DUNAWAY BOOKS

NEWSLETTER FOR THE MONTHs OF JANUARY/february

TWO THOUSAND AND SIX

(TO BE RESUMED QUARTERLY)

Greetings to all of you at the beginning of this New Year! Although we have had more tornadoes than blizzards in this time of strange winter weather, we still hope everyone had a warm and cozy holiday season with family and friends. Thanks to all who came to us in December intent upon giving the gift of books. The relative or friend is not forgotten who brings a new knowledge into one’s life as a gesture from one spirit to another at a special time. To a child, especially, it is a real visit from the Magi; a tasseled key, a hoary gate, a gilded invitation to the wider reaches of what we know of the world. This gift is a rare and precious thing, capable of illuminating and transforming object and experience ever after. We are lucky to receive such tributes to what a loved one thinks we may become, and lucky many times over to be able to give them to others, whether young or old.

The well-known story of the phoenix is relevant at this time of putting things into perspective and resolution-making, perhaps even more so than the cuckoo-clock parade of the ancient man and crawling babe that we are used to seeing on New Year’s paraphernalia. This bird was born in Egypt, evolved in Greece and Arabia, and has flown its way through many a tale ancient and modern. The stories perhaps best known from Ovid’s Metamorphoses have wound similar ways. Despite or maybe because of their sometimes-bloody high drama, they have inspired countless books for young people. There are several famous books, quite often given to children as gifts, that have been known to fuel and enlarge many a young imaginative life: Nathaniel Hawthorne’s A Wonder Book for Girls and Boys, Bulfinch’s Mythology, and Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books are only a few of these. Doubtless everyone has their own favorites among the many books that act as vehicles for stories out of time to travel forward and continue among the young. The lives of the ancients and those living in pre-literary cultures were saturated with incredible tales of origin, magic and transformation. The tales themselves once lived in a state of flux, held as they were in the head, heart and mouth rather than fixed on a sheet of paper. These legends can help us re-establish a deeper link with the processes in and around us. Simple objects can become doors to transcendent experience. If a tale cherished in mind holds great beauty, so may a room or landscape become suffused with it, and a cup, a stream, a pebble or a branch may never be a simple or common thing again. If stories evoke other, darker or more mysterious things, as they so often do, we can confront and establish a dialogue with them. This in itself is a hero’s journey and a transformation, and, in a way, it is the history of literature itself.

We have recently bulked up our Children’s section with more illustrated books and many classic young adult novels. It can be an immensely rewarding experience to reread old favorites, especially if the interim has been decades! We are always acquiring new mythology books, though they often leave us as quickly as they come. Some places in our store in which to look for these sorts of things besides the Folklore and Children’s sections are the Illustrated Books/Heritage Press/Folio Society shelf in the front window, the Penguin Classics at the end of Pocket Paperbacks, and Poetry. Depending on edition and audience focus, the changing yet undying archetypal yarns can be found in all of these spots. Some of the other things that have appeared on the shelves recently are infusions of Botany and Natural History, with a focus in the first group on orchids. We have also received small groups of always-welcome Poetry and Plays, some glamorous photo books of old movie stars, and new cookbooks. The store maps at the counter have been revamped with the addition of a lower level diagram, and we are redoing all of the signage in large print for better visibility. We are always shifting small sections to make room for new books, so if you don’t see something in the expected place, just ask at the front counter; what you seek is likely not far away.

There is a special little bit of news this month: we have some new poetry in stock from local authors! Martha Ficklen, one of the members of the Loosely Identified collective, has brought us The Palm Leaf Fan, published by Cherry Pie Press in Glen Carbon. Plausible Worlds, a strikingly designed offering from author Aaron Belz and the Firecracker Press, also now graces our front counter. We are so happy to carry these chapbooks conceived and born here, from scribble to final staple; writing is far from dead in this town. Both of these poets are actively writing and reading in and around St. Louis; keep an eye out for their names! Some literary events addresses will be listed at the end of this newsletter so that those interested will be able to do just that. We have also gained a new Arcadia Press title: The Grand Hotels of Saint Louis focuses on the grand old days of dining, drinking, and dancing to live music in palatial ballrooms. The Arcadia Images of America series inspires many an over-the-counter conversation about the way things were, good and bad, for our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents here in the city. The long-gone buildings housing long-gone customs and habits linger a little longer in our minds for the attention paid to their memories in words and pictures. Occasionally someone comes in to tell us they are working on a book for this publisher: it is always exciting to hear which story will be told next.

Our store hours will be changing just a little bit as of March the first. We will be open from 12 noon to 8 pm Monday through Thursday; 12 noon to 10 pm Friday; 10 am to 10 pm Saturday, and 10 am to 8 pm on Sunday. Another piece of news is that this newsletter must decrease its output in 2006 from twelve to four issues a year. There is much with which to be busy in the bookstore right now, so busy we must be! Occasional announcements regarding special events and announcements will still occasionally fly the same channel in between quarterlies. We will still be in touch, just a tad less frequently; hopefully you will still watch out for us in your inbox. 2005 has been a good year; may 2006 be transformative for us all in the most positive fashion possible!

