Zhenia Luvers

Evgenia, Evgeni and Boris Pasternak

Zhenia Luvers, the protagonist of The Childhood of Luvers, by Boris Pasternak (1918) grows up in a house full of “mournful confusion.” Her parents are well-off, but generally either absent or unhappy. She and her brother are bewildered. Zhenia wants only to understand the names of things, such as the factory her father directs, which looks so strange at night on the bank across the river. His clients give the family bearskins as presents. A white bearskin is purchased for Zhenia. One day she sees spots of blood on the white fur. It is her own. She takes the powder which belongs to the French governess and tries to whiten the stains, but the French governess slaps her. Just at that moment, her mother returns, and amid tears learns the truth. Zhenia is growing up.

Spring comes, and inexplicably, the parents are happy. The father brings jewels as presents, some “resembled drops of almond milk, others splashes of blue water colour … others sparked gaily with the sparkle of the frozen juice of blood oranges.” The family boards a train in the evening and Zhenia sleeps. When she wakens in an upper bunk, she cannot take her eyes off the mountainous panorama that rolls past the window. The man who shares their compartment explains that a signpost with the word “Asia” on it will soon appear. Her brother tells Zhenia that the Ural Mountains are the natural border between Europe and Asia. She is terribly excited that they will cross this frontier. All heads on the train pop out the windows as the signpost appears and they leave “dust-laden, wearisome Europe.”

In the new house, everything is different. The milk is brought by Ulyasha in two pails. In the kitchen there is “less crockery, but there was the wonderful iced butter on the damp maple-leaves.” Once they are settled and summer is over, Zhenia is sent to school. “Life ceased to be a poetical caprice; it fermented around her like a harsh and evil-coloured fable – in so far as it became prose and was transformed into fact.”

Her parents go to the theatre in the sleigh in a snowstorm, while Zhenia withdraws to her room with a book of fairy tales. The snow outside is so bright, she hardly needs light to read by. She goes to bed at midnight, and wakes to shouts, banging and a woman screaming. It is her mother. Zhenia and her brother are sent away to friends.

Zhenia is miserable and wants to go home, but she tries to be a good guest. Alone, she breaks down. She realizes that she is like her mother, that her mother is in her. She asks the friend whose home she is in, “Could you have a child?” “Of course, like every other girl,” is the reply. When she goes home a few weeks later, the doctor tells her what happened. The family horse trampled a man as her parents came home from the theatre and her mother gave birth to a little dead boy. Speaking to her tutor later, she finds the dead man is his friend, a man she has seen. For the first time she is truly aware of people outside her family. The tutor sees that she has changed completely. She had been a child, but now she is a woman.

Pasternak chose to tell this story of a young girl awakening in her perceptions. The story is of one piece with his method, which compresses so many details, so much of the real that it is difficult to read. As we go, we perceive things as a confused young girl might, only slowly piecing them together. She doesn’t understand much of what she is aware of, and the reader doesn’t either.

I’ve read this story many times. I am hampered, of course, by my lack of Russian, but also the vivid details crowd each other, every sentence rich with possible meanings. For me, Pasternak is one of the great writers, showing us that the small, reasonable world we inhabit is actually full of wonders. “So that there shall be no dead branches in the soul, so that its growth shall not be retarded, so that man shall be incapable of mingling his narrow mind with the creation of his immortal essence, there exists a number of things to turn his vulgar curiosity away from life, which does not wish to work in his presence and in every way avoids him … Hence all respectable religions, all generalizations, all prejudices and the most amusing and brilliant of them all – psychology.”

Note to Readers: In English, The Childhood of Luvers is contained in Safe Conduct, An Autobiography and Other Writings, by Boris Pasternak, published by New Directions Paperbook, copyright 1949.

Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books” which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was The Childhood of Luvers by Boris Pasternak. After meditating on these books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine pages), I offer it to anyone who requests it (in a .pdf format) from lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com.

