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This book was brilliant, beautiful, moving and many other good things! It is definitely not for everyone as it contained quite a bit of flowery (for lack of a better description) language describing everything. This is something that I love and truly savor but realize that this bit of 'extra' is not something that all people appreciate.
It is not only a tribute to Moby Dick by Herman Melville but also a lovely stand-alone novel about a fascinating woman who lived in interesting times. Of course, I highly recommend that you read Moby Dick prior to reading this book because of the many references and background information but this one is great on its own.
Excerpt:
When my hands were little, and my mother was teaching me to sew, she placed her hands over mine. She put her middle finger, encased in a pitted silver thimble, at the end of the needle and pushed for me. This finger, with the thimble, is a little engine, she said. It makes the needle go.
I thought of the miles and miles of thread that her thimble had pulled through cloth. What song had the needle sung to the fibers of the fabric? When she quilted, the needle passed through three layers: the pieced top, the inner batting, and the sturdy muslin underlayer. If all the thread from all her quilts were measured, would it stretch a thousand miles? Had her needle trudged, as a man’s foot might trudge, over a journey of a thousand miles?
She sat still, I thought, and yet she traveled. And when one stitches, the mind travels, not the way men do, with ax and oxen through the wilderness, but surely our traveling counted too, as motion. And I thought of the patience of the stitches. Writing a book, I thought, which men often do, but women only rarely, has the posture of sewing. One hand leads, and the other hand helps. And books, like quilts, are made, one word at a time, one stitch at a time.
I did not know how long I had stayed aloft {at the top of a lighthouse}, nursing my right hand and musing, but with that last thought, I unfolded myself and stood up; felt ready to go down. I spiraled slowly down the steps, the soft way a milkweed seed sometimes twirls to earth. I wanted time for any vague thought to come to mind that mind should want. No new ones came, but the pace seemed a meditative winding, and what I was winding was like yarn on an oblong skein, softly enfolding a quiet center that was myself.
It is not only a tribute to Moby Dick by Herman Melville but also a lovely stand-alone novel about a fascinating woman who lived in interesting times. Of course, I highly recommend that you read Moby Dick prior to reading this book because of the many references and background information but this one is great on its own.
Excerpt:
When my hands were little, and my mother was teaching me to sew, she placed her hands over mine. She put her middle finger, encased in a pitted silver thimble, at the end of the needle and pushed for me. This finger, with the thimble, is a little engine, she said. It makes the needle go.
I thought of the miles and miles of thread that her thimble had pulled through cloth. What song had the needle sung to the fibers of the fabric? When she quilted, the needle passed through three layers: the pieced top, the inner batting, and the sturdy muslin underlayer. If all the thread from all her quilts were measured, would it stretch a thousand miles? Had her needle trudged, as a man’s foot might trudge, over a journey of a thousand miles?
She sat still, I thought, and yet she traveled. And when one stitches, the mind travels, not the way men do, with ax and oxen through the wilderness, but surely our traveling counted too, as motion. And I thought of the patience of the stitches. Writing a book, I thought, which men often do, but women only rarely, has the posture of sewing. One hand leads, and the other hand helps. And books, like quilts, are made, one word at a time, one stitch at a time.
I did not know how long I had stayed aloft {at the top of a lighthouse}, nursing my right hand and musing, but with that last thought, I unfolded myself and stood up; felt ready to go down. I spiraled slowly down the steps, the soft way a milkweed seed sometimes twirls to earth. I wanted time for any vague thought to come to mind that mind should want. No new ones came, but the pace seemed a meditative winding, and what I was winding was like yarn on an oblong skein, softly enfolding a quiet center that was myself.