We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth - John Lubbock

It's five months since I was last present on this blog. I have since popped by. Glanced briefly across at it before clicking elsewhere. Looked longingly to it from a distance and hurriedly moved away. The source of my malaise? Shame. Doleful, inexcusable shame.

I dislike neglect of any description. It smacks of a lack of control on the one hand and a lack of thought on the other. I am here guilty of both.

I knew there was a risk. Read my two previous posts and you know that I knew that I knew. And still I went ahead. Still I chose to continue irrespective. There are no excuses.

So I joined a reading group challenge. So I tried to set a deadline on finishing a book. It didn't work for me. It sent me backwards instead of urging me forwards. Can I say never mind? Put a line under it all? Onwards and upwards?

If it helps, I lost the group after the second check in. (Where did you go, group? Was it me??). And then, through my dismay at missing my deadline, I forced myself to finish MB. Even when the thrill of whales and their hunters had long gone. Which was fairly soon, if I'm honest.

But finish it, I did. Last week. Only four months short of the given deadline. It has been a busy summer. But enough of my excuses.

My reaction to the book: intermittently gripping, informative and exciting with long periods of incredibly intense descriptive passages. That frankly I could have done without. I was a tad dismayed that of 470 pages, Moby Dick only featured in the flesh for around 20 pages. At the very end. And then mainly in a frenzy. 

Still the pervading gloom which Melville hangs over the tale was enough to hint at the outcome. And I was so joyous at closing the book for the last time that I could not really bring myself to sympathise with the fate of any of the characters. And most especially the hunters.

I have now found for myself some (much) shorter stories. To break me back into a regular rhythm of reading and writing. And to help ease away the shame of my months of neglect. If anyone's still out there to notice...

Books make great gifts because they have whole worlds inside of them. And it's much cheaper to buy somebody a book than it is to buy them the whole world! - Neil Gaiman

I'm not really one for updates on my progress through a book. I don't like the pressure. The interruptions. And I don't really like commenting on anything when I don't have a full overview of it.

Still, I'm going to make an exception with Moby Dick as I'm taking part in this readalong. Which I'm actually enjoying. Thinking about everyone reading the same book at the same time. Somewhere in the world. It's ever so motivating.

And anyway it's quite a hefty book. Meaning if I waited till the end you wouldn't be hearing from me for another month. Or maybe two.

I have to say that I'm pleasantly surprised by my initial experience of MD. It's been a fairly easy and enjoyable read thus far. Interesting. Quirky. Descriptive. Zippy.

The chapters are short which make the reading easy. You feel like you're moving along quite speedily. And this echoes the observations of our narrator, Ishmael, looking around, taking everything in.

 

His descriptions are stunning. "A gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly." "Humming to himself in his heathenish way." "I sat there in that now lonely room."

This suggests not only an observant man. But a sensitive, perceptive man. Open to be educated by the world around him instead of relying on his education to mould his view of the world.

And so begins my list of themes running through it: acceptance versus prejudice. Perception versus reality. Friendship and intimacy versus scorn and rejection. Tradition versus humanity.

Of course you can't escape the constant biblical references that litter this work. These may indeed be the point of the work? I will learn that in good time.

They begin with the names of the characters:
Ishmael = God hears. Abraham's son by Hagar. Sent away for disrespecting Isaac, the promised seed and Abraham's son by Sarah.
Peleg = Division. In the line from Shem to Abraham.
Bildad = One of Job's three companions. A descendant of Shuah, the son of Abraham by Keturah.
Ahab = King of the northern kingdom of Israel. Married to a pagan wife, Jezebel.
Elijah = One of the foremost prophets of Israel. 
 
The fiery sermon by Father Mapple Rose about Jonah and the whale then sets the tone: Jonah disobeys God. God’s reacts. "And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah."

The woes pronounced by MP will, I feel, be significant for the rest of the tale. But to what extent, I cannot say. 

All I can say is that it would appear that Melville is lamenting the state of mankind. "It's a wicked world in all meridians." "Bildad... had come to the sage and sensible conclusion that a man's religion is one thing and this practical world quite another." "We good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these things and not think ourselves so superior to other mortals, pagans and what not…. Heaven have mercy on us all – Presbyterians and pagans alike – for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked and sadly need mending."

