In this week’s installment of 6 Books, Deb Olin Unferth, author of the brilliant, laconic memoir

To After That (Toaf) by Renee Gladman

It’s a book dedicated to a book she has written: what is a cooler premise than that?

Parrots for Dummies by Nikki Moustaki

Yes, from the Dummies series, a simple how-to book: feeding, cleaning the cage, etc., but stay with me here. I found the book very moving. Her portrait of the parrot is of a tragic figure in a cage—it feels almost Kafkaesque. She captures the personality of the parrot as a beautiful, complex, panicky person who you’d do anything for in hopes that it’ll fall in love with you. And there’s also the sadness of the author, who you can tell is struggling: she has to write about clipping, though she mostly hates it. She has to talk about breeding though she thinks it’s a terrible idea. She includes pictures of birds flying in the Amazon—there, isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t that where they belong? They fly a hundred miles a day out there, while here they can move only a few feet. Which is better for them, do you think? she wonders.

Changing My Mind by Zadie Smith

This book has shown up on so many lists now that it’s almost like putting Consider the Lobster on this list. But I’m including it here because you know what? Zadie Smith is a badass.

The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, by Gertrude Stein

This may be my favorite book of all time. This is the book that made all my short shorts possible, that made my memoir, Revolution, possible. I first read it riding a train to Chicago and I’ve never been the same. How to write about war and make it funny. How to write about furniture and make it sad.

A Giacometti Portrait, by James Lord

For Lord—who agreed to sit for a portrait for Giacometti—what initially seemed like a pleasant afternoon turned into an existential nightmare, as Lord discovered just what “finishing” a portrait meant to Giacometti.

Atlas of Remote Islands, by Judith Schalansky

How can descriptions of islands far, far away—islands that I’ll never visit, islands that the author has never visited—feel so lonely?

This is Part II of a series where I ask writers I like for 6 book recommendations according to some loose guideline. Part I is here. This week, Kevin Sampsell, editor of Future Tense Books out of Portland, Oregon, doyen of Powell’s Books, and author of the wildly excellent memoir,

I asked Kevin to recommend 6 nonfiction books, old or new. He obliged, and then some:

Black Box: Cockpit Voice Recorder Accounts of In-Flight Accidents by Malcolm MacPherson

I’m fascinated with this book and the way these transcripts reflect the collected calm of airplane pilots and then their sudden confusion, panic, and tragedy. An eerie and morose reading experience.

I Remember by Joe Brainard

Whenever I go talk to a writing class about memoir, I always point out this book and read a little from it. Then I have the class write a few of their own “I Remembers.” It’s such a non-threatening and easy way to access parts of your life that you think are uninteresting and trivial, but turn out to be engaging and universal.

Time Out of Mind by Leonard Michaels

Besides his fiction and his essays, this book is a bit of an oddity because it’s more like disjointed journal entries. It took me a few pages to lock into Michaels’s groove, but once I did, this book turned into a thing of uncut beauty. I would have to say that Leonard Michaels is the author I’ve been most obsessed with for the past year since I read his novel, The Men’s Club.

Oedipus Wrecked by Kevin Keck

This book is so dirty and hilarious, but also sweetly heartfelt. For fans of Jonathan Ames and other straight-faced pervs.

Answer Me: The First Three by Jim Goad

I had a weird rivalry with Goad for a while (he dated and beat up an ex-girlfriend of mine), but before all of that (and his time in prison) he published a crazy magazine called Answer Me! This book and magazine may be hard to find now, but there’s some really funny, scathing, dark, and shocking entries about sensational suicides and deranged murderers in this thing. Plus, Goad wasn’t just an angry punk hack. He was actually a good writer who prided himself on never having a typo in his magazine.

Swing Low by Miriam Toews

Another one that might be hard to find now, this Canadian superstar novelist’s unusual memoir about her dad (she wrote it from his perspective) is going to finally be released in the states this fall. Toews (pronounced Taves) is a beautiful writer who gives the reader a brave and brilliant look at a loving father and his Mennonite family and how his battles with depression drove him to suicide.

