PDF Ebook , by Terry Tempest Williams
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, by Terry Tempest Williams
PDF Ebook , by Terry Tempest Williams
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Product details
File Size: 553 KB
Print Length: 258 pages
Publisher: Sarah Crichton Books (April 10, 2012)
Publication Date: April 10, 2012
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services LLC
Language: English
ASIN: B00633W3WG
Text-to-Speech:
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Amazon Best Sellers Rank:
#50,464 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)
“Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.†What can I say about a book that spoke to the quiet places in my spirit, the places reserved for nature, and poetry, and insightful illumination? I can say that this book is about a woman's voice, and ultimately, all women's voices. It is about the way that culture and society and family shape and define and silence that voice, and the ways we must purposefully craft it anew. Have you lost your voice? Have you forgotten what it is to sing with joy at sunrise? This book will remind you. Not with bullet-lists full of self-help jargon, but with the oldest teacher we have; story. This book is small, and soft, and gentle. It will fit in your handbag, or your back pocket, and you will want to keep it there. You will want to underline and highlight, and write in the margins. When you are feeling at a loss for words, you will open the book and you will find bits of story that you underlined, and will remember, When Women Were Birds.
Frankly, I don't know how to describe my feelings about this book. I knew how I felt at the beginning. I fell in love with the poetic and philosophical first steps, the empty pages reflecting the silence of the journals of the author's mother. How daring, how true, I thought. How whimsical. What an adventure this is going to be. And in a way, Williams does take me into some epopee. From one chapter to the next, I don't know where I am going to go or where I am going to land. While the language is always clean and simple--and when at its best, pure-- the author's mind travels from the abstract and complex to the tactile and familiar, and back. There are descriptions of nature, of difficult and/or colorful personalities as well as references to thinkers like Barthes and Cixous. It is a bit like a buffet of tastes and ideas. It reminds me somewhat of Rousseau and his mind wanderings, for When Women Were Birds is also impregnated with ecology. Unlike Rousseau, however, Williams puts her money where her mouth is. Although it is presented with numbered chapters, its eclectic content reads like a journal. And I wish it had been called so. When Women Were Birds, A Journal by Terry Tempest Williams. Or: When Women Were Birds, A Mind Voyage by Terry Tempest Williams. When Women Were Birds, Fifty-Four Variations on Voice leads to confusion. I'll tell you why in a moment. Here and there, Williams attempts to unify the book with two basic themes: giving women a voice; extracting the meaning of her mother's empty journals. In her attempts to give women a voice, she fails because that's not what the book is about. Furthermore, these returns, as in the recapitulations from the movements of a sonata (and she refers to music as well), are occasionally discordant. Her variations are not so much variations as they are separations. This is a book not so much about giving a voice to others as it is about re-defining one's own. Her own. In her attempt to fill out her mother's blank pages, to give these pages a reason to be, she has spent time in the desert, somewhat lost. This is a book about seeking, not finding. We all face empty pages, existential pain. And Birds is ultimately a treaty about existential pain--albeit accompanied with a very real, brain related angst, as the author explains. Even the title reflects a wound, a damaged --or broken?--wing. Although the prose is in itself highly pleasurable as well as profound for the most part, I wouldn't recommend this to the confused person trying to find her way and her voice, for this might confuse her further. Like the bird who skips here and there, flies from one tree to the next, sings now and stays quiet a minute later, the writing is graceful, beautiful scattering. But it is still scattering.
This book is unlike any other I have read, and it's all the better for it. Williams uses a unique lyrical essaying style to convey her thoughts--primarily on nature, environmentalism, women, culture, and faith--with almost-poetic artistry and clarity. Her prose style is at once both lulling and beautiful, provocative and intensely interesting. I was repeatedly surprised at new directions she took in the (extremely loose) plot arc, and found myself experience poignant emotions throughout the memoir-esque volume. One section on her experience teaching biology in a Utah private school was particularly witty, and another section concerning her run-in with a deranged psychopath had me properly horrified. Other moments encouraged me to think more deeply, while at times I felt exceptionally depressed at the state of the world.Her feminist views come through clearly throughout the book, paying specific attention to women's voices and their roles in the goings-on of the world. As a young woman I take inspiration from her passages on female empowerment and individuality. The couple of sections featuring the female body felt especially important, and necessary given the problems so many women experience with self-confidence and body image. Rather than address these issues head-on, Williams describes the creative powers of women and the beauty of feminine capabilities, ultimately using feminist ideals not to compare women to men, but to define woman as a wholly-independent being full of potential.Anecdotes ranging from rural Africa to the wilderness of Utah take the reader across the world and Williams' fascinating experiences within it. Above all, Terry Tempest Williams writes as a role model, advocating for women and their voices while attempting to decode her own mother's apparent lack of voice, as evidenced through the chilling central question: why blank journals?
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