Enjoyed the premise. Did not read all the book as it seemed to go off course.

I really enjoyed Hampl's exploration of 'the wasted day', which of course is not exactly what it seems. The backbone of her book is the life and work of Montaigne, who described his essais as being that that is passing, as opposed to being an inward look. She also sites other solitaries, including monastic. A paean to daydreaming too.

This is also a memoir about her life, her ancestry, the things of import to her.

Along side this she explores the capacity to be solitary together, within a relationship, and talks out loud to her departed husband with whom she sat for many years across the yellow table. So as well as solitude, there is an acknowledgement of loss. An acknowledgement of a continued conversation. ( )

This is one I read some time ago, know I enjoyed it, but cannot recall enough about to review. ( )

One of my favorite types of literary endeavor is a poet who segues into prose; I think of Mary Carr, or Bob Dylan, or (shiver of delight) James Dickey (Deliverance), whereupon I find myself turning to these authors again and again. Such purity of prose! Such precision of language! The imagery! The clarity of thought! So, when I came across poet Patricia Hempl's "The Art of the Wasted Day," I thought that I would be reading a treatise on how to 'loaf' about, but not feel guilty. This was not to be the case. Hempl, the author of at least seven books of prose and poetry, possesses a high functioning intellect whose life, like mine, abounds with 'to do' lists, 'to go' ideas, and remorse over past deeds unfinished. She does, however, appreciate the mentality of an isolated Gregor Mendel, figuring out genetics alone in a monastery, or a lonely Montaigne or Emily Dickenson, writing solitary essays or poetry to appease their own states of mind. You see, I am fortunate to have a lot of free time on my hands and even more fortunate to be a day dreamer of the first order! One time, I was accosted by a mean-spirited Catholic priest who singled me out to yell, "You There! You with the perpetual sense of wonderment in your eyes!" He thought he was insulting me but, instead, he rather summed up my essence rather nicely, don't you think? As a result, I cannot state that Hempl's memoir, enthralling as it was, gave me any reassurance over my shortcomings or my 'misdeeds;' "Wild" author Sheryl Strayed, did, however, when she delivered this advice: "The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming." So, there you have it: it will work out, though no matter the situation, one cannot escape one's destiny! ( )

A lovely, rambling (in space, time, and topic) elegy to leisure, writing, solitude, and passing time. I enjoyed reading the book, and found many passages intensely quotable. Whenever she speaks to "you," she is talking to her husband, who has died, and I often envied her the intimacy she seemed to share with him (and I am married 43 years myself), but those moments are scattered throughout long narratives of historical characters like the Ladies of Llangollen, Gregor Mendel, and Michel de Montaigne, and visits to their neighborhoods. It ends with a boat trip she took down the river with her partner.

I was ultimately unsatisfied by the book, which at times took digression to improbable heights and asserted equivalences I could not follow, whether because they were too densely rich or because they partook of some correspondence visible only within the author's universe. ( )