The small world of literature

Derek Walcott, poet

I imagine that one day I will feel as though the world of literature can be mapped onto a single globe, with points that are recognizable, and relatable to one another. I'll feel as though I am able to at least conceive of the whole thing at once and gauge, roughly, the distances between eras, writers, movements, styles etc. 

At present, the world of literature feels like a 1,000 piece 3D puzzle whose pieces are flying around, and sometimes come close enough to brush against a piece that might be a match, but there is certainly no indication of what the constructed puzzle depicts, or even what the smaller, more manageable images within it are. 

Therefore, it is still thrilling when I see connections between things I'm reading. Today I finished Wide Sargasso Sea (by Jean Rhys), as Berthe woke from a dream, stole the keys from Ms Poole, and stole down the passage to the main house where she would set Jane Eyre's bed on fire. 

Then, I read that Derek Walcott, a poet who has recently died, wrote a poem about Jean Rhys, called... "Jean Rhys". I read about this in part of this postscript written by Hilton Als of the New Yorker. 

My goodness, parts of this article make me want to read a biography of Als! He, for one, seems to know exactly what the puzzle portrays, and has his opinions about whether or not each piece is really in its proper place. He's ready to call Ravensburger and make suggestions on the layout of the puzzle. His reviews of the theater in the New Yorker are so rich, so steeped, so multi-faceted and all encompassing... one hopes to accumulate even a tenth of what Als has gleaned from decades of life in what sound like they must be very engaging and exciting circles. 

I went to E's house for the evening, and got a new book recommendation, which swallowed the next two hours until I dragged myself home just now: Purple Hibiscus, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I've actually never read Adichie before, and this introduction, to a young girl narrator existing under the stifling patriarchy of a catholic father in Lagos, Nigeria, is engrossing.