Submitted by: Joana Lucashuk

Overcast and cold outside, I lay inside on the couch with the cream blanket I have owned since high school thrown over my legs while I read Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian in the dim light cast by the gold leaf lamps I inherited from my grandparents.  T shouts from the kitchen table during a break from studying, “Are you really going to lie on the couch all weekend and read that book?” to which I reply, “Yes, I am really going to lie on the couch all weekend and read this book.”

        Three interweaving story lines detail the narrators’ search for Vlad the Impaler (a.k.a. Dracula) as they criss-cross Europe and the Ottoman Empire in this novel by Ms. Kostova.  Through Amsterdam, Oxford, Budapest and Sofia, main characters Paul and Helen pursue Dracula.  Their hunt also leads them to Istanbul, a Byzantine word that means “the city,” as Paul notes after examining his guidebook. 

On a Saturday in February, in an apartment ten hours away from Istanbul by plane, The Historian teaches me that the Byzantine Empire lasted from 333 to 1453, and that the sea once lapped Istanbul’s city walls, enabling the emperor to embark by boat from his palace.  I also discover the Hagia Sophia, originally the Byzantine Church of Saint Sophia, with “its famous whirling domes and arches, its celestial light pouring in, the round shields covered with Arabic calligraphy in the upper corners, mosque overlaying church, church overlaying the ruins of the ancient world.”

But more importantly, The Historian gives me a sense of Istanbul’s culture as Paul and Helen experience it in 1954.  From my couch I picture the “chunks of bread, a dish of smooth yogurt studded with slices of cucumber, and a strong fragrant tea in glass vases,” which a waiter serves Paul and Helen in “a restaurant decorated inside with brass vases and fine tiles.”  And I note the things familiar to Helen:  the “Turkish place-names, a cucumber salad consumed in an outdoor restaurant, the pointed arch of a framed window,” and observe through Paul’s eyes the “men in dark vests and small crocheted caps, women in brightly printed blouses with ballooning trousers underneath, their heads wound in scarves.” 

 As I lay on the couch all weekend reading The Historian with T in the kitchen studying, the cab drivers honking their horns outside, and the winter wind whipping through the city, I dream of minarets and mosques, crowded bazaars, and the city that is Istanbul.

When I was a young girl, it was a common stereotype for a twelve year old girl to have a passion for horses, even if the closest she ever came to them was a well-worn stack of novels.    I could easily describe a slew of these books, remembering the dog-eared pages and the easy Sunday afternoons that would pass while curled up with an old favorite.   But it was a mystery novel by Dick Francis, called Break In, which kindled my personal passion for horse racing and the race courses of England.  To me, a pre-teen in a small town in the U.S., England itself was as far away as the moon.   But one day browsing through the small town library, I saw the logo of a jockey on a horse on the cover of a book on display.   It quickly joined my weekly stack of check-outs, based only on that graphic outline of a horse.

                Mr. Francis’ plot is fairly simple, but the first person narrative and the English race course setting, soon swept me into the race world of Kit Fielding, as he bends over the powerful shoulders of the delicate thoroughbreds racing to the finish line, while on the side, he solves the mystery of who was wrecking the life of his twin sister and her Montague husband.  Of course, Kit, the stoic hero, saves the day and gets the girl.

Until then, the stories of horses that I had read had revolved around Western ranches or wild Arabian ponies.   They were romantic scenes, but I recognized them for the unachievable fantasies that they were.   But with Break In, I was taught the real agony of the jockeys as they tried to keep down their weight in order to meet the race allowances.  I understood the process of “weighing in” with my saddle in hand and wearing the silk uniforms in the owner’s colors.   Even though he was the male character of the story, it was Kit’s stoic strength, loyalty, and mental connection to the speeding thoroughbreds, which I, a young girl, hoped to embody. 

While writing an entertaining adventure of evil entrepreneurs and rascal newspapermen, Mr. Francis also introduced me to his world of racing and horses.   As I watch the Derby on television, or when I eventually made it to Kentucky to watch races in person, I never again look at the horses or their jockeys in the same way.   Without having ever touched a racehorse, I intimately recognize the sweat, the toil, and the passion with each race.  Thank you, Mr. Francis, for this and the other books set in what is now “our world”. 