My BONUS 2nd set of six, would be: Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn, Things the Grandchildren Should Know by Mark Oliver Everett, My Less Than Secret Life by Jonathan Ames, A Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch, Rent Girl by Michelle Tea, and The Film Club by David Gilmour

This is the first installment in a new feature where I ask a writer to recommend 6 books, old or new, sometimes according to some roomy guideline. In this case, I asked Dinty W. Moore, editor of

Narrowing my list of representative memoirs down to six was an agonizing task, because there are so many solid examples.  To keep the undertaking manageable (barely), I’ve limited myself to the last twenty years or so, and instead of a ‘favorites’ list, I’ve chosen six examples that I think show the range of what memoir can do.

My concise description of memoir is “the truth, artfully arranged.”  Now we can argue about the meaning of the word truth for weeks, but I’d rather not.  I think – despite all of the weakness of memory (and for that matter, observation) – that sophisticated readers understand that the truth they are given in memoir is the author’s subjective truth.  There is no hope of objective accuracy, nor would that be as interesting to read.  But you go after your truth, with honest intent.  That means that an author who is willingly, consciously subverting what he remembers is not writing memoir, by my definition. Cross that line, and you are writing fiction.  Which is fine, but it is another project entirely.

So I’ve pulled these six memoirs down from my shelves to illustrate how a life can be presented artfully. Starting with:

This Boy’s Life, Tobias Wolff (1989): Wolff’s memoir is the first that I remember reading.  I had read autobiography, of course, and long-form journalism, but Wolff’s brutally-honest, cinematic childhood memoir was the first to give me what previously I had only found in novels: the ability to escape into someone else’s life and another world, another time. Wolff wasn’t the first to write memoir in this way, but This Boy’s Life remains a touchstone to me and many other writers.  I love the opening note to the reader: “I have been corrected on some points, mostly of chronology.  Also my mother thinks that a dog I describe as ugly was actually quite handsome.  I’ve allowed some of these points to stand, because this is a book of memory, and memory has its own story to tell.”

The Kiss, Kathryn Harrison (1997):  Like many people, my first introduction to this book was the wave of denunciation that followed its release: denunciation of the author’s life (she engaged as a young woman in an incestuous relationship with her estranged father), and denunciation of the author’s decision to speak of it in this book.  Thank goodness I eventually read The Kiss.  Harrison’s restraint, her precision, her shocking honesty, and the chilling detail combine to create an unforgettable psychological portrait.  Should victims remain silent?  Hell no.  (Random House is reissuing The Kiss next month.)

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius Dave Eggers (2000):  Not my favorite book to read, frankly – it goes on too long in places, seems too clever by half in others – but Eggers shook up the form, opened possibilities, brought younger readers into the genre, and I tip my hat to him for the chances he took.

The Blessing, Gregory Orr (2002): At age twelve, the author shot and killed his younger brother Peter in a hunting accident.  His intimate description of the event is clear, unadorned and powerful.  Best known as a poet, Orr brings a meticulous eye to his memoir and a mastery of image, description, and language.

The Horizontal World: Growing Up Wild In the Middle of Nowhere Debra Marquart (2006): Marquart’s memoir captures not only a life but a place: rural, western North Dakota. This book is poignant, funny at times, free-wheeling, and entirely engaging.

Ghostbread Sonja Livingston (2009):  This recent memoir, an exquisite, close-in look at childhood poverty, is full of tender humor, and shows us the perilous ease of slipping into failure and the love that can flow from even a highly troubled parent.  Plus, Livingston is a helluva of a writer, an exquisite storyteller.

If I had a garden (and I do), it could be filled with the commonest things as long as it were beautiful.

For I’m not a collector and I never will be, not of anything tangible, though on many days I wish I were. Collecting requires zeal for something so great that endless, mostly fruitless tedium can be endured in its pursuit. Collecting requires the acquisition of so much knowledge–it is after all not for the novitiate to know what is rare–so much that thinking of it makes my eyes hurt. There is a kind of ruthlessness, too, that I find whenever I read or hear about great collectors, whether it’s orchid thieves who will kill or be killed rather than surrender their finds, or used-book dealers elbowing and scratching one another when they spot a rare jewel at a book sale. I lack the zeal, the thirst, the ferocity.

