Everyone in my book group loved this book. The writing draws you into its pace and tone and you don't want to miss a single word. The characters and story are fascinating and surprising and the settings are marvelous. A beautiful book in every way.
If you have never read Willa Cather, you MUST. She is one of the leaders of female authors in this century. A classic, The Song of the Lark is a MUST READ.
This book, published in 1915, was largely a disappointment. Billed as a tale of "a feisty girl whose upbringing in a raw, provincial Colorado town nearly stifles her artistic ambitions" which "captivates readers with its psychologically subtle portrait of a young woman sustained by determination...," it instead is a work that leaves one as frustrated as a starving artist.
Willa Cather, clearly a forerunner of feminist American writing, paints a picture of an existence without hope, purpose or fulfillment. The Song of the Lark is a godless portrait of an artist who exists outside of meaningful relationships, even with self. Devoted to her artistry, she develops not love for craft or success in achievement, but rather hatred, frustration and disappointment. It is a selfish and sad existence.
While the rich upbringing in a small town is acknowledged as a part of her immense artistic talent, it is simultaneously derided as simple and worthless.
Unfortunately, I will never get the time back that I spent plodding through this sometimes lovely (in its descriptions of the country) but mostly pointless diatribe of the sanctity of art.
Willa Cather, clearly a forerunner of feminist American writing, paints a picture of an existence without hope, purpose or fulfillment. The Song of the Lark is a godless portrait of an artist who exists outside of meaningful relationships, even with self. Devoted to her artistry, she develops not love for craft or success in achievement, but rather hatred, frustration and disappointment. It is a selfish and sad existence.
While the rich upbringing in a small town is acknowledged as a part of her immense artistic talent, it is simultaneously derided as simple and worthless.
Unfortunately, I will never get the time back that I spent plodding through this sometimes lovely (in its descriptions of the country) but mostly pointless diatribe of the sanctity of art.
