Mr. James and Me

When I’m feeling masochistic, I’ll start something that is likely beyond my desire to complete, but will force me to finish once I begin. Once I made my mom a quilt for Christmas, having never quilted before and thinking that two weeks would offer sufficient time; another time I told Jimmy, “Let’s do it!” when he proposed we hike Croagh Patrick in Ireland (those who know of my horrible fear of heights will know the following hours were pee-in-my-pants terrifying); and when I was asked for a topic for an independent study course last semester, I suggested Henry James.

How adorably naïve I was then.

I love Henry, I do. But in retrospect, I realize what he and I shared over those four months was a dysfunctional relationship: I spent hour upon hour with him, waiting for something to happen, for a plot to emerge, and then nothing. But he’d write something pretty —I’m talking a gorgeous sentence—and I was putty in his hands again. It became routine: I’d wait for action, he’d string me along with pretty words, and then I’d start another book for the same treatment. While I was reading, Jimmy would innocently ask what the book was about, and I’d snap, “NOTHING! It’s about NOTHING! I don’t know what the plot of this damn book is and I’m on page 500!” But once I’d finish, I’d get it. I’d get that the books weren’t about what happened, but about how humans interact with life, with others, with themselves. I’d look back upon the book fondly, with the rosiest of glasses, and look forward to reading it again. If I didn’t love Henry James so much, I’d hate him. A lot.

One cannot skim Henry James or breeze through his books whilst sipping lattes with friends in a coffeeshop. While he may spend pages upon pages describing the expression on someone’s face, he will kill off a major character in a dependent clause, mid-paragraph. I would read each novel in absolute silence and solitude with a steady caffeine intake, forcing myself not to blink. But he rewards you greatly for this attention: once every few pages or so would be a string of words so pretty that I’d have to read them several times to fully savor them before moving on.

So the result of my masochism is this: Each Christmas, there lies a quilt in my mom’s house that I cannot look at without suffering post-traumatic stress disorder as I recall fourteen days of quilting hell. Laying beside my desk is a walking stick from my hike in Ireland, the memory of which is both endearing and empowering. And overtaking one shelf in my bookcase are thirteen books by Henry James, who—after so much intimacy between us—now seems like my literary husband. And although my temper flares with him, I’ll continue to settle into my chaise from time to time with Henry. And a strong cup of coffee.

The quilt (as almost done)	The hike
The semester