I love nothing better that when reading the last line of a book, it feels like a tiny death because it’s over.
I never read novels by Elisabeth Gilbert until now.
Well, I read “Big Magic”, but that’s not a novel, that’s about daring to be a creator.
But I do love it when she is a guest on my favorite podcasts.
She just has this alluring air about her – such a sense of wonder in this honest and present way. She puts her thoughts and perspectives of life forward in such a magical and true way – it is impossible for me not to be drawn by her.
She seems so at peace in her embrace of her own humanity. I just want to sit around a bond fire and philosophize with her.
But there was a reason why I haven’t read her books. I am always skeptical of “big hits”, feeling that they often are dumbed down, aimed at the lowest common denominator. “Eat, Pray, Love” was a big movie hit, and I put that right in the “shallow, mainstream, pointless” basket without even thinking about it. (shame on me for thinking a bad movie makes for an uninteresting book, like that’s ever the case – but nonetheless, I never even considered reading it. In my defense, when it came out, I wasn’t in the target audience at all – yet.)
Nonetheless, in the spirit of trying out new genres of books, I finally decided to read a book of hers: “City of Girls”. Knowing that she wrote it with fierce grief in her heart after a tremendous loss. Mostly because I admire her for doing just that – but also because I couldn’t help being curious – I wanted to see what would come out of throwing herself into the New York 30ies showgirls and theater scene, vibrant with life, at such a sad time in her personal life.
I had no doubt that her writing would be beautiful and enjoyable just for the art of it. I also had no doubt that the woman understands a lot more about life that most of us will ever be open enough to learn, but still I wasn’t at all sure what to expect.
With all my awe for the woman and her profoundness and all inspiring well of wisdom, that just seems to flow out of her so present and natural as breathing, I do not understand how I could think her books where any different. I guess my distaste of the Hollywood mainstream is just that strong.
As I started reading, I still suspected I was right in my initial thought of this not being my thing. Sure, her writing is as good as I expected, but at first glance, the themes were not interesting to me. Young stupidity and vainness. Fashion, clothing, makeup and all that, never interested me even a little bit.
But I kept at it. The showgirl and vaudeville theme and the creative side of it, was stirring some curiosity, since I had a short visit to the burlesque scene in Montreal a few years back and have therefore been interested in some of the background story of that artform, and I always felt myself to be a very sexually liberated woman, so it’s not like all the themes was completely uninteresting to me.
Somehow along the way, the story transformed into pieces of truths of life, that we recognize just from being human. Just like it does over the course of a lifetime.
Truths about finding places that sings to our heart, that teaches us about ourselves and where we belong, of building our own chosen families, of lifechanging mistakes and learning to live with them, of acceptance of self, daring to become who we are, of the essence of being a woman, of the great impact other people have in our lives and the strange ways they find us.
How we change as we age and the wisdom that comes with that.
All of that and so much more.
It was beautiful.
In the last third of the book I was moved to tears several times, her writing having connected me to Vivian and to myself in strange, unexpected ways, even though the story far from resembles my own.
All good stories do just that.
Tells some truth about being human, that resonates, regardless of the setting of the book.
I could probably write an entire book with the treads from my own life, that spilled into me, while reading.
I love nothing better that when reading the last line of a book, it feels like a tiny death because it’s over.
And I just had to sit with it, hugging it to my chest for a few pure moments of mixed emotions of sadness and gratitude, before letting it go. Reveling in the fact that there are people in the world that spend their time to making such big miracles as books are, and has the grace to share it with the rest of us.
And the comfort in knowing that I can still be moved in such a way.
And then I shed a tear again, reading the acknowledgments and her words to Rayya. It felt so brave to me.
Elisabeth Gilbert – Dahm that woman seems to have lived a thousand lifetimes. She is amazing.
Thank you, Liz.
(I am still not convinced I should read “Eat, Pray, Love”, though. But I think I will give “The signature of all things” a try.)