Through serendipity, I guess, I have stumbled into my "Boston" or "Harvard University" phase of reading. It is very, very enjoyable for me at this particular point in my life. I now visit Boston for extended periods of time, helping to take care of my two granddaughters. My son-in-law attends a Harvard graduate school and my daughter is employed as a nurse in a gated community (federal prison) west of Boston. My wife and I take our granddaughters, age 4 and 7, everywhere in Boston. One can get a glimpse of our adventures at the four-year-old's blog.
We have annual memberships in Boston's Aquarium, the Science Museum, the Children's Museum, and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
My "Boston" or "Harvard University" reading phase started a few months ago when I started reading the biography of William James by Robert D. Richardson, William James: In the Maelstrom of American Modernism. This is an excellent biography, but halfway through I realized it should really have anther subtitle: The History of Harvard at the Turn of the Century, or even more descriptive, Harvard's Stumbling into American Modernism. Maybe more on that later. But, if you are interested in a well-written biography, as well as a nice history of an important era in Harvard's history, you should enjoy Richardson's William James.
I am still reading Running the Books The Adventures of an Accidental Prison Librarian, by Avi Steinberg. It's a contemporary piece by a new author and is surprisingly good. The setting is a prison just outside Boston, moved now, but originally on Deer Island. Instead of following the history of a world-class university, Steinberg writes about the history of a stereotypical American prison in the late 20th century. Or early 21st century. I suppose changes in the prison system move glacially. The author grew up in Cambridge and graduated from Harvard University with a degree in history and literature which prepared him well for his job as librarian in a state prison.
A few weeks ago I happened to pick up another biography: Sister Brother: Gertrude and Leo Stein by Brenda Wineapple. Now, about one-third of the way through, I realize that the first third of the book could have been subtitled "The Boston (or Harvard) Years." This first third of the book dovetails nicely with Richardson's William James, who in fact was one of Gertrude Stein's professors. She eventually received a "B" from his one semester course that she took. She did "A" work in the first half of the semester, but "C" work during the latter half, during the opera season.
On another note, I have just completed a re-reading of a history of algebra, Unknown Quantity by John Derbyshire. I teach math as a substitute at local schools and I find reading the history of algebra provides nice vignettes for the students who sometimes wonder why algebra is useful and where it is taking them. Derbyshire is an English writer, and English writers seldom disappoint me.
Note to my wife re: the Gertrude and Leo bio.
ReplyDeleteI have just finished a most interesting biography of Gertrude Stein and her brother Leo. Very fascinating. It cleared up several mysteries, not least of which her leaving medical school. Previous biographies, either wrong or misread, suggested she had dropped out early, shortly after starting. However it turns out she was there until the end, and was the only one in her class not to graduate with her peers; she was one subject short, and had a residency lined up on the condition she completed that final subject. It's my myth, the author may or may not agree, that Gertrude felt that medicine per se would not make her happy. I think she was also experiencing gender issues with herself and her colleagues, and needed to be elsewhere. She was more a philosopher than a scientist and I don't think she ever thought of medicine as a means of livelihood.
I always thought Gertrude was unable to handle the strenuous academic load of medical school, but that was clearly not the case, and I have better feelings toward her, at least in that sense.
Coincidentally, the book ends with a poignant reference to a painting in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. However, I think that painting is now hanging in the Library of Congress.