I’m missing out. Walter Benjamin, a more famous collector than LaRoche, writes, “How many cities have revealed themselves to me in the marches I undertook in the pursuit of books!” Whereas if you wander aimlessly, with no object in mind, everything remains misted, hidden and dull. The best things don’t happen when you least expect them; the best things happen when you are stalking some other prey.

There’s no prey that taunts me that hasn’t already been shot down. This is why I can’t be a literary scholar. For what would I say? I love all the writers whom so many others already love. I couldn’t endure navigating some lesser, less-known terrain. So, mightn’t I find a new angle? This isn’t possible either: what I love about Austen and Nabokov and Woolf is what others love about them. It’s just that I think my love overpowers theirs.

This is what separates collectors from aesthetes. [Confession: I'm adapting/expanding this whole post, and especially the following two sentences, from something I posted on twitter last night.] Collectors prize what’s rare, and convince themselves that the rare is beautiful. Whereas aesthetes prize what’s beautiful, and convince themselves that their love is rare. I mean this last clause in two senses: they believe their love=the beloved is rare, in that sense of “as any she belied with false compare,” and they also believe the quality of their love=their own feeling for the beloved is rare, as in, more potent than the feeling of their rivals.

Both, of course, are softly deceiving themselves (ourselves) [see photo], and I would hazard that each has reason to envy, miserably, the other. I can’t know for sure, as it’s always near-impossible to find the enviable in one’s own sorry state.

I’m all for seasonal cooking when it counts, but some days, especially good industrious days when I’ve expended as much as I can, I want something homemade and restorative, but there’s nothing much in the larder except dried beans, a can of tomatoes, a dried crust of bread, and a few staple vegetables–carrots, onions, celery.

And so bean soup. It is a lovely thing, that lasts. I made one last Monday and ate on it all week, and it’s Monday again and I’m already tempted to put another pot on. For someone who has as short a culinary attention span as I, that’s saying a lot about the simple rightness of this soup.

What I did was, I dug up this 20-ounce bag whose label said “15 Bean Soup.” But it wasn’t soup, it was 15 kinds of dried beans (and a paper envelope labeled “Ham Flavor” that I discarded). I brought half the beans (so, 10 ounces, and this was everything from lentils to cranberry beans to something even bigger, so any kind of beans you got will work) to a boil with enough water to cover by an inch, turned off the heat once it boiled and let them sit covered for about 45 minutes. This, instead of soaking them all night. I’m told by people who know that beans don’t need to soak or even pre-cook, but this soup was so delicious that I want to give it to you just as I made it.

Then I browned some roughly chopped onion, carrot, and celery (a cup or so of each) in a healthy amount of oil and, when those were soft, threw in three or four cloves of minced garlic. As soon as the garlic turned color, no more than 30 seconds, I added the drained beans, 10-12 cups of liquid, almost all water (and a cup and a half of leftover chicken broth, but that isn’t strictly necessary), a cup or so of tomato sauce that didn’t turn out good enough to be used prominently for anything (any kind of canned tomatoes or bottled sauce would do well), a decent amount of salt, and pepper. It simply isn’t true that beans toughen if they are salted while they cook. Get that superstition right out of your head; the flavor is so much better if you salt early.

I also added about 3/4 cup of farro, an Italian grain that for my money is interchangeable with barley. So, save your cash and throw in some pearled barley. Or rice of any make, model, or color. 3/4 cup will seem like not a lot but it will be just right.

I brought all that to a boil and then took it down to a bare simmer. It’ll take a few hours for the beans to soften, depending on their size. If you use all lentils, of course, it won’t take an hour. But as long as the beans don’t disintegrate, more cooking can only be to the good, with increasing depth of flavor.

Right at the end, I threw in some arugula. Spinach would do nicely, or some fresh herbs (especially parsley, basil, cilantro, perhaps mint) after you take it off the heat. If you have more woody/oily herbs like rosemary, thyme, or oregano, or dried herbs (perhaps Italian seasoning or herbes de provence) instead of fresh, add those at the beginning, when you add the liquid. I had herbs but didn’t choose to use them; I happened to seek that deep, savory, cooked flavor without any contrast. Other times I might add Parmigiano as well, but I wanted a cleaner texture this time.

You might need to add some water when you reheat it.

