. Somehow, the fallen and decaying leaves and the growing cold conspire to turn the atmosphere into something wonderful. Something that smells not of death, but of rebirth.

In my opinion, the best place to experience the scents of fall is in an apple orchard. Apple picking has become something of a fall tradition for me. Every year as September draws to a close, I throw on my jacket and head to Shelburne Farm in Stow, Massachusetts.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of introducing my boyfriend to Shelburne Farm. The orchard seemed seeped in the spirit of Autumn as we wandered among the manicured rows, stopping occasionally to pluck some imperfect specimen from the branches (several of which we ate immediately, in a violation of orchard rules). We climbed into the trees on the spindly ladders, pulling down fruit that ranged from under-ripe and sour to sweet and crisp. For $17, we went home with a giant bag of Macintoshs, Cortlands, and Royals, which Garrett promptly baked into pies and crumbles. We also picked up some cider donuts at the Farm Stand, where they doled them out in half-dozens, piping hot out of the fryer. Before we left, we even made a quick pit stop to visit the sheep at the small but smelly petting zoo.

We went home happy and full. It was one of those perfect New England days–and a wonderful way to ring in the new season. It never truly feels like fall until I’ve bagged that first batch of local apples.

So that’s my fall ritual, but I’d love to hear: What’s yours?

Literary Traveler always benefits from the addition of new voices.  Today, we are excited to welcome Elisha Adey to our community.  Elisha is an experienced traveler – she has backpacked all over Europe and Australia – currently living in Austin, Texas.  She is also the founder of the website SoulSpeakOut.org.  In our first post, Elisha takes us to the back roads of Australia, where she learns about pushing her boundaries and herself through adventurous travel and guided meditation.

After a 24 hour bus-ride to a foreign place, there’s nothing more comforting than being greeted by a smiling local in a mud-spattered jeep.

My traveling partner and I spent our first day in Hervey Bay, Australia driving around with our couch-surfing host, Jamie, visiting his favorite coffee shops and swamps. Earlier, he had described the swamps with such enthusiasm that now we didn’t feel like we could grimace at the smell of the green muck creeping into our flip-flops. He pointed out highly venomous spiders everywhere.  When we asked him if he checked his shoes before putting them on, Jamie laughed and said, “Of course not, you can’t live in fear.” So when a green ant bit my foot I desperately tried to hide my exaggerated, American fear of Australian wild-life and resisted the urge to fall down and grab my throbbing toe.

By the time evening came along, pretty much every word out of his mouth fascinated us. Sitting on his couch that night he told us about his experiences with Vipassana meditation. He learned about Vispassana meditation in a 10-day focused course, which he described as the most powerful and trying time of his life. The silent meditation connected him to his body and mind in a way he’d never experienced. On day 6, the meditation had brought up childhood trauma. He said it felt like his arms were being beaten with baseball bats while he sat there with his eyes and body closed.

Fascinated with the potential for a better understanding of ourselves, we signed up for the Vipassana course as soon as we got home, convinced that we’d tapped into something life-changing. Sitting in Jamie’s living room, we contemplated the unspoken formalities that come along with spending the night on someone’s couch for free (doing the dishes, cooking dinner, replacing food in the fridge) but they all seemed to fall short. He had given us a gift bigger than his space, more important than his time.  A couple of months later, after we’d both completed the meditation course, we sent him a message letting him know he’d introduced us to something life changing. He responded simply, “Pass it on.”

True to the saying, great minds often do think alike.  They also share, borrow, and sometimes steal from one another. Picasso once said that “bad artists copy, great artists steal.”  I don’t if this statement still holds water (or if it ever did, really), but he did get one thing right: the best ideas should be shared.

This may explain why so many intellectuals are drawn to one another.  It’s not necessarily because they have a lot in common (other than shockingly high IQs) or because they can’t communicate with the general population (though sometimes this is also true).  Even the most brilliant minds need to be fed in order to grow and the best food is foreign thought.

At least, this is how I make sense of certain intellectual friendships, like that of John Steinbeck and the famed biologist Edward F. Ricketts.  Though their genius was in very different fields–Steinbeck in literature, and Ricketts in science–their relationship helped both men grow and learn.  In the cramped walls of Ricketts’ lab in Monterey, California, they bounced ideas back and forth, traded inspiration, and opened new channels of thought.

In our most recent feature article, writer Victor Walsh travels to Monterey to see Ricketts’ lab, which has been left basically as it was at the time of his death in 1948.  Still filled with specimens and Ricketts’ personal belongings, the lab stands testimony to a great intellectual friendship–and the work of a great scientist.

Take a moment out of your busy weekend to read about Walsh’s visit to Cannery Row and learn a little more about the life of one of America’s greatest writers with our piece A Meeting of Minds: John Steinbeck and Edward F. Ricketts at the Lab in Monterey. And if you want to learn more about Steinbeck’s biography, please take a look at any of our other great articles on the Of Mice and Men author.

Happy reading.

Ever since the era of the Romantics, the western world has been rather obsessed with nature and its violence.  Adventurers and writers alike – though, as we well know, these are often one in the same – chase the feeling of awe, the moment of being engulfed by a landscape that is at once both dangerous and beautiful.  They call this feeling of vastness, this curious mixture of threat and promise that comes from something far greater than one’s self, the sublime.