Submitted by:  Sheryl Pimentel 

“Angela’s Ashes” by Frank McCourt left a handprint on my heart.  It is an unforgettable tale of an impoverished Irish Catholic childhood spent in the Limerick slums.   Never has a book moved this avid reader so deeply.

Eating a tasty meal and contently sleeping in a comfortable bed are things I could no longer take for granted after reading “Angela’s Ashes.”  Oh how I wished to feed the McCourt children until their concaved bellies and hollow cheeks swelled with nourishment.  McCourt’s writing was so clear and soulful, I felt one with the book – as if I lived in that squalor-filled apartment, too.

McCourt effortlessly transported the reader back to his home in Ireland.  It is a journey filled with tragedy and depravation, but McCourt’s underlying humor drives the reader to hope that little Frankie will indeed find the Irish luck he so desperately needs.

No comfort is to be found in the church that governs their lives or a mother that is distracted with her own demons.  It is the art of storytelling that is Frank’s only salvation and probably the reason why he is such a powerful writer today.  His mostly absent alcoholic father filled the boy’s mind with glorious tales of Ireland’s heroes of the past.  It was Frank’s escape from his dreary life, if for just precious moments.

As Frank McCourt finally sailed away to America, my hopes for a better life for him were a passenger, too.  He could not write the sequel – “Tis”- fast enough for my liking!   My appetite for more McCourt tales wasn’t sated.  I happily discovered brother Malachy is an author, as well.  I read “A Monk Swimming,”, and at first opportunity, will purchase Malachy’s sequel “Singing My Him Song.”

I grew up in an isolated area where reading was my family’s passion, and it still is today.  They were thrilled when I gave them “Angela’s Ashes” for Christmas one year. Later, my siblings took turns reading my copy of “Tis”.   I glance at my beloved McCourt books hugging one another on my bursting bookshelf.  It warms my heart to know their story affected my family and in some ways, brought us closer as we shared our thoughts on the McCourt’s’ plight. 

Like little Frankie, I am hungry, too.  I am craving to read more of the McCourt family saga and visit Ireland.   Sadly, Frank McCourt recently passed away but his legacy lives on.

Rest in peace, Frank McCourt.

Debra Hughes

Postwar London. Rationing. Books. Blossoming friendships. All came to life in Helene Hanff’s 84, Charing Cross Road, which reflects a 20-year correspondence between an American writer and the proprietor and staff of Marks & Co., antiquarian booksellers. Nearly 40 years later, I still recall the wonder and magic of the letter in conveying not only information but emotion—and kindness. Hanff sent them presents, including food that could not be obtained in London following World War II. Sadly, the proprietor died and the shop closed before Hanff could meet her friends.

I wrote to Hanff, telling her how much I had enjoyed reading her book. She replied, thanking me for taking the time to write. Another wonder: a writer had written to me. She never knew how much her kindness meant to a 15-year old living in the middle of Germany on an oasis with other Americans referred to as “base housing.” Believing I would be bothering her (what did I have to share?), I did not reply.

When I visited London for the first time in 1973, it was 84 Charing Cross Road I wanted to see, not Big Ben or Carnaby Street. I subsequently made many pilgrimages; however, all that now remains is a plaque commemorating the shop and book.

At the time, I did not know such works were called “epistolary”; what I did know was this book captured a time and place that would never again exist. I’d like to think her book made me a better letter writer; more descriptive and chatty. However, as I write this on my computer, I wonder whether the art of forming letters of the alphabet will disappear, beginning with the letter “a,” a circle with a tail, with the promise that once mastered, script awaits? What will libraries and museums display of today’s so-called “writing,” the twitters and tweets? E-mails, complete with J and LOL? Will these one day be looked upon as ancient texts, their hieroglyphics to be unraveled to assess full meaning and context? What will be read between the letters of the abbreviated texts, the missing vowels?

We live in the present; if not the minute, the second. What is worth capturing in writing? All of it—the banal, the commonplace. But, in full sentences, preferably written by hand or by pounding the keys of a manual typewriter with a carriage so worn each line dips slightly lower in the middle—anything showing a human effort. We have a responsibility to share ordinary life so others can learn, as I did, about postwar London, books, and how letters can change lives, even when the writers never have the chance to meet.