The photo was taken on the third day of soup leftovers. I wanted croutons, so I cubed some old baguette and browned the pieces in olive oil with a little salt. You can make them in the oven, I suppose, but it’s quicker in a skillet–they were done, crispy with lightly blackened edges, by the time the bowl of soup was heated in the microwave. There are all manner of recipes for more fancy croutons with herbs and garlic, but if you have a flavorful dish to begin with, the croutons can be plain.

Here are my answers and, in cases where I missed something, Wallace’s edits to my answers:

(1) It was the yuletide season like I had never seen it before.

It was the yuletide season as I had never seen it before.

(2) We were in Innsbruck, Austria and we could not find a place to stay the night.

We were in Innsbruck, Austria, and we could not find a place to stay the night. [Comma after Austria]

(3) We passed by the inn.

We passed the inn. [By is redundant]

(4) It has made its way into the mainstream of verbal discourse.

It has made its way into mainstream discourse. [Discourse is already verbal]

(5) Cross burning began in medieval times on the green hills of Scotland, where clans used them to rally their kin and kith against enemies.

Cross burning began in medieval times on the green hills of Scotland, where clans used them to rally their kith and kin against enemies. [The idiom is reversed]

(6) “Get used to it.” I said to myself.

“Get used to it,” I said to myself

(7) As the president is a Christian, he prays every morning.

Since [or because] the president is  a Christian, he prays every morning. [As for because is a Britishism, if I remember correctly]

(8) I can support this claim with quotes from several published sources.

I can support this claim with quotations from several published sources.

(9) It consisted of only two brief 50-minute workshops which one speaker enticingly described as “therapy session sized.”

It consisted of only two 50-minute workshops which one speaker enticingly described as “therapy session– sized.” [Brief is redundant; n-dash between session and sized]

(10) How else can we explain such an abomination of human nature to occur?

How else can we explain the occurrence of such an abomination of human nature? [Or others, as long as the poor syntax is fixed]

(11) Bekavac also quoted Jeannette Rankin, which the Internet tells me was the first female representative to Congress.

Bekavac also quoted Jeannette Rankin, who the Internet tells me was the first female representative to Congress. [Not whom because it is a subjective pronoun with the verb "was"]

(12) There were less than a hundred students at the rally.

There were fewer than a hundred students at the rally. [Fewer if you can count it, less if you measure it.]

(13) People often say that Freud’s theories are about nothing but sex. They are generally correct.

People often say that Freud’s theories are about nothing but sex. The people are generally correct.

(14) Timothy McVeigh might be a leader and he has stepped over lines where only a minority of anti-government agitators will follow.

Timothy McVeigh might be a leader, and he has stepped over lines where only a minority of anti-government agitators will follow.

(15) The U.S., Canada, and Mexico comprise North America.

North American comprises the U.S., Canada, and Mexico.

(16) The Dean of Students at Harvey Mudd had the burned cross thrown in a dumpster without notifying its original owner and it looked suspicious.

The Dean of Students at Harvey Mudd had the burned cross thrown in a Dumpster without notifying the original owner, and the situation looked suspicious. [Dumpster is a proper noun; "its" is a vague pronoun reference that could refer to [D]umpster, and “it” is vague as well.]

(17) His name was left off of the list.

HIs name was left off the list.

(18) Drug-induced or not, he’s very inarticulate.

Under the influence of drugs or not, he’s very inarticulate. [Other possibilities here, but "drug-induced" cannot modify "he"]

(19) A person should be honest about their desires.

A person should be honest about his or her desires.

(20) Most people are adverse to cannibalism.

Most people are averse to cannibalism.

(21) I must follow those that I lead.

I must follow those whom I lead.

(22) There was fog outside of our car.

There was fog outside our car.

(23) If one acts, you are a leader.

If one acts, one is a leader.

Coldfront did a nice tribute w/ poem here.

I hadn’t the pleasure of studying with Mr. Violi at the New School, but I was lucky enough to have a conversation or two with him and to hear him read a few times, which was always a great treat. For someone like me, who didn’t really know him, he was nevertheless a fixture at my school in the best possible way, and it’s hard to imagine the place without him. It is surely a keen loss to those who knew him. If you didn’t know him, it will be your gain to discover or rediscover his work now. Here is a list of what you can find online.