Nadja

For a few months in 1926, Andre Breton was mesmerized by a young woman whose perceptions were intense, but irrational. He met her on the streets of Paris, idling near the bookstalls. “She carried her head high, unlike everyone else on the sidewalk. And she looked so delicate she scarcely seemed to touch the ground as she walked. A faint smile may have been wandering across her face.”

Leona Camille Ghislain Delcourt

Nadja was a real woman who allowed herself to become part of Andre Breton’s experiments in surrealism, and gave her name to his manifesto Nadja (1928), translated into English by Richard Howard. She had chosen the name Nadja for herself, she said,“because in Russian it’s the beginning of the word hope, and because it’s only the beginning.”

Breton and Nadja meet each day. She tells him stories of “ceaselessly relying on miracle” to get herself from day to day. He tells her about the connections he and his friends are making between their mental perceptions and concrete, actual things and places. Walking around Paris, they attempt to leave their movements entirely to chance, admitting themselves “to an almost forbidden world of sudden parallels, petrifying coincidences, and reflexes peculiar to each individual, of harmonies struck as though on the piano, flashes of light that would make you see, really see, if only they were not so much quicker than all the rest.”

While in a taxi with his wife and a friend, “some sudden vividness on the left-hand sidewalk, at the corner of Saint-Georges, makes me almost mechanically knock on the window. It is as if Nadja had just passed by. I run, completely at random, in one of the three directions she might have taken. And as a matter of fact it is Nadja.”

Traveling together they find that everyone is looking at them. Not just at Nadja, but at the two of them. “They can’t believe it, you see, they can’t get over seeing us together. That’s how rare that fire is in your eyes, and in mine,” Nadja says.

They continue to meet, and Nadja makes several drawings which are reproduced in the text, but she becomes increasingly careless and it becomes more clear to Breton that he can do nothing for her. She is committed to the Vaucluse sanitarium. Breton fears he has aided in her madness, but, he says, “the well-known lack of frontiers between non-madness and madness does not induce me to accord a different value to the perceptions and ideas which are the result of one or the other.” Nadja’s identity has been uncovered by a Dutch writer, Hester Albach, following the clues in Breton’s book and a cache of letters bound up with the manuscript. She was Leona Camille Ghislain Delcourt, who arrived in Paris in the mid-1920’s and died in 1941.

For a long time, I was fascinated by the Surrealists, specifically by their attempt to move from abstract thinking to an understanding of the concrete. As Anna Balakian says in Surrealism: the Road to the Absolute, “one of the basic characteristics of the surrealist mind is its uncompromising will to find a foolproof unity in the universe.” I was looking for that too and I kept returning to the mysterious texts in which Breton and Louis Aragon and others sought, with great honesty, to relate what they were doing.

Balakian pointed out Breton’s vigorous optimism, his protest against Western philosophy’s tendency to rationalize the miseries of the human condition and his intent of world transformation. Breton continued his fight for many years though it may be hard to see today.

Jean Markale, in The Celts: Uncovering the Mythic and Historic Origins of Western Culture (a book written with perhaps more intuition than scholarship), describes the race which inhabited most of Europe before they were pushed to its western edges by the Romans and the Saxons. They left no writing, but many artifacts. Nevertheless, Markale says: “All the great endeavours of the Western world can be traced back to the Celtic mind, for behind them there is a dynamic force which seeks always to change, to shatter the narrow confines of arbitrary and unmoving reason.”

Markale notes that Breton saw in his Celtic heritage the light he was trying to pass on. He quotes Breton: “I, too, am part of the moorlands of Brittany. They have often tortured me but I love the will-o-the-wisp light they keep in my heart. Inasmuch as that light has reached me, I have done what was in my power to pass it on: I am proud to think that it has not yet gone out.”

Note to Readers: Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books” which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was Nadja, by Andre Breton. After meditating on these books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine pages), I offer it to anyone who requests it (in a .pdf format) from lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com.