And so I continue. I've yet to meet Ahab. And methinks there are many adventures awaiting me as the Pequod sets sail...

Books serve to show a man that those original thoughts of his aren't very new after all - Abraham Lincoln

I've decided that I'm going to join a read-along. A whole new concept for me. And a whole new experience.

Being a somewhat solitary sort, I'm not sure how it'll all pan out. But I feel the need to jolt my reading into life after a few months of meandering. And stalling.

Roof Beam Reader has mounted the challenge to join him in reading Herman Melville's Moby Dick. Which is on my Classics Club Challenge. Something I've well and truly neglected over the past few months.

So I've signed up to join him. And quite a few others. To try and keep up. To start and finish MB between today and 15 July.

I know little about the book. Apart from the fact that it features a whale pursued by a man. And "Call me Ishmael". The opening words.

I will try to post my progress. Or lack of it. Regularly. Or just intermittently. I don't know how this will work. Or not.

But stay with me. The adventure begins here...

There is no friend as loyal as a book - Ernest Hemingway

And so to Sense & Sensibility. What can be said? That has not already been said a thousand times?

It was a good book on which to end my revisiting of Austen's novels. It is somehow so familiar, so endearing.

There is the steady Elinor to take us through. The long-suffering, stoic Elinor. So put-upon, so faithful. There is so much to admire in this respectful, diligent young lady. And yet few would admire her alongside the prettier, livelier Marianne.

She is abused by so many: a mother most puerile in her wants and actions; a sister almost indifferent to the world around her; the Jennings, the Ferrars; her brother, her lover, her lover's lover. And often the reader.

But I think we can all only rejoice at the vision of her happiness and emotional fulfilment at the close of the curtains.

This is a story we love to see on the screen. And although generally faithful, I often wonder at the need to embellish an already richly dramatic tale. Love and loss. Money and poverty. The intricacies and snobberies of class and social standing. Marianne's hysteria; Lucy's uncouthness. Willoughby's selfishness; the Jennings' crassness; the Dashwood's pomposity. Elinor and Colonel Brandon's selflessness. What more could you possibly ask for?

And so, that's all the Austen novels done. This time round. Read but not forgotten. There is a reason Jane Austen is hailed as one of the great novelists and held in such high esteem. And it's not just the tales she tells. Her inimitable way of seeing the world leaves a mark. Her quirky study of human nature. The beauty of her word use and composition. It all marks and stays with you like a warm mug of hot chocolate on an icy cold day. It is truly delightful and the ultimate feeling you would hope to get from the best hours of reading.

Books are like mirrors: if a fool looks in, you cannot expect a genius to look out - J. K. Rowling

Since my last post, many things have happened. Good and mediocre. But thankfully nothing bad. One of the more exciting things was watching a foal being born. But that's another story and another blog...

On the literary front, I have now finished Sense & Sensibility, and thus have completed my return journey through the Austen novels. And it has been truly delightful.

Even more exciting is that my blog has reached and passed 10,000 page views. Yey!

But back to Austen. And in particular, Mansfield Park. Following such an enjoyable read, I allowed myself to indulge in some light refreshment and took out the DVD interpretations. On a whim. And against my better judgement.

Now I won't dwell on this too much as I inflicted both productions on myself. And in fairness, although Billie Piper didn't strike me as Fanny Price material, at least the ITV version attempted to respect the novel. Dialogue came from the pages of Austen's work, even if it was not attributed to the characters she penned it from. And the overall story was conveyed. In general.

The 1999 film of the same name conveys the overall story even more generally. And from quite a distance may vaguely be associated with Austen's text. If you look really hard.

Call me a purist but I expect to see the book if I watch a film of the same name. Or at least elements of the book. And certainly the main protagonists. Fanny Price was conspicuously absent from the film. Replaced by a feisty young writer who was uncannily like Ms Austen herself in character...

But I will say no more. Each to their own. And this was not close to mine. It will be my endeavour to one day pen a script of my own of Mansfield Park. Just for the pure delight. And to see just how difficult it really is.

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me - C.S. Lewis

It was a beautiful day today, but I couldn't get myself outside before finishing Mansfield Park. It was a long read but an excellent one.

It surprises me somehow. I think I may have been brainwashed over the years into believing Pride & Prejudice and Sense & Sensibility to be the best of Austen's works. I have thus been pleasantly surprised re-reading both MP and Persuasion.

To be sure, MP is far more intense than any of Austen's other works. And indeed lacks the interspersing of humour that make JA such an easy read. The only hint of the playful author comes through at the end, when she brings the story to a speedy conclusion to the satisfaction of all her favoured characters, ensuring another one of her eternal happy endings.

Yet in its examination of feelings and class and of each one's place in the world, maybe MP is the closest of JA's works to real life: People scheming to marry well. Playing with the feelings of others. Each one's fate dependent on their wealth. Or lack of it. As such, the story hardly lends itself to humour. 

As is so well seen in the case of Fanny Price. MP follows the life and loves of FP. Living in a world and family she has not been born into. Incessantly apologetic and woefully conscious of her indebtedness to the Bertrams. Awkward and uncomfortable amongst her cousins. Cowering under the constant bullying of Mrs Norris. Wilting under scrutiny.

All of which the reader feels particularly, party as they are to each of FP's feelings. Insightful and overwhelming as they are.

Fanny's sensitivity, her uncommon humility and her particularly feeble health are offset by her kindness, discretion and discernment. And stand in stark contrast to the hardness of her cousins and their friends. Their selfishness. Their vain pursuit of pleasures. Their complete disregard for the feelings of others and their duty to family.
 
Mansfield Park is a strangely intense tale of hopes and dreams, both frivolous and serious. Almost a Cinderella-like tale, where the outer beauty of the privileged daughters gives way to the inner beauty of the book's steadfast, principled yet insecure heroine.

I think that Fanny may not be the most loved of Austen's chief protagonists. But I cannot dislike her. Indeed I love to admire the romance that sees a character with so little to recommend her, remain the heroine to the end. It gives me hope...

Many people, myself among them, feel better at the mere sight of a book - Jane Smiley

I continue to be a very slow reader. And as I have lacked the imagination of late to invent other reasons to write, I have needed to finish another book before returning here. Although I have been elsewhere.
 
But here I am. A month after my last post. Not very productive methinks. How do people read two or three books a week? I don't care to be pressured by the activity of others. All the same...
 
Still I am happy to share my thoughts on Jane Austen's Persuasion. Which I have just now finished. For all my thoughts are happy ones. In spite of the fact that this was the book of Austen's that I least wanted to read. The least appealing. The most grim. In my memory, at least. And yet I found it one of the most satisfying. On so many levels.
 
The tale of Anne Elliot and her lost love, Captain Frederick Wentworth, is perhaps not as invigorating as JA's other novels. And littered with accidents, death and deception, it is also perhaps not the lightest and brightest of her stories.
 
Yet for me Anne Elliot is one of JA's most endearing characters. The most deeply developed, least frivolous. She is reflective, principled. Gentle. Discerning. And well read. She is discreet and put upon. Despised and loved. And she neither bursts forth youth nor beauty. Thus she is charming through her very nature, which is always to me the best of charms.
 
Captain Wentworth for his part is the devoted, dejected lover. Angry and spurned. Yet unable to stay far from his love any longer. His letter admitting his feelings and pronouncing his intentions is stunning. In that moment, he beats any of JA's lovers for me. So manly, so emotive. Sooooo romantic.
 
The characters are perhaps not as lively, not as immediately appealing as say an Elizabeth Bennett and Mr Darcy, an Emma and Mr Knightley. But their feelings, love and attachment seem deeper, more passionate, more real for their durability. The romance intensified for its duration. And therefore the whole effect is more. Just more.

I was eager to finish Persuasion, and equally sad to arrive at the end. Always the sign of a good read for me. And so I will pursue Austen to the finish. Mansfield Park to be followed by Sense and Sensibility. I will try to pop by more frequently in between reads with some intelligible musings. But make no promises. On either regard...

Sleep is good, he said, And books are better - George R R Martin

Since starting my new job, I've had little time to sit and relax online. Or to do anything much else either, if I'm honest. Still, reviews by my fellow bloggers of their exploits during 2013 have not escaped my notice. Much to my chagrin.

