Joyce Carol Oates

Your Microbiome, Yusuf Islam, Not Learning

I try not to worry about all the antibiotics I’ve taken over the years having killed off my microbiome. After all, what can I do about it now, except take lots of probiotics, and, of course, eat very little, because the antibiotics have also killed off my metabolism. Don’t take my word for this–I have a terrible memory, and even if that is exactly what I read, heard or saw somewhere, you probably shouldn’t listen to me, particularly about eating lightly, because the latest recipe I tried for homemade marshmallows—it’s from Epicurious, so you can look it up–is very manageable, and, especially roasted, they melt beautifully in full cream hot chocolate. (¼ c Dutch processed cocoa, ½ c sugar, 1 c cream, 3 c whole milk; then if you have any leftover shards of Callebaut from your Christmas cookies, stir that in, and ¼ c of spirits to make Downton more fun, or a candy cane for Christine).

I was right to review The Accursed when I did. If I had waited until I knew the ending, it might have taken some of the joy out of, well, let’s say the journey of reading the book. If there is a parallel here to life, or to running, or to attempting a croquembouche, I hope you will ignore it. I try not to deal in morals. Do you hear me J.C.O.? In fact, I’m guessing it will be even better if I review the book I’m about to start, before it has been soured for me in any way.

Besides my indifference, at age five, to the Booker Prize, I can only explain never having read Midnight’s Children by admitting that back when I had nothing but time to read, and complain to my parents that I didn’t want to leave the car to look at paintings or state parks, I didn’t realize Salman Rushdie was interesting, and I was confused about whether he wanted to kill Cat Stevens, or was it the other way around? I understood Natalie Merchant had an opinion since she took “Peace Train” off In My Tribe, but my young adult life was full of so many preoccupations* that I didn’t give Salman Rushdie another thought until two of my favorite female role models, Padma Lakshmi and Terry Gross, rediscovered him—each in her own way. Review: I expect a bit of playfulness out of Midnight’s Children, because in his Fresh Air interview, Rushdie admitted an addiction to Angry Birds. Padma can’t have put up with much of that, though, so what was the attraction during their three-year marriage? I can only surmise that I am also in for a richly detailed history of post-colonial India, with a touch of Kaffir lime juice for balance.

*e.g. Garp got a fish hook stuck in his mouth, outside of normal vet hours, and was returned in a cardboard box (alive).

Vampire Novels, Grover Cleveland, Misunderstandings

One Christmas—one which I will place after the birth of our first child because I didn’t make all my cards by hand with thousands of tiny hand-painted hole-punches and a glue stick, but before the birth of our second, because I wasn’t yet sending around a cynical Family Christmas Letter–I bought a bunch of very pretty Christmas cards that turned out not to be Blank Inside. “Especially at Christmas, it’s always nice to think of you,” the cards read. Before they had been translated from the original language, the sentiment might have brought a tear to my eye. Unless it was Russian—then I wouldn’t have understood, since Ashley Alley only ever taught me to say “one of my breasts hurts.” One hopes—okay, I am the one hoping this—that being understood all the time isn’t the most important thing. For instance, I spent a very long time trying to memorize John 3:16 in Spanish one time from the Gideon Bible in my hotel room, and everyone thought I was talking about using an airplane seat to polish my spittoon. Unless I’m confusing several other useful Spanish phrases. Apologies to Jill, Billy, Samia, Anne, and any other Spanish language mentors I may be leaving out.

English is my Muttersprache, and even in this I think I tend to wander a bit, which is why I was so relieved to hear from a wise and reliable person that the author Stephen King–whose writing on writing, my reliable anonymous source and I agreed, is much less scary than his novels–has promised being misunderstood is okay. It is also a fine segue to the next thing I wanted to discuss, which is the book I haven’t quite finished reading, The Accursed, by Joyce Carol Oates. Stephen King reviewed it for The New York Times, but I will have a different emphasis, and a more curated readership.

I suppose I could have waited until I was finished with it to review this book, but I’m anxious to be known as a person who has a book in the hand that does not have a drink in it, or in the hand that is not putting the drink down for a moment, on a coaster, and tousling a child’s hair to soothe that child, or, more likely, to replace an unruly lock. There—now that I’ve used a word like lock, you will know that I am not making up the thing about reading a book. On second thought, I don’t think I’m going to write an entire review. You can read Stephen King’s review, if you enjoy spoilers, but I think I’d prefer you were surprised. Here is a taste: Woodrow Wilson has a stomach pump and despises Grover Cleveland, whose wife is a glamor puss! Anyone might be a vampire. Upton Sinclair is trying to join forces with Jack London. Why? Talk about a meat-eater! If you have finished this book, shhh! Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei.