Reviewed in Brief

Written by a middle-aged widow, about her struggle for self-renewal after losing her husband, this is a book whose quiet gravity and relaxed good sense ought to be useful to many people who have not themselves suffered its particular losses; especially, for instance, anyone who is currently being billed by a psychoanalyst. Finding herself suddenly alone, Mrs. Pitkin did something as unspectacular as it was resourceful. Instead of moving in with her children, or weeping to her friends, she removed herself to a New Hampshire farm. Here, without benefit of electric stoves, air conditioning, or frozen vegetables, she gradually became aware of how much our daily accoutrements insulate us from almost all the organic life on our planet. Weather, animals, light, mountains—they all sound so obvious, so homely, so irrelevant, until you truly realize them. Then you learn what Mrs. Pitkin learned: that life needs life more than it needs insurance policies, or sidewalks, or thermostats.

The title is entirely, gloriously misleading. What the text really amounts to is several hours of rambling, relishing talk by a genius about something he dotes on. There are too few books like this. Gide once said every creative writer owes his language at least one translation. He also owes himself at least one book like this one—a rhapsody, full of gusto, insight, gossip, and uninhibited enthusiasm for something in which he takes unofficial, uncritical and unstinting delight. If you like one or more of the following: Italy, opera, the Weltanschauung of Walter Scott, the genius of Stendhal, brilliantly self-assured talk—here is the greenest pasture you’ll find in print this spring.

RP

About the Author

Robert Phelps

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Written by a middle-aged widow, about her struggle for self-renewal after losing her husband, this is a book whose quiet gravity and relaxed good sense ought to be useful to many people who have not themselves suffered its particular losses; especially, for instance, anyone who is currently being billed by a psychoanalyst. Finding herself suddenly alone, Mrs. Pitkin did something as unspectacular as it was resourceful. Instead of moving in with her children, or weeping to her friends, she removed herself to a New Hampshire farm. Here, without benefit of electric stoves, air conditioning, or frozen vegetables, she gradually became aware of how much our daily accoutrements insulate us from almost all the organic life on our planet. Weather, animals, light, mountains—they all sound so obvious, so homely, so irrelevant, until you truly realize them. Then you learn what Mrs. Pitkin learned: that life needs life more than it needs insurance policies, or sidewalks, or thermostats.

The title is entirely, gloriously misleading. What the text really amounts to is several hours of rambling, relishing talk by a genius about something he dotes on. There are too few books like this. Gide once said every creative writer owes his language at least one translation. He also owes himself at least one book like this one—a rhapsody, full of gusto, insight, gossip, and uninhibited enthusiasm for something in which he takes unofficial, uncritical and unstinting delight. If you like one or more of the following: Italy, opera, the Weltanschauung of Walter Scott, the genius of Stendhal, brilliantly self-assured talk—here is the greenest pasture you’ll find in print this spring.