My proud boast of having read 30 or so books last year now leaves me somewhat red-faced. I think I must be a laughing stock in the book blogging world where everyone seems to manage at least 80 or so books in 12 months. At least. And that, it would seem, is not always a good year. I can only be left wondering how they do it. Any hints, advice or explanations would be welcome.

In the meantime, I press on with Jane Austen. My latest re-read has been Northanger Abbey. Never one of my favourites. An opinion which remains unchanged.

It's a sweet enough tale. But not a page-turner for me. Possibly because I have little sympathy with the heroine, Catherine Morland. She's a tad wet for my liking. Her mind is weak, her judgment obtuse. JA usually can be relied on for much better.

Still, I find the author's voice as entertaining as ever. Note her remarks on dressing to impress. "Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction", she warns, because men remain insensible to the new clothes women take so much time over in order to impress them. She continues: "It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire... woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter".

With regard to the mortification Catherine feels in her inability to understand a conversation with the Tilneys, the author chides: "(It was) a misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well she can".

Is that a tad harsh, I wonder? I'm not altogether sure. But they may be arguments I adopt in the future. To explain away anything. And everything. I have the misfortune of knowing something...

That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you to another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive - all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment - Mary Ann Shaffer

Despite my recent reservations, I continue to indulgence myself. And have just finished Pride & Prejudice. Accompanied by a whole lot of Galaxy chocolate. Although the less said about that, the better.

P&P was totally delightful. As was to be expected. And all the more so as it comforted me through a dreadful 1 January 2014 of gales and torrential rain. Charming, romantic, funny. And featuring Mr Darcy. All in one. Who could ask for anything more?

Austen's musings on love and lovers cannot be anything less than delightful. With Charlotte's apparent cynicism, Mary's stoic pronunciations and Lizzie's carefree - and at times careless - commentaries. It has everything to please.

Silly characters abound, for sure, in both female and male form. And in all levels of society. But this gives all the more grace and elegance to the main characters and their stories.

I admit that I do tend to find Jane and Mr Bingley's tales a tad insipid. Still the fiery misunderstandings and prideful foot-stamping of Lizzie and Mr Darcy more than compensate. Two characters ultimately so alike. Both big fish in their own spheres. Both outspoken and admired. Both despising inferior minds and inferior behaviour.

The collision of these two worlds, and the resulting indiscretions, provide great entertainment and admirable romance. 

Re-reading it after so many years, I realised how faithful was/is the BBC's rendering of the novel. Apart from the licence taken to have Mr Darcy dive into a lake after his long ride home from London. But who am I to quibble on such minor additions. Inspired as they are.

The BBC can usually be relied on to make both faithful and truly entertaining interpretations of most writings. However, I must inscribe here my great disliking of its recent production of Emma. I hasten to add that my love for the novel renders me a tad unyielding in such matters. And that having seen most of the productions in her name, I am not best enamoured by any of them. There would seem to be a wilful desire to misrepresent her (as I read her). Instead of a self-important, cheeky but loving daughter, she is portrayed as a selfish, almost spiteful and emotionally-stunted, manipulative girl, mocking and belittling her father amongst others.

No, no, no. Only the 1996 version starring Kate Beckinsale comes close to holding a balance of the contradictions that are Emma. Her silliness and sincerity. Self-importance and attention to duty. Propriety and indiscretions. The scenes of her reveries help us to laugh both at and with her. And thus we have enough sympathy to like her in the end, and rejoice with her in her happiness.

I don't say it's a perfect version, by any means. But it is the only one I can tolerate. Intolerant as I am.  :0(

Amidst the novels and screen versions of them, I'm beginning to feel trapped in JA. Not unpleasant in itself. But I do wonder if I should not move on to another author. It's not like there aren't others (and lists of them) waiting to be read by me. Still why change a winning formula. I'm finishing books again. What to do, what to do...

There are two motives for reading a book; one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it - Bertrand Russell

It's the end of another year. How did that happen? And so much has happened this past year. Not least my move from one country to another. I am now happily installed in my new home, waiting to start my new job. And before I look ahead, I just have to take a little peek backwards.