Sara Pargiter

Sometimes “something came to the surface, inappropriately, unexpectedly, from the depths of people, and made ordinary actions, ordinary words, expressive of the whole being.” Virginia Woolf’s The Years (1937) is made up of these moments in the lives of a large extended family, showing many ways of being British in the early part of the Twentieth Century, from a titled lady who would rather be a farmer, to an African farmer returned home. Spanning fifty years, it is so full of life it is hard to hold it all at once as you read. Of the characters in it, I found Sara most deeply fascinating.

Sara is the daughter of Colonel Pargiter’s brother Digby. Dropped as a baby, Sara has a slight deformity, a hunched shoulder which doesn’t affect her high spirits. We meet her as a child, dancing wildly around a bonfire in the middle of a London garden with her sister. A few years later we see her at home in her attic room, looking out the window at the people coming and going from parties. “The dotted square of green was full of the flowing pale figures of women in evening dress; of the upright black and white figures of men in evening dress.” She watches a couple and imagines what they are saying to each other. “A fragment of my heart, my broken heart.”

As she grows older, Sara (sometimes called Sally) lives in reduced circumstances, but this doesn't affect her spirits either. Her cousin Martin, seeing her on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral takes her to a chop house and then goes with her to Hyde Park, where they meet Sara’s sister with her sleeping baby at the Round Pond. As Martin and Maggie talk, Sara falls asleep under the trees, “netted with floating lozenges of light from between the leaves.” Martin’s sister Rose is in prison for participating in a suffragette march and throwing a brick.

Sara always seems to be “balancing herself on the arm of a chair, sipping coffee and swinging her foot up and down,” making sharp, incisive comments about what she observes. Or, alternately, spinning what she sees into imaginative stories, usually with the ring of truth. I adored Sara’s insouciance, kept reading the book over and over to try to see her whole. I am sure Virginia was describing her young self in Sara.

But another aspect of Virginia is depicted in Eleanor, the practical eldest of the Pargiter children. Some composite of Vanessa Bell [Virginia’s sister] and Virginia, Eleanor energetically moves about London, working with charitable organizations, hopping on buses and using the telephone in the final chapter. Eleanor, fresh from the country is glad to be back in London, breathing in the soft air, expanding in “the uproar, the confusion, the space of the Strand.” This London, in which many of Virginia’s friends live within walking distance of each other, and of the reading room at the British Museum, is terribly attractive.

In the final chapter of the book, all the Pargiters meet at a party. Eleanor is in her 70’s. She has never married but remains interested in everything. Her nephew North says “Old Eleanor, with all her rambling and stumbling, was worth a dozen of Peggy [his sister who is a doctor] any day.” Sara is attached to Nicholas, a Pole who “loves those of his own sex.” She dances with him and later falls asleep. When she wakes the dawn is breaking. “There against the window, gathered in a group, were the old brothers and sisters. ‘Look, Maggie,’ she whispered, turning to her sister. ‘Look!’”

Virginia Woolf made several attempts to write the book that eventually became The Years. She thought originally that she would set factual essays describing what conditions for women were like beside the stories she envisioned. She soon gave that up, as she believed that the truth of fact and the truth of fiction would “meet and destroy each other.” Her initial attempt, published as The Pargiters, is also wonderful.

In the 1970’s, as biographies of Virginia Woolf began to be written and excerpts from her letters and diaries appeared, I felt her almost as an intimate. In common with her I had powerful parents, a large number of siblings who remain close, and a great love of place. I didn’t suffer the early losses she did, or have the chemical imbalances. But I do feel that when sane, Virginia Woolf was saner than most.

Virginia did not believe artists were different than other people. “In your modesty you seem to consider that writers are of different blood and bone from yourselves; that they know more of Mrs Brown than you do,” she writes. “Never was there a more fatal mistake. It is this division between reader and writer, this humility on your part, these professional airs and graces on ours, that corrupt and emasculate the books which should be the healthy offspring of a close and equal alliance between us.”

Note to Readers: Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books” which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was The Years, by Virginia Woolf. After meditating on these books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine pages), I offer it to anyone who requests it (in a .pdf format) from lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com.

