Frustrating. Can't seem to manage to finish a book. I get into one, something else comes along, in the mail, from the library, I dip into that, pretty soon there are half a dozen half read books on the bedside table, desk, sofa. First there was Kundera (there's no "first" of course, as the philosophers tell us), then someone mentioned a story by John Muir, some little thing about a dog, so I borrowed Muir's nature writings from the library, and Sticheen led to the story of Muir's Scottish childhood and emigration at age 11 to Wisconsin and his father who believed that one should think about God at table, not talk; his first summer herding sheep in the Sierras, another amazing story, and that's where it rests: Muir on top of Kundera on the bedside table. Up in B.C. three weeks ago my husband spotted Helene Berr's Journal among the detective stories on the Senior Residence bookshelf, so we "borrowed" that (my mother, in our defense, said, "You just help yourself, it doesn't matter if you don't bring it back," though we probably will, next trip up).
Berr was Jewish, an old French family; she was a university student when the war began. She kept a journal during those years, giving it to the family housekeeper to pass on to her fiance, who had gone underground. The last entry is on March 8, 1944, the day she was deported. She died in Bergen-Belsen, five days before the camp was liberated. Her journal is one of those books, like Primo Levi's or Anne Frank's, that everyone should have read. It I read from start to finish.
Other things: poetry by Marianne Boruch, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Andrew Elliott. A couple others, for reviews. Mallarmé, a somewhat desultory translation project--impossible, goes without saying. Oh, and a life of Cezanne... .