I particularly lament my lack of reading these past few months. The move seems to have disturbed my momentum and killed my ability to finish books. A phenomenon which will be reversed the more I settle, methinks. Me hopes...

Still, overall, I have made my way through a delightfully diverse and not-so-shabby list of books over the past twelve months. From children's books to classics. Europeans to Americans. And a couple of re-reads thrown in for good measure.

The highlights for me have been many. Finally discovering Roald Dahl and Pooh Bear. Not disliking Dickens. Loving Waugh, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Tolstoy and Virgil. Re-acquainting myself with Emma and Le Petit Prince.

Disappointments have also been part of the journey. Realising that I really don't like Virginia Woolf. Finding Joyce hard going. Being unable to finish Kundera and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

My absolute favourites of the year? Hardy's A Mere Interlude, Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter and Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.

In total, I managed roughly 30 books this year. I'd like to improve on that during 2014. However, I put no pressure on myself. Some of those names remaining on my Classics Club Challenge are quite chunky. And, as I said, I'm just not on top of my reading at the mo. Let's see what happens, eh. And enjoy. :0)

He that loves a book will never want a faithful friend, a wholesome counselor, a cheerful companion, an effectual comforter. By study, by reading, by thinking, one may innocently divert and pleasantly entertain himself, as in all weathers, as in all fortunes - R H Barrow

I finally finished Emma. And in her company thoroughly enjoyed my Sunday afternoon of rain and gales. The storms outside tamed by the gentle ambling of the inhabitants of Highbury. 

It really was a pleasant read. With all the reminders of why Jane Austen's works remain timeless classics. Easy reading. Charming characters. And enough twists and turns to ensure a healthy - and amusing - mental constitutional.

Before we began our study of Emma for A level, my English teacher gave us a very severe warning. You will love it or hate it. The marmite of English literature, it would seem. A warning well founded.

Emma cannot be considered an entirely lovable character. She is wealthy, beautiful and intelligent. Added to which she is spoilt, revered and headstrong. Hardly a person to insight sympathy. And yet I cannot dislike her. Never have and apparently never will.

Austen herself it seems did not dislike her either. Indeed, she is credited with declaring that in Emma she was creating a character that only she would like. You can almost feel her presence hovering protectively over her favoured protagonist. Explaining her misdeeds. Excusing her silliness.

"Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief", she muses. The warning is clear. Although the application not quite so. Isn't Harriet Smith the weak head? Worked on with vanity by Emma? Indeed it is so. Yet Emma is by no means immune to the effects of vanity. And in doing so, shows her weakness. And the result? Only ever mischief, says Austen. Never malicious.

Austen also works through the delightful Mr Knightley to show Emma's humanity and personableness. How masterfully he rebuffs her puerile meddlings and fertile imagination. "Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do". Her stoic acceptance of such discipline and put-downs must give evidence of a good heart. Indeed, her entire conduct towards her troublesome father shows her worth.

So the read was a pleasant one and has given me a taste for the rest of Austen. Now that I have found a job (hurrah!), I feel that I can indulge this taste. Although re-reading such classics really does feel like too much of an indulgence. Like time ill spent when there are so many other books waiting for my attention. Can I indulge guilt free? Mmm. We shall see...

The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid - Jane Austen

It seems inconceivable that a month has passed since my last post. And without my having finished a book. Not one.

Indeed, since my last post, I have barely advanced through Emma. Or One hundred years of solitude for that matter. So much for "working through Austen's novels over the next couple of weeks". Still, my settling in has continued. I am now settled. And in.

Only germs these past three days have made me stop and stay at home. And read again. Hence I feel that I can post without shame. That said, I still haven't finished Emma. Speed is beyond me. And it suddenly seems to be a very long novel. Was it ever so?

That's one more thing about reading on Kindles. It's fine having a percentage gauging your way through. But it's nothing like seeing how far through a book you are. And how far you've got to go. Like carefully placing your bookmark, and flicking through the remaining pages to the end. Not reading, just savouring what's gone before and what is to come.

Yet my reproach is harsh and fleeting. My dear Kindle is in fact ideal. When you're feeling pants, and want to lie down on the sofa and read. When you feel colder than normal because of the germs coursing through your veins and so want to keep as much of your body as possible under the quilt. When your cats have cuddled up to sleep on your belly and your feet, and you can't move without waking them. Then my dear Kindle is indeed ideal. Only one hand needs to be exposed because only one hand is needed to hold it and turn the pages. No need to expose two hands. No need to move and disturb me or the cats. No need to fret. Oh yes. I still love my Kindle dearly.