Komako

Komako is the main character in the book Snow Country, by Yasunari Kawabata, first published in 1947 and translated by Eward Seidensticker. We see her only through the point of view of Shimamura, who has come from Tokyo to spend time at a hot springs resort in Komako’s village. Shimamura, a critic of the Western ballet though he has never seen one, is surprised by Komako’s freshness. “It seemed to Shimamura that she must be clean to the hollows under her toes.” She is not a geisha at this time, though she has trained as one. She is just 19.

Nozawa Mountain Shrine, Japan

Shimamura makes several visits to the hot spring resort at different seasons, drawn to Komako. She keeps a diary and studies the samisen, a guitar-like musical instrument having a long neck and three strings, from sheet music as there is no one to teach her. When Komako first plays for him, Shimamura is transported. “The notes went out crystalline into the clean winter morning, to sound on the far, snowy peaks.” He cannot believe she is as good as she sounds, that practicing alone has led her to take on this special power. He feels that her playing, indeed her life, is wasted in this remote mountain village.

Komako falls in love with Shimamura. He is someone who can see who she is. By his second visit, she has become a mountain geisha, making money by spending time with resort guests, serving and entertaining them. But she leaves her parties and comes to his room at the hotel again and again at odd hours of the night, often drunk. At first she tries to hide her attraction to this guest, but later gives up. She has her clothes, her samisen brought to the hotel. She and Shimamura bathe together, intimate and domesticated.

Shimamura is entranced by the “strange magical wildness” of this young woman. A sensualist, none of the beauty of the seasons is lost on him. But other than being a connoisseur, he has little life of his own. Komako takes him to her rooms, first a room in which silkworms have been kept, later a room over a candy shop. She explains her geisha contracts, tells him everything. She is connected to the village, to the music teacher and her son, who both die, and to Yoko, whom she feels is her burden. Shimamura falls into the habit of waiting for Komako’s frequent visits, but in the end it becomes clear to Shimamura that he must leave, that Komako belongs to her village, that she will go, as she says, “pleasantly to seed in the mountains.”

The utter strangeness of the world I first encountered in Snow Country has become for me now familiar. Having read it many times, I am always moved by the intimacy of these two very different people, as well as by the startling drama of the natural world Kawabata describes. “High up the mountain, the kaya grass spread out silver in the sun, like the autumn sunlight itself pouring over the face of the mountain. Ah, I am here, something in Shimamura called out as he looked up at it.”

Komako’s passion for Shimamura is expressed very delicately, but clearly. She is delighted to find someone with whom she can share the details of her life, which she has only been able to share with her diary. Komako is a gifted young woman who works for her living in a beautiful village along the west coast of Japan. “Her cheeks still carried the ruddiness of her north-country childhood. In the moonlight the fine geisha-like skin took on the luster of a sea shell.” Because he comes from the city, Shimamura sees Komako as entirely of her place, her home. It is how I see her too. I feel the utter honesty of Snow Country and love what I am able to see of Komako. It has enlarged my concept of who I can be, a woman for whom nature is enough.

Note to Readers: Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books” which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was Snow Country, by Yasunari Kawabata. After meditating on these books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine pages), I offer it to anyone who would like to see it in a .pdf format. Email me at lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com to request it.

Abelone Brahe

Abelone Brahe, a character in The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke, first published in 1910, is the youngest sister of Malte’s mother. Malte is in love with her, but he says that in his notebooks he will say nothing about her. “Only wrong would be done in the telling,” he says. “One cannot say anything about a woman.” But Malte finds himself writing about women a good deal.

Malte Laurids Brigge has lost the Danish ancestral home, the dogs, the inherited things around which he could have lived comfortably. He lives in Paris, a solitary. His dislocation is such that he believes he may be close to madness. He spends his time in the streets, the libraries and museums of Paris, recording the progress of the new individual he is becoming in his notebooks. He is very lonely and he endlessly writes down stories of his family, of the many deaths he has seen and the ghosts that remain.

