'The Book of Love' is Roger Rosenblatt's mediation on affection in all its forms
Eudora Welty praised the essays of E.B. White as a place where the 鈥渢ransitory more and more becomes one with the beautiful.鈥� That ideal also informs the work of Roger Rosenblatt, whose books often explore the fragile line between what endures and what does not.
In two tenderly exquisite memoirs, 鈥淢aking Toast鈥� and 鈥淜ayak Morning,鈥� Rosenblatt chronicled his grown daughter鈥檚 sudden death from a previously undiagnosed heart condition, a tragedy that prompted him to consider what remains in the wake of deep loss. In his 2013 memoir, 鈥淭he Boy Detective,鈥� Rosenblatt contemplated the nature of the past. Is it an enduring presence, or a mere shadow obscured by the vagaries of memory?
The Book of Love, Rosenblatt鈥檚 latest book, tackles equally cosmic questions, offering a roving personal treatise on affection in all its forms 鈥� romantic love, friendship, parenthood, love of work and country. The subtitle鈥檚 reference to improvisation hints that Rosenblatt鈥檚 speculations will liberally indulge caprice 鈥� and even free association.
The experimental 聽scheme of 鈥淭he Book of Love鈥� is a disappointing reminder that experiments don鈥檛 always work. Rosenblatt鈥檚 book-length essay, which includes everything from extended musical quotations to short fictions, personal recollections to tender valentines to his wife, reads more like a brainstorm for a book than a finished manuscript.
In an opening passage addressed to his wife of many years, Rosenblatt wryly notes how she 鈥渢urns away at my contrived displays of wit. Embarrassed for me, who lacks the wit to be embarrassed for myself.鈥� It鈥檚 a common enough sentiment for any spouse forced to endure a better half鈥檚 bad jokes, but the reader, like Ms. Rosenblatt, might also want to turn away at some of the authorial indulgences in 鈥淭he Book of Love.鈥� 聽聽In a riff on things he loves, for example, Rosenblatt lists 鈥淏ette Davis, and Sammy Davis, Jr., and Harry Connick Jr., and Absorbine Jr.鈥�.聽 A little bit of this verbal horseplay goes an awfully long way, and in 鈥淎 Book of Love,鈥� that kind of cornball ribbing often flattens Rosenblatt鈥檚 typically graceful prose. It鈥檚 as if he鈥檚 rehearsing a stand-up act that鈥檚 not ready for prime time.
The book鈥檚 theme of improvisation becomes a label covering all manner of sins. At one point, with no apparent rationale, Rosenblatt throws in an excerpt from 鈥淒ogstoevsky,鈥� one of his clever essays for Time magazine in which he comically recalls trying to read 鈥淐rime and Punishment鈥� while a nearby canine barks its fool head off. It鈥檚 a polished piece of humor 鈥� one of the highpoints, in fact, of Rosenblatt鈥檚 marvelous 1994 collection of assorted journalism, 鈥淭he Man in the Water鈥� 鈥� but what鈥檚 鈥淒ogstoevsky鈥� doing in the middle of 鈥淭he Book of Love鈥�? The book frequently reads like a filibuster, a procession of bright oddities assembled not so much to say something, but to say anything.
Near the end of 鈥淎 Book of Love,鈥� Rosenblatt seems to offer a defense for the book鈥檚 hodgepodge sensibility. 鈥淪o I sympathize with people who seek to create a unity of thought and emotion out of disorder,鈥� he tells readers, 鈥渂ut I also believe that trying to fit parts into a whole makes each component smaller, less interesting and inauthentic. There is a life of parts as valid as the life of the whole. Simply noting is often enough. What right have I to give the universe a shape other than the one in which it presents itself without comment?鈥�
Yet earlier in the book, in a passage listing good instructions for loving the world, Rosenblatt offers 鈥溾�橠on Quixote,鈥欌�� 鈥楶aradise Lost,鈥� every Dickens novel, and 鈥楾he Great Gatsby鈥欌�� 鈥� all works of literature that advance just such context.
聽A mind as magical as Rosenblatt鈥檚 is bound to produce some gems, even in a literary project as helter-skelter as 鈥淭he Book of Love.鈥� He makes an insightful argument about why love at first sight isn鈥檛 as reflexive as we think, and there鈥檚 a touching account of how his grief for his own daughter connected him with a grieving mother after the school shootings in Sandy Hook, Connecticut. Rosenblatt鈥檚 聽evocation of musical giants, such as Ira Gershwin and Louis Armstrong, points us toward the equally sublime music of his sentences. Listen to these: 鈥淭he moon is sky-high now, a small pale eye at the top of the dark. A light plane blinks by overhead. A letter from a friend, a photographer, whose child is gravely ill. He includes a picture of the boy. In a corner is the photographer鈥檚 shadow, like spilled ink.鈥�
Rosenblatt mentions the ancient Greek belief 鈥渢hat the illuminations of the world derive from the rays our eyes project,鈥� which he initially dismisses as 鈥淗ellenistic drivel.鈥� But he essentially argues for love as just this kind of sustained attention. 鈥淭he Book of Love鈥� is a flawed if heartfelt summons to that way of seeing, a form of vision that compels Rosenblatt to gaze at his wife and conclude that 鈥渢here was no light in the world but you.鈥�
Danny Heitman, a columnist for The Advocate newspaper in Louisiana, is the author of 鈥淎 Summer of Birds: John James Audubon at Oakley House.鈥�
