Masterful.
I read Talk Dirty to Me in the nineties and was captivated. It is the best non-pornographic writing I've ever read about my favorite subject - elegant, courageous and perceptive. I have no idea why it has taken me more than two decades to go back to the Tisdale well. When I checked Violation out from the library, I anticipated that I would read it with pleasure, but I had no idea how much. To the eventual annoyance of my wife (a good-natured, tolerant sort who loves me and loves books as much as I do), I could not shut up about this collection. Any conversation, on any subject, prodded me to share some pithy Sallie Tisdale observation.
Like me, Tisdale is a bit of an intellectual magpie - Violation features essays about subjects as disparate as firefighting, elephant reproduction and social organization, gender relations as demonstrated in amateur athletics, life on a cancer ward, and the ethics of writing nonfiction. Unlike me, her curiosity has rigor. She gets interested in something and studies it until she seemingly knows everything there is to know about it. She conveys her encyclopedic learning, though, from a place of sincere humility. Like any really smart person, she understands just how impossibly much there is to know about this baffling world.
And the writing. The writing. Just breathtaking. "We are all impostors," she writes in my favorite sentence in the book, "never more so than when we try to tell the truth." I think she's right, but I've never read a writer who tried harder. She is relentless with herself and with the limitations of expression, while maintaining a consistent, clearly heartfelt lovingkindness toward the rest of the world that, I would imagine, is partly inspired by her Buddhist practice but mostly by a fundamental decency that shames me. Each sentence is polished to a lapidary shimmer that frequently gives her prose the distilled intensity of poetry, but without the irritating self-regard that oozes out of so many poems. I will confess that sometimes, reaching for an ineffable idea, she lost me, but, while I've come to believe in most instances that if I don't know what a writer is saying it's because the writer didn't know what she was saying either, when Tisdale outpaced me, I knew she would be waiting, right there in the next sentence, for me to catch up.
In the second-to-the-last essay in this anthology, "The Indigo City," a lament about her own mediocrity, she quotes Flaubert. "Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars." I don't know if she's melted any stars, but her cracked kettle frequently - literally - took my breath away*.
*See? I couldn't make it a few paragraphs without lying. It felt true and I want you to admire her like I do.