Talent and drive, the two necessary gifts of a successful artist, Thea Kronberg has in abundance. In The Song of the Lark, Willa Cather tells the story of a precocious young girl, born on the prairie in the 1800s, who grows up to be a world-renowned opera star.
Her small hometown has little to offer an artistic child other than the church and its hymns. But Thea is lucky. There is the town doctor who appreciates her intelligence; the German-trained piano teacher who recognizes her musical ability; the deep feeling Mexican guitar player who sings with her; a mother who keeps six siblings out of the way; and finally, the railroad man who falls in love with her and because of a twist of fate offers her a start.
Through a combination of good fortune and hard work, her talent unfolds. As she moves into the world, Thea draws the necessary mentors to her. That they are all men shows Cather’s recognition of where, in those times, powerful help could be found. Finally, it is Thea herself who must draw from within to achieve what she envisions.
The first section of the book is filled with lovely descriptions of life on the prairie around Colorado and must have done much to romanticize the American view of the West. “…a little rabbit with a white spot of a tail…It seemed to be lapping up the moonlight like cream…the sprawling old house had gathered them all in, like a hen, and had settled down over its brood…the days were bathed in sunlight and the air was clear as crystal…the desert glistened with light…the scarlet sage bloomed…”
The lark (of the title) introduces the natural world and is an apt image. We think of Thea, a girl of the prairie, with her beautiful voice. Shakespeare and Chaucer thought of the lark as a symbol of morning, or awakening, appropriate for someone at the start of a musical career.
Cather talks a lot about specialness, the quest for perfection, the discipline and sacrifice necessary to make a first-rate professional artist. She may have specified “artist” because that was one of the few alternate roles available to women at that time. I think that today, we might enlarge that word to encompass other gifts as well (gymnastics, math, chess). Her point, that the bigger the talent the more it demands and takes over a life, is true for any of them. There is a made-for-television movie of Song of the Lark produced for Masterpiece Theater in 2001.
“I once had a girl…or should I say…she once had me…” The Beatles’ song “Norwegian Wood” lends its title to and introduces the subject of Haruki Murakami’s nostalgic novel about the 1960s. Toru Watanabe, the main character, was a student turning 20 in Tokyo.
Sunshine music festivals and civil rights marches, however, are not what come to mind for him. He remembers happiness that disappeared, the loss of his two best friends to suicide, and the disorientation, depression, and grief that followed.
This is not a typical Murakami. There is no magical realism and no unexplained coincidences; rather, it is a straightforward story dealing with loyalty, choice, and love. On one side, there is Naoko, a damaged young woman to whom Toru is attracted and wants to help. On the other is Midori, a vibrant sexual woman with whom he has also fallen in love. Guilt and honor force him to a standstill as he tries to find a way forward.
The lyrical language contrasts the quiet of the rural areas with the cacophony of Tokyo, continuing the contrast of the book between peace and escape, and anxiety and activity. “Some houses had laundry drying in the sun…firewood out front piled up to the eaves, usually with a cat resting somewhere on the pile…the moonlight cast long shadows and splashed the walls with a touch of diluted India ink.”
Emerging from the story is a criticism Murakami has made before about the falseness of society and the intense pressure to succeed and keep up appearances. The students who die are beautiful young people with excellent grades who on the surface fulfill all the expectations of school and family. In the background of this culture of forced conformity plays the music of the 60s and overtones of the US cultural revolution. There are both a playlist and a movie based on the book.
The most vivid memory Matthew Venn has of his teenage years is the time he stood at his evangelical church meeting and announced that he no longer believed. Shunned by his family and community, and missing rules and structure, Venn joined the police force. In The Long Call, Ann Cleeves introduces a new detective and the start of a third series.
When DI Venn investigates a body found on the beach, he soon realizes that the murdered man has connections to his husband’s community center, a venture that combines an art workshop with a day shelter for learning disabled adults. Before long, two vulnerable women with Down’s syndrome are missing. Continuing to appear in the investigation are the glad-handing leader of Matthew’s ex-church and his subservient wife. It is an intricate plot with sympathetic characters.
This book, along with both of Cleeves’ other detective series, have been made into television programs (The Long Call, Vera and Shetland) available on BritBox, Acorn, etc. I found Vera and Shetland on disk (not streaming) from Netflix. These are fast-moving exciting shows. So fast, that when they are over, I am not sure what happened.
Ah – the joys of reading the mystery instead. I can move along at my own pace, even turn back the pages if necessary, and thoroughly enjoy an excellent story.
I’m glad you mentioned the Shakespeare link to the lark. Fascinating!
I built on what you said at our meeting. Had to look up just what is meant my a “morning bird.”