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…They have also another sacred bird called the phoenix which I myself have never seen, except in pictures. Indeed it is a great rarity, even in Egypt, only coming there (according to the accounts of the people of Heliopolis) once in five hundred years, when the old phoenix dies. Its size and appearance, if it is like the pictures, are as follows: The plumage is partly red, partly golden, while the general make and size are almost exactly that of the eagle. They tell a story of what this bird does, which does not seem to me to be credible: that he comes all the way from Arabia, and brings the parent bird, all plastered over with myrrh, to the temple of the Sun, and there buries the body. In order to bring him, they say, he first forms a ball of myrrh as big as he finds that he can carry; then he hollows out the ball, and puts his parent inside, after which he covers over the opening with fresh myrrh, and the ball is then of exactly the same weight as at first; so he brings it to Egypt, plastered over as I have said, and deposits it in the temple of the Sun. Such is the story they tell of the doings of this bird.

--Herodotus

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…But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England’s coal mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she beholds him.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan’s red beak; on Shakspeare’s shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin’s raven, and whispered in the poet’s ear “Immortality!” and at the minstrels’ feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.

The Bird of Paradise—renewed each century—born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth—“The Phoenix of Arabia.”

In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee—thy name, Poetry.

--Hans Christian Andersen

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And over Orpheus’ head

birds without number flew,

while straight up from the darkling wave

the fish leapt to his lovely song.

--Simonides

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ALCYONE:

Ceyx, is this how you return to me?

LUCINA:

She began to run to him; but as she ran, crying, a strange thing happened.

(ALCYONE moves slowly toward CEYX, transforming. The sound of waves and seabirds crying comes up.)

By the time she reached him, she was a bird.

She tried to kiss him with her bill, and by some trick

of the ocean’s heaving, it seemed that his head reached up to hers

in response. You ask, How could he have felt her kiss?

APHRODITE:

But better ask, How could the gods not have felt it?

Seen this, and not had compassion?

LUCINA:

For the dead body was changing, restored to life,

and renewed as another seabird.

Together they still fly, just over the water’s surface,

mate and rear their young, and for seven days each winter

Alcyone broods on her nest that floats on the gentled water—

for Aeolus, her father, then keeps the winds short reined

and every year gives seven days of calm upon the ocean—

the days we call the halcyon days.

--from Mary Zimmerman’s play Metamorphoses, based on Ovid

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Once Porcupine and Beaver quarreled about the seasons. Porcupine wanted five winter months. He held up one hand and showed his five fingers. He said, “Let the winter months be the same in number as the fingers on my hand.” Beaver said, “No,” and held up his tail, which had many cracks or scratches on it. He said, “Let the winter months be the same in number as the scratches on my tail.” Now they quarreled and argued. Porcupine got angry and bit off his thumb. Then, holding up his hand with the four fingers, he said emphatically, “There must be only four winter months.” Beaver became a little afraid, and gave in. For this reason porcupines have four claws on each foot now.

Since Porcupine won, the winter remained four months in length, until later Raven changed it a little. Raven considered what Porcupine and Beaver has said about the winters, and decided that Porcupine had done right. He said, “Porcupine was right. If the winters were made too long, people could not live. Henceforth winters will be about this length, but they will be variable. I will tell you of the gaxewisa month, when people will meet together and talk. At that time of the year people will ask questions (or propound riddles), and others will answer. If the riddle is answered correctly, then the person who propounded it will answer, “Fool-hen.” Raven chose this word because the fool-hen has a shorter beak than any other game-bird. “If people guess riddles correctly at this time of year, then the winter will be short, and spring come early.”

--a Tahltan Native American myth

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The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.

--Hilaire Belloc

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Somer passed/and wynter well begone
The dayes shorte/the darke nyghtes longe
Haue taken season/and brynghtnes of the sonne
Is lytell sene/and small byrdes songe
Seldon is herde/in feldes or wodes ronge
All strength and ventue/of trees and herbes sote
Dyscendynge be/from croppe in to the rote

And euery creature by course of kynde
For socoure draweth to that countre and place
Where for a tyme/they may purchace and fynde
Conforte and rest/abydynge after grace
That clere Appolo with bryghtnes of his face
Wyll sende/whan lusty ver shall come to towne
And gyue the grounde/of grene a goodly gowne

--anon.

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Some lovely local lit’ry links:

Aaron Belz (also includes a link to the Schlafly Tap Room series of readings):

www.belz.net

Loosely Identified:

www.looselyidentified.com

St. Louis Writers’ Guild:

www.stlwritersguild.com/index.html

St. Louis Literary Calendar:

http://cenhum.artsci.wustl.edu/cal-jan.htm

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May you all have a productive January, fine February, and majestic March! Since this newsletter will be transitioning from a monthly to a quarterly affair, the next issue will not wing out until April-ish. Until then, enjoy what the changes bring you, and use your gifts wisely and well…or at least just use them!! If you love (or hate) something you’ve read, please do tell us about it next time you’re in!

In the spirit of sharing stories…

DUNAWAY BOOKS

3111 S. Grand

St. Louis, MO 63118

314-771-7150

dunawaybooks@sbcglobal.net

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Whether the weather be fine
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold
Or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not.

--another anon., 1900