Reading Mrs. Bridge by Evan Connell

    Book lover is a staple part of my self-description, but in 2015 I didn't love them enough to actually read one.  Right, all year long, not one book start to finish.  No time to read, too busy "reinventing" myself as a Computer Science instructor.  A half-hour turning pages could be a half-hour grading programs, preparing lesson plans.

    My pen pal is a stark contrast.  She describes herself a library devotee, and her late night email sign-offs say she's reading her book, then going to sleep.  She just finished The Book of the New Sun by Gene Wolfe, a dystopian fantasy set in the far Earth future. She started Infinite Jest, by DFW of course, a dystopian literary landmark set in a recognizable version of our North America.  Seems like a life of exquisite luxury, and accessible to anyone with a library card who is ready let go of exhaustion as their primary status symbol.

    I am ready, but need the right sort of book: serious enough to be interesting, but without so much time required in any one sitting that I push the survival mode panic button.  In 2014, Tom Parker, writer and creative writing teacher, recommended a novel called Mrs. Bridge by Evan Connell.  It's composed of short vignettes — imagine a picture emerging from disparate pieces of a jigsaw puzzle — so it qualifies in the short-sitting department.  Then this Spring's edition of the Threepenny Review (lit mag out of Berkeley) contained a few paragraphs contrasting Evan Connell with Allen Ginsberg, claiming Evan had the more persuasive critique of what the great Beat poet scorned as bourgeois complacency; so certainly serious enough to be interesting.  And importantly, only an iBooks download away.

    For  a week, in the 15 minutes between bed time and sleep, I've been swiping through a vignette or two.  Proud to say I'm up to chapter 27, "Sentimental Moment," page 94 out of 341 — Mrs. Bridge wants their dreams back, while Mr. Bridge wants the car lubricated.

    Mrs. Bridge does cast a discerning eye on race and gender, among other vast topics.  But when it was published in 1959, segregation was the law in the south, and women with careers and education were novelties.  One reason to read it is for perspective on what has and hasn't changed.

     Here's Connell on race.  Mrs. Bridge's young daughter Carolyn is good friends with Alice Jones, the daughter of her black gardener.  Alice is the more dynamic of the two, always coming up with fun ideas, like taking apart phonographs cabinets so they can talk to the little people inside.  Mrs. Bridge decides she needs to intervene, so Carolyn will understand that their friendship can't last past grade school.  Alice is bright, and the next time she comes over to hang with Carolyn, Mrs. Bridge delivers her message indirectly:

    About ten o’clock both of them came into the kitchen for a bottle of soda pop and wanted to know what there would be for lunch.

    “Corky is having creamed tuna on toast and spinach,” said Mrs. Bridge pleasantly.

    Alice observed that she herself didn’t care for spinach because it was made of old tea bags.

    “I believe you’re supposed to have lunch with your Daddy, aren’t you?”

    Alice heard a note in her voice which Carolyn did not; she glanced up at Mrs. Bridge with another of those queer, bright looks and after a moment of thought she said, “Yes’m.”

   And here's a fun paragraph on women's sexuality:
  
    For a while after their marriage she was in such demand that it was not unpleasant when he fell asleep. Presently, however, he began sleeping all night, and it was then she awoke more frequently, and looked into the darkness, wondering about the nature of men, doubtful of the future, until at last there came a night when she shook her husband awake and spoke of her own desire. Affably he placed one of his long white arms around her waist; she turned to him then, contentedly, expectantly, and secure. However nothing else occurred, and in a few minutes he had gone back to sleep.  This was the night Mrs. Bridge concluded that while marriage might be an equitable affair, love itself was not.

    Reading  also gives insight on a half-century of changes to the American novel.  Another creative writing instructor claimed that the manifest destiny of American letters is the close-3rd-person-single-character perspective — the author immerses the reader in a hot bath of a single personality, undiluted by emotional distance, or the thoughts of other characters.  And certainly there are fine novels written in that vein — Blue Angel by Francine Prose comes to mind.  But Connell keeps his characters at arms length, observing them cooly, asking his readers to scrutinize them carefully before taking them into their hearts.  That passage on race doesn't demand indignation, but it earns it.