While history does not count Jules Verne among the Romantics, like Mary Shelley and the rest, Verne was interested in the phenomenal greatness of the natural world.  In Journey to the Center of the Earth, a work originally written in French and later translated into English, Verne describes a voyage of the imagination.  Propelled by his own belief as to what lies under the earth’s crust, Verne takes his characters – and his readers – down into the depths of our universe.  What they find there is nothing less than sublime.

However, this week we are more interested in where their journey began than where it ended.  Professor von Hardwigg and his companions take the quickest route into the underground – through the Snæfellsjökull volcano in western Iceland.  Just as von Hardwigg is bowled over by the beauty and majesty of the peak, writer Jacquelin Cangro is also awed by the snow-covered volcano, and though she never reaches the peak – or the center of the earth – Cangro is rewarded for her efforts with a glimpse into Verne’s inspiration.

Join us this week at Snæfellsjökull with our newest feature article, Journeying to the Wilderness of Iceland with Jules Verne.  With a little help from the imagination, you can hike with Cangro up the side of a volcano – and with a little more effort, you can dive with Verne straight into the depths of the earth.  Just don’t get lost.

In the rich literary tradition of America, tales of the supernatural have always occupied a special place. Stories of the fantastic and the unreal have not only entered our imaginations, tainting the way we think about the very ground below us, but also the cannon of great literature. From Washington Irving to Edgar Allan Poe, we have always celebrated the authors that have the power to make our skin crawl and our nights restless.

This fall, Literary Traveler will feature a new theme for our feature articles: Dark New England. As the days lengthen, and All Hallows Eve approaches, we will be publishing several articles that center around some of America’s best horror writers, including Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe. We will also highlight one of our favorite underrated writers: Shirley Jackson, author of The Lottery fame.

Join us as we journey to Vermont, Maine, and Massachusetts in search of what makes New England so uniquely suited to images of ghosts and specters, stories of hauntings and awakenings.

There are many places in the world that stand testimony to the suffering of previous generations.  From the gates of Auschwitz to the  Vietnam memorial, we remember those who we have lost through the objects that remain.  These things serve to remind us of the harsh reality of human suffering — and the courage that impels us all toward survival, throughout it all.

The island of Spinalonga is one such place.  Though not quite so famous as the aforementioned examples, Spinalonga, located off the coast of Crete, is seeped in history.  The very soil, and the ruins that still stand upon it, tell the story of the lives of all its exiled inhabitants, sent to live on Spinalonga for the crime of contracting leprosy.

In our newest feature article, write Inka Piegsa-Quischotte visits the tiny island that once housed a colony of lepers.  She walks through the remains, imagining what life must have been like for the sick sent to live out their days far from society.  Using Victoria Hislop’s novel The Island as her literary guide, Piegsa-Quischotte explores what is left of the town on Spinalonga, which she renames the “island of defiance” for the many acts of courage it has seen.

Join us as we travel to Greece with Piegsa-Quischotte and Hislop in our piece The Defiant Spirit of Spinalonga, an Island of Exiles.  Take a moment to imagine what the world must have looked like through the eyes of the ill, what trials they must have faced, what bravery they must have shown.  Leave behind the comfort of your living room for a moment and immerse yourself in the ruins of Spinalonga — an island forgotten by many, but remembered in writing.

Like my fellow Literary Traveler blogger Ashley, I’ve been on a rather tight budget this summer.  This does not jive well with my near-constant need to get out of the city, to always be going, going, gone.  Fortunately, I’ve found a way around my limitations: camping.

I’m no stranger to roughing it–I did once complete several weeks of Outward Bound–but I hadn’t done a lot of camping in the past couple of years, so my recent trip to Maine was something of a shock.  Camping was dirtier, messier, scarier, and harder than I remembered.  But also so much more fun.

And Maine is the perfect place to get away from it all.  From the mountains in the West to the island-riddled coast in the East, the entire state is filled with incredible views, pristine lakes, remote villages, and all the rural charm you could ever want.  We stayed at the Augusta West Kampground on Annabessacook Lake, an oddly-shaped body of water, delightfully rich in water lilies, located somewhere in the middle of Maine.  Our first afternoon was spent on the water, canoeing from island to minuscule island, poking through the debris left behind by former visitors.  I felt like an anthropologist, uncovering the remains of a forgotten culture–though in truth I discovered nothing more exciting than charred fire pits and empty beer cans.

On the second day–and our final day of the weekend getaway–we drove out to New Hampshire and climbed Mount Pine.  The White Mountain National Forest is an amazing place for both experts and amateur hikers.  Though I probably fall into the later category, I felt an absurd sense of pride as we reached the summit, just moments before the fog rolled in.  I watched as the thick, sullen clouds descended over the peaks, shrouding them–and us–from view.

Fortunately for me, my camping days are not over yet.  This week, I’m dragging my boyfriend out to Western Massachusetts, where my younger sister goes to school.  I’m looking forward to several days of hiking, hot dogs, beer, bonfires, and maybe some early-fall swimming.  Stay tuned for details.