But he is also certain that solitude is the price he must pay to see reality. “I marvel sometimes how readily I give up everything I expected for the reality, even when the reality is bad.” He notices many young girls drawing in museums, wondering why they too needed to leave home. “They have already begun to look about, to search; they, whose strength has always lain in being found.” But it comes of weariness, Malte thinks. Women have, for centuries, done the whole work of love. He wonders whether men might start to learn this work, now that so much is changing. The notebooks, which begin with the records of many deaths, turn to a meditation on love.

Abelone remains mysterious, seen only in an idyllic description of her in the garden in summer, stripping currants out of their clusters with a fork. She leads Malte to Bettina von Arnim, “whose love was equal to everything,” and whose collected letters to Goethe are among the few books from which Malte never parts. Goethe was not equal to her, Malte thinks. “Is not the whole world of your making? For how often you have set it afire with your love,” he says of Bettina.

Throughout The Notebooks Abelone links Malte to his home. She doesn’t marry. As a young person, her father finds that she too burns a candle early in the morning writing and requests her to take down his memoirs. These chronicle the aristocratic salons of his time, and particularly the German literary circle of Julie Reventlow, though he dies before he can tell Abelone much about this woman whom he considered a saint. Malte tells us no more about Abelone, though he sometimes talks to her. He describes a magnificent tapestry to her. “I think you would understand,” he writes. Hearing a singer in Venice, he thinks, “Abelone.”

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge speak to me of the painful inner process Jung called individuation. This understanding of one’s unique self and destiny, in Jung’s terms, allows one to forge an ego that “does not break down when incomprehensible things happen; an ego that endures, that endures the truth, and that is capable of coping with the world and with fate.” [Memories, Dreams and Reflections, C.G. Jung, 1961]

I was one of those young girls who had left home for the city. For me too, seeing reality was worth the price. I was less worried about love than Malte, steeped in the rich atmosphere of a loving family, Christian in the best sense of the word. But I was determined to become the one my inner self wished to be. The Notebooks celebrate the uniqueness of the individual on his lonely quest. Abelone remains the good angel hovering over Malte, not particularly knowable, but blessing his adventure in modernity with her spirit. Mine too.

Note to Readers: Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books” which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rilke. After meditating on these books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine pages), I offer it to anyone who would like to see it in a .pdf format. Email me at at lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com to request it.

Karen Blixen

“I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills. … Up in this high air you breathed easily, drawing in a vital assurance and lightness of heart. In the highlands you woke up in the morning and thought: Here I am, where I ought to be.” Karen Blixen’s book Out of Africa is a true memoir in that she wrote it after the coffee farm she managed in Kenya for 17 years had failed. In the dark atmosphere hanging over Europe in 1936, she wrote from her family home at Rungsted, Denmark, looking back and distilling her love for the life she had lived in the high country in Kenya.

Isak Dinesen, is the pen name of Karen Dinesen von Blixen-Finecke, who lived and wrote from 1885 to 1962. She went to Africa with her husband, Bror, described by Beryl Markham as “six feet of amiable Swede and, to my knowledge, the toughest, most durable White Hunter ever to snicker at the fanfare of safari or to shoot a charging buffalo between the eyes while debating whether his sundown drink will be gin or whiskey.” When Karen and Bror separated, Karen was left to manage the farm, which was really too high up for growing coffee. There was little rain and coffee prices fell. Karen Blixen could not imagine leaving and fought it as long as she could.

Out of Africa is filled with vivid descriptions of the things that happened on the coffee farm and the people who worked there: her manager the Somali Farah, her Kikuyu cook Kamante, and Pooran Singh who worked the forge. She writes of her friends Denys Finch-Hatton and Berkeley Cole who came out to dine and listen to music. Though many assume Blixen was in love with Denys, she does not make much of this in the book. When they have a hunting adventure together she writes, “we were too wet, and too dirty with mud and blood to sit down to it, but stood up before a flaming fire in the dining room and drank our live, singing wine up quickly. We did not speak one word. In our hunt we had been a unity and we had nothing to say to one another.”

Blixen wrote in English, the language she used in her years in Kenya. It was her second language and even now, when I read Out of Africa, the slightly unfamiliar use of English, as if she were rolling the words over on her tongue, tasting and smelling them, makes me want to read them aloud. I first read the incantatory sentences at the beginning of this essay when I was 16. I had always been a reader, but these unforgettable words convinced me that real people, writing in our day could create of their own lives sentences which lifted those who heard them into a profound acceptance of the real.

Blixen saw herself as a story teller. She sat writing in the silence at the end of the day, far from home, writing stories to keep herself from anxiety, to regale her friends when they arrived. I am not as interested in the many stories she wrote, in which artifice rules. She let some of them get away from her, stories of romance and illusion. In Out of Africa Blixen restrained her writing to what she was sure of, to what she saw and heard and felt. The combination of a romantic nature steeling itself to realism is profound and makes for greatness.

Blixen lived during a time when imperialism in Africa was still very much alive. I was interested to find this critique of her by a young British woman, Esther Poyer, a raw food enthusiast and life coach. Esther visits Karen Blixen’s house, now a museum in the suburbs of Nairobi. She asks why anyone should be interested in Blixen. I can understand this. But allowing for her historical period, I find Karen Blixen a woman who loved deeply and did the best she could with her circumstances, spilling out her passion in shimmering sentences which live long after her.

Antonia

In My Antonia, published in 1918, Willa Cather tells the story of Antonia, based on Annie Pavelka, a friend she grew up with in Nebraska. As a child, Antonia comes from Bohemia to Nebraska with her family, the favorite of her cultured father. Before he dies, Antonia’s father asks Jim in broken English to “teach my Antonia.” Jim watches Antonia’s hard life as she works in the fields on land which has never been broken. But her brother’s abuse, her mother’s whining and her own disgrace do not dishearten Antonia or quench her spirit.

Jim finds Antonia and her Scandinavian immigrant friends much more lively than the young people in his town who go to the “correct” social club. The immigrant girls may be rougher, work hard in the fields, but they have a directness, joy and physicality denied the tamer, more cultured girls of his town.

Jim does as he is told, studies hard and goes east to become a lawyer. He prospers, but success in the great world doesn’t make him happy. He marries someone uncongenial and finds himself traveling a lot. On one of his trips he returns to Nebraska.

Pavelka Farmstead

Though Antonia still has a difficult life as her husband knows little about farming, she is surrounded by her children. Jim feels he has come home. He has found no one in the world of culture whose spirit surpasses that of Antonia. Whatever else has gone, she has not lost the “fire of life.” Her friend Lena, who also attracts Jim, retains the lazy sensuous manner she always had, parlaying it into a successful business in San Francisco.

Reading My Antonia is to go back to a refreshing discussion of values. It is what good literature offers. The book sifts pastoral values against more urban ones. These alternating values, according to Karen Armstrong, have contended with each other for centuries. Setting nature beside artifice, Jim chooses nature. Physicality is part of it. The town girls he knows aren’t allowed to move! But Jim also sees in Antonia the finer feelings shown by her European father, who could not survive on the rough prairie: delight in music and dancing, conversation and friendship.

I love the book because Cather’s values, represented by the narrator Jim, are my own. In this country, the whiff of commerce hangs around art, but walking out under the sky, under the trees and enjoying the sun give one freedom.

The immigrant girls described by Willa Cather were more my sisters than my mentors. One of my grandfathers lived in a sod house until he was ten. My great-grandmother had been a hired girl in Norway. That women can be independent and hardworking and still be attractive was not something I needed to learn. Growing up I saw many fine partnerships between married people, including that of my parents. Thus the pastoral values Cather celebrates in My Antonia were more a confirmation than anything new and strange. Many of the women I found to educate myself in the feminine were from other countries, exotic to me. Antonia feels like home.