13 Hours in the Life of a Retirement-Age Community College Computer Science Lecturer

    10 pm, class 9 am tomorrow.  Told them to expect a test.  Haven't written it yet.  Another class yesterday, a different test.  Promised the grader I'd send her the template today.  Haven't done it yet.  A student said he'd sent me email about his medical condition, told him I'd read it and get back to him.  Haven't looked at it yet.

    Find the student's email.  He's in physical and mental pain.  He wants to graduate after this semester, but needs to pass this class.  Says he'll do whatever it takes.  Do I have any tips of him?

    On the radio, pundits dismiss Bernie's victory in Wisconsin, as in 7 of the last 8 primaries: Hillary will clinch the nomination soon, they say, though she hasn't done it quite yet.  Write back, tell the student terribly sorry to hear about his aliments, but have no tips specific to his condition.  Recommend focusing on homework and example problems.

   New email from my pen pal.  She's feeling glacial.  Hmmmm.  Feel glacial too, thinking of the slow slide from desk to bed I'll make later on tonight.

    11 pm, start on the grader's template.  Thought the biggest problem would be using the drawing software to create diagrams with circles and arrows.  Turns out it's staying awake while double-checking answers to the True/False questions -- 5 hours of sleep last night due to plumbing mishap.  Head snaps back, lose balance, startle myself awake.  Someday I'll fall off the chair in that state.  Hasn't happened yet.

    Trump talk on the radio.  Is the metaphor Hitler? If the Great American Mean Streak found an adroit, charismatic champion, it would sweep out in full cry, leveling all before it. Hasn't happened yet, Trump trounced in Wisconsin.

    Midnight.  Template done, but now too tired to work on test.  Too tired to think.  Will try again tomorrow morning when caffeine regains its effect.  No tap water to make tea due to the plumbing, but had the foresight to fill large containers.  Set alarm for 4:20.  Strategy is shallow sleep, lights on, fully dressed.

    Out of bed by 4:30, arguably refreshed.  At desk by 5, drinking a cup of tea steeped with 4 bags.  Is desperate is the wrong message to take from these circumstances? Offtimes may drown in dreams and not be dead,/Such weight is mother leaning on your bed.  Every week I'm afraid I'll come to class without the promised test.  Hasn't happened yet.   On a roll, more congenial message.

    Test ready by 6:30, actually leaving a little time to prepare for the lecture.  How little?  Enough in engage the students in a short adventure in software development?  Or not enough to prevent the prof from looking like a dazed, exhausted old man who can barely remember his own name?  One or the other I decide, these are mutually exclusive logical propositions covering all possibilities.

    8:30 am.  The walk from the Balboa Park BART Station to Batmale Hall took under 10 minutes, leaving another half hour to prepare for class.  It's a .55 mile hike, mostly uphill, part of it a steep climb on a path that ascends a hill alongside the 4 story library.  My previous best time was over 15 minutes. There's life in the old boy yet.

   9 am. Turns out that neither proposition is entirely true.  Of course.  Do some extemporaneous software development in front of the class, make dumb mistakes, but also get across important points.  This particular class is usually dead, most students resolutely silent even when I plead for questions.  Get a few this time, and some smiles.

   10:30 am.  Pass out tests and Scantron cards.

   11 am.  Test over. My short term career goal: SLEEP, in glorious profusion.  Beautiful word, sleep; how obtuse of me not to have appreciated that before!  Shimmering doorway to vibrant other reality.  Think of Blake, Tyger, Tyger burning bright/in the forests of the night …  Burning then burnt out, night creature I.  Make any sense?  My pen pal could tell me, if she writes back.  She hasn't disappeared yet.  Start new email.