I went to hear Mary Karr read at Lemuria Wednesday night.

I was familiar with her name but had never read any of her memoirs or poetry. Her latest book, LIT, had caught my eye with its fabulous front cover and knowing she was coming soon, I picked it up last week.

I finished it in two and a half days. When I walked in to hear her, I had only finished the book a couple of hours before. As often happens, it can take me a little time to transition back into the present world after being so “immersed” so I was still somewhat dreamy and emotional when I arrived.

I knew who she was immediately.

I wanted to fall on her and say, “Are you alright? Are you happy? How is Dev?” She was my friend. She just didn’t know it! I cared deeply about her. I longed to sit down and flip through so many passages that had moved me or made me laugh. But I also felt like maybe I knew too much about her…too much of her. I knew her sins; her terrors; her doubts and hopelessness but also her strength, determination, courage and wit. I admired her refusal to repeat history with her own child and the incredible willingness to open herself to wonder about previously unthinkable things like faith. Without ever meeting her, I felt like we were on hallowed ground.

Strange, isn’t it? That someone’s words can move us and affect us so strongly. But that’s the power of great writing and of great memoirs especially.

It wasn’t so much MARY KARR who got to me…but the ME that Mary Karr got to…that made all those feelings come to the surface. Great writing that also happens to be “true life” seems able to penetrate our defenses in a unique way. Even if those experiences have nothing to do with any of my own life experiences. I can still take them in, still be moved by them and on special rare occasions even be changed by them.

I think that is why the outrage was so huge when we learned that James Frey’s memoir, “A Million Little Pieces” had been partly untrue. We felt betrayed, made fools of, swindled. Why such a gigantic reaction? It certainly appeared to be out of proportion. Why do I care what James Frey made up or what was true? I think it was because he had touched us somewhere way down deep; scraped the scab off some long ago feeling of wanting to redeem ourselves and make our life count. I know that I want to count.not that I’d ever tell you perhaps but books can put a name on feelings and a voice to thoughts that we are too afraid or embarrassed to utter ourselves. Thus is their power.

In Out of Africa, Isak Dinesen writes,

“If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?”

I could never put those gorgeous words down on paper but I know that feeling, I resonate with that longing and those words have stayed in my soul for years since I first read them.

Karr ends her book with some more words that I hope will be just as hard to forget for they bring to life a sense of wonder and renewed hope that fills her soul and can teach mine.

“Every now and then we enter the presence of the numinous and deduce for an instant how we’re formed, in what detail the force that infuses every petal might specifically run through us, wishing only to lure us into our full potential. Usually, the closest we get is when we love, or when some beloved beams back, which can galvanize you like steel and make resilient what had heretofore only been soft flesh. It can start you singing as the lion pads over to you, its jaws hinging open, its hot breath on you. Even unto death.”

Read LIT.

Also: here are Billie and Lisa’s blogs on Mary Karr.

-Norma

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