No person who can read is ever successful at cleaning out an attic - Ann Landers

I’ve finally arrived home. To my hometown. I’m installed in my new flat with my cats, waiting for my furniture to arrive. And the rest of my life to begin.

Those of you who might still be popping by regularly (thank you!) may well have noticed a lack of activity on this blog. But lack of activity here belies a great deal of activity elsewhere. Indeed I have been so very active over the past couple of months. To the point of exhaustion. I resigned, packed up and came home. And that was more work than you can imagine.

So I've been active in moving. Just not in reading matters. Consequently, my books have been somewhat neglected. Then packed away. Then sent off. And thus my reading activities have more than stalled.

I did keep my Gabriel Garcia Marquez read out. One hundred years of solitude. Indeed, I took it with me everywhere over the past two months. On the bus, on the tram. To the dentist’s, optician’s, doctor’s, physio’s. Even to the vet’s. But there were too many distractions. Too many check lists to check and check again. Too many phone calls to make. People to see.

And so I have still only read a quarter of the book. And, I do have to say, not much enjoyed that. Is it me? I'm just not enjoying the tales. The ramblings. I think it’s possibly not the book to read while repatriating yourself. Or maybe just not the book for me. We shall see.

So in the meantime I've opted to re-read Emma. For familiarity. For comfort.  And loving it. Again. I may continue in the same vain and work through Austen’s novels over the next couple of weeks as my settling in process continues.

I will get back on track – and back to my Classics challenge – once on more stable ground. In the meantime, JA will soothe me through these turbulent days. In which I am actually delighting...

A house without books is like a room without windows - Heinrich Mann

Way back when I started this blog, I wrote about The Descendants. One of three books that featured in my first post, methinks. When I was still in incredible pain. Trying to ease my days with good reading.

And good reading this was. A strangely traumatic and yet very probable story. Really enjoyable. Beautifully written. Intelligently put together.

I mused at the time that I was curious to see the film. Because George Clooney was playing the lead. And only for that reason. Sad but true. I'm rarely curious to see the film of the book.

Since that time, the DVD of The Descendants has been high on the list in my DVD-by-post club. And I've been waiting and waiting to see it. And waiting.

Until this last week. When I ended my membership of the DVD club because of my move back to the UK. I'm ending all memberships here. Standing orders, contracts, the lot. But the membership department of the DVD club apparently has not yet communicated with the dispatch department. And the latter sent me my regular batch of DVDs. Including the long-awaited The Descendants.

So yesterday afternoon, instead of working through the huge list of things I have to get done before I leave, I sat with chocolate and orange juice (a most sublime combination, I might add) and indulged myself with the film. It was bliss. The day was grey and wet, and deserving of little else. My bliss was complete.

On top of which, this is a really good interpretation of the book. Now I know that I'm a bit late in this observation. There have been awards and nominations to prove the fact. Still, I feel the need to add my voice. It was the book that I remembered. It echoed the ambiance that I had felt.

And George. Well, he was good. More than that. He was very good. He was how you always hope he will be. Delightful. Really. I may have to watch it again before sending it back...

We read books to find out who we are. What other people, real or imaginary, do and think and feel... is an essential guide to our understanding of what we ourselves are and may become - Ursula Le Guin

I am so very tired. Drained, in fact. Drained of energy, emotion. Everything. Much to do with the fact I'm moving. House. Home. Country. But that's another story. And another blog.

However, that's not all. I've just been to Paris with work for a meeting. A long journey to my favourite city. But without the fun. The visits, the photos, the cafés. This was a straight there and back. With only tantalising glimpses of the architect and monuments and museums through taxi Windows to feed my frustration.

Top this with the intensive reading of Doris Lessing's The Good Terrorist during the journey. Pushed by the desire to finish it. And be done. Which I did. And have done. Kind of. Because as much as I love DL's easy, expressive, intimate style, this tale was hard to shake. It pulls you in. As much as you may resist. And I did.

