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Crossings is a rather peculiar story involving three separate characters, several mysterious murders including horrific mutilations, and attempts at escaping the Nazis. Landragin begins with a preface, “I didn’t write this book. I stole it. // Several summers ago, I received a call in my workshop on Rue des Bernardins from the noted bibliophile and book collector Beattie Ellingham. She wished to have me bind a loose-leaf manuscript that she described as the pride of her collection. There were no constraints of time or money, she said, but there was a condition, to which I agreed: I was not to read its contents. The manuscript was, in her estimation, priceless and I was to bind it accordingly. We agreed that it would be bound in what is called the COSWAY style, in doublure, framed with pearls, using material she would provide. // I’d known Beattie Ellingham all my life. She was one of the Philadelphia Ellinghams” (xi).
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Peter spends a lot of time describing the landscape. This prologue sets up the story. He writes, “It was bright and windy, with poppies flushing orange down the slopes of the bluffs, all mixed with swaths of blue lupine. The Pacific was almost black and it creamed against the base of the cliffs along the Big Sur. He loved this. He hitched the rucksack higher on his shoulder. Since Jence had died in the war it was the only thing he really loved. Good hall today, too, a solid handful of jade pebbles from the cove below. He stopped to catch his breath. The trail was steep here, the rocks like steps, his pants legs soaked to the thigh and heavy. Just a second here, he was in no hurry this afternoon” (3).
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The story begins with three Asian girls, Grace, Helen, and Ruby trying to land jobs in Chinatown. Lisa See’s story begins, “I traveled west alone on the cheapest bus routes I could find. Every mile took me farther from Plain City, Ohio, where I’d been a fly speck on the wallpaper of small-town life. I lived on aspirin, crackers, and soda pop. I cried, and cried, and cried. On the eighth day, California. Many hours after crossing the boundary, I got off the bus and pulled my sweater a little more tightly around me. I expected sun and warmth, but on that October afternoon, fog hung over San Francisco, damp, and shockingly cold” (3). You always planned to leave home, I told myself. Just because you had to escape sooner than expected doesn’t mean you can’t still fly to the stars” (4). Grace gives herself a pep talk. See writes, “I’m in a scary room in a strange city” [ ] To calm myself, I began a routine I’d invented as a small child,
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I will begin with “Occupied” – “Hair blew across her face. She felt for her hair elastic, but it had fallen out. That was annoying. She always kept her hair tied back. She stuffed the loose strands into her jacket collar and crossed the street to walk down the perimeter. The images she’d seen in the paper and on the screen were decidedly more monumental than what appeared. But wasn’t it always like that? In front of you, things turned smaller, and seemingly less substantial than in a photograph, despite the fact that the real thing was actually more substantial, being three-dimensional and more complex. In front of you it was actually real. And what was more compelling than real? Images of real, apparently. To a visual artist like Ivy, this was hardly a new revelation” (31). I really enjoy the introspective nature of Susan’s musings.
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I will begin with the title poem, “Whale Day.” “Today I was awakened by strong coffee and the awareness that the earth is busy with whales even though we can’t see any unless we have embarked on a whale watch, / which would be disappointing if we still couldn’t see any. // I can see the steam rising from my tallow cup, / the usual furniture scattered about, / and even some early light filtering through the palms. // Meanwhile, thousands of whales are cruising along at various speeds under the seas, // crisscrossing one another, / slaloming in and out of the Gulf Stream, / some with their calves traveling alongside such big blunt heads they have! // So is it too much to ask that one day a year be set aside for keeping in mind while we step onto a bus, / consume a ham sandwich, / or stoop to pick up a coin from a sidewalk the multitude of these mammoth creatures coasting between the continents, some for the fun of it, / others purposeful in their journeys. // all conc