Ship of Jerks

It has been two days since I picked up Ship of Fools by Katherine Anne Porter. That is to say, two days since I have read any more of it. Out of 497 pages I have read 290 pages describing sheer hatred, malice, backbiting, detestation, repugnance, disgust, vitriol, abomination, loathing, abhorrence, resentment, petty jealousy, displeasure, anti-Semitism, spite and just overall bad behavior among a group of passengers and crew aboard a second-rate steamer sailing from Veracruz, Mexico to Bremerhaven, Germany circa 1931. There is not a happy character among the bunch except for two out of control children whose fun is always directed toward the misery of others. If there is any joy at all among this cast of misery-laden folks it takes the form of a particularly vile form of Schadenfreude. There are no real chapter breaks in this edition I am reading, so it has been a hate-filled marathon of 290 pages since I began. Little more than halfway through, I needed a break; the real thing is available any time I want to look for it. I can’t wait to see the movie.

Knowing less than nothing about the life of the author I still am wondering how she avoided the despair that leads to suicide. That she lived to be 90 years of age is a sort of miracle if this book is to be taken as evidence of her view of human society. I suppose reading her biography might be advisable. I am open to suggestions as to a good one. Right now I am looking for a copy of Pale Horse, Pale Rider, which apparently is a fictionalized account of her time recovering from the flu which she contracted during the 1918 pandemic. I am also in knowing whether the following quote is attributable to her. "I have lost children in all the ways one can." I would like a citation for this. Apparently, she suffered more than one miscarriage, at least one stillbirth and at least one abortion.

In fact, if anyone knows anything about Porter’s life and/or literature I certainly would appreciate hearing what you have to say.

Next up will be Joan Didion, beginning with, Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I have read nothing but reviews of Didion and have been impressed by what I have read. That is to say, most of the reviewers give her what seems to be only grudging respect, a sure sign I may be on to something good.

Finally, I will confess that my reading of female writers has been pretty much limited to Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers and Edith Wharton and, among these, only Cather and O'Connor to any great extent. It is good to discover these others, to have one’s horizons broadened, if you will forgive the pun. Perhaps all this reading of women authors is proof of my growth as "an evolving male," as the hip would term the event. It pays to keep up with the evolutionary stuff, I suppose.