TGT follows Alice, a 30-something middle class drop-out, moving into a London squat with fellow revolutionaries. Without comment or judgement, DL tells of the interactions of Alice with the man she loves, her fellow housemates, her family and the Authorities. Underlying the whole is a sizzling anger and violence that will ultimately find expression.

This is a bleak tale. Full of broken people seeing a broken society. And nobody knowing truly how to fix it. Except by breaking it some more.

Alice epitomises the confusion. Vehemently rejecting her parents' world of so-called luxury, she spends the entire book trying to bring order and comfort to the squat. Through little "luxuries". She yearns for a man who has moved on from her. And, it would seem, her sex. And thus openly rejects her. She rails at the injustices and abuse of the ruling classes and yet imposes her own injustices and abuse on her family.

And while at first you sympathise with this vulnerable girl who would seem to be a victim, as the book goes on, Alice's unstable mind is only oppressive and disturbing and its ramblings become more clearly incoherent.  DL said of her: "the girl is of course quite mad. This confirms what I have said so often in this context: if a mad person is in a political setting, or a religious one, a lot of people won't even notice he or she is mad. A theme for our times, indeed". Indeed, some more.

So now I'm drinking cider and hugging my cats. Trying to shake off the bleakness. And I'm already feeling better. And wondering which book will be next from my Classics Club challenge list. I think I need something light and airy. Just not seeing anything... Any suggestions?

So many books, so little time - Frank Zappa

I need help. Your help. Somebody's help. I am oppressed. Under a heavy burden. Well, not that heavy. But oppressive, yes. And all in the form of one of my favourite authors. Milan Kundera.

It is of course not his fault. But his book of essays, Les Testaments trahis, is weighing heavily on me. Killing my spirit. Softly but surely. I can't finish it. I'm halfway through and now I'm blocked. I can't let it go. But I can't carry on.

You may recall that I started it back in May. With great gusto and enthusiasm, I might add. But maybe my tired brain is not up to this intellectual challenge. His undulating and mesmerising thought processes. And so I put it back on the shelf. Away from sight. And it's been hanging over me ever since.

I can't throw it aside never to read again. Although deep down in the darkest recesses of my being that's what I'd like to do. If I'm honest. Between me and you. But I seem incapable.

What is wrong with me? Held to ransom by a book! I have posted about this before. I thought I had made a step forward at that point. But no. It would seem that it was one step forward, two steps back...

And so, MK and his Testaments trahis remain on my Classics Club challenge list. Until I can be brave enough to remove them. If ever I can. Help me. Any advice would be welcome. Please...?

 

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us - Franz Kafka

Wow! It's been such a long while since I last wrote. Holidays and visitors and projects have filled my time. As have vineyards and wine and photography. As well as good food and truffle-tasting. All of which were very pleasant, I might add.

As you can see for yourselves: http://www.moonflowersnserendipity.com/Travel/Burgundy/31226211_mFt4nB#!i=2702253428&k=fsTvDsb

But it's time to come back to earth and get on with life. Even reluctantly. And so to books...

Well, not much has been going on there. I did take books with me on my travels. And they were comforting to behold. Still, they never stayed out of the bag for too long.

These were hot, steamy, summer days. When we stopped, we slept. Basically because we didn't have the energy to do otherwise. When we moved, we were eating and drinking and tasting. And generally perspiring profusely. Conditions not conducive to books and paper and concentration.

Before I left, at the start of my time off work, I did read James and the Giant Peach. Just because nothing else would go in. And I really, really needed a frivolous tale and a happy ending. To which James answered perfectly.

But on my return home, Sylvia Plath was waiting for me. The Bell Jar. Not exactly holiday reading, of course. And certainly not the happiest of books. But then mental health issues are not meant to bring happiness methinks. Just possibly understanding. And a little of that would go a long way today...

TBJ makes for a powerful read. More shocking than anything. Scary too. Although unfortunately not totally unfamiliar. SP describes with frightening clarity the pain of a soul in torment. A soul misunderstood, losing control. Lost. Esther Greenwood - whose spends a year "in the bell jar" - presents her case without pomp or ceremony. Taking you along with her. And making no apologies for the bumps and discomfort that follow. Offering little explanation. Barