Leanne Shapton owns many bathing suits. This is a large, sociological difference between us. I own one bathing suit. When it falls apart, I throw it out and buy another. A whole section of photographs of bathing suits and their accompanying stories fills out the middle of Shapton’s Swimming Studies. Then little vignettes: where purchased, why, worn when, why. It felt like floating, as much as reading about buying bathing suits can feel like floating, in a warm pool. One can hear the lap of waves on the tiles at the edge of the pool. Schlap schwap schlap schwap gelap.

The book is all mini-essays, mini-memoirs. There isn’t really a story or a plot. Just the idea of being in water by choice. To swim (feet off the ground) versus to bathe (feet on). The sound of water, as said, comes through the writing. But for a book with so many pools, I’d expect the smell of chlorine to come through too. It didn’t. Maybe Shapton became inured to it after all her hours of swimming practice. I expected it though, the smell, tangy and chemical.

No purpose to the book, but there’s no purpose to swimming, racing or not. But we do it. We write, we read, we swim or bathe. The book is like a distillation of the idea of a swim. Like a thread you can show to an alien species to say Here. We do this because of these reasons.

I like swimming. I like swimming more than reading about swimming, but reading about swimming can be okay too.

I had this book on my want-to-read list for a long time. I found it recently on Netgalley. It was published in 2012. Maybe the publisher forgot it was still up there. Maybe it’s a reissue. But I found it there, so I downloaded it, then got annoyed that the pictures weren’t there, so I took out a copy from the library. A sort of round-about way of getting to read this book.

Swimming Studies by Leanne Shapton went on sale July 5, 2012.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

As I was taking the cows to pasture, a policeman came and hung me from the walnut tree.

Books by poets are always more about sound than anything else to me. Maja Haderlap is a poet; I can tell even in translation from German. Angel of Oblivion is all sound, rhythm, cadence. But then it’s transient too. We can float only until we realize that not much happens in a book of sound.

There are stories. Our narrator grows up, a Carinthian Slovene in Austria, within sight of the Yugoslav border. Post-war, her community is a melting pot of troubles, othered by the German-speaking Austrians for their Slovenian dialect and their group’s partisan resistance of the Nazis (and hence any collaborating Austrians) during the Second World War. Everyone is troubled. The traumas of the older generation (concentration camp survivors, PTSD suffering former partisans, torture victims) leech into the lives of the young. You can think of it like genetic memory. You can think of it like poison from both nature and nurture.

And they tell stories. The partisans meet again and again as our narrator grows to tell their stories again and again. Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is let go. Poems smuggled out of Auschwitz published in minority Slovenian Austrian journals. Who betrayed whom. Who fought valiantly. Who was taken. Who survived. Who didn’t. Telling ourselves stories in order to live.

Our narrator goes to Bled, as we all should do. Here’s a photo I took there.

Rhythm, sound, fragments. Don’t forget, but don’t expect a linear plot line and a traditional story either.

Angel of Oblivion by Maja Haderlap went on sale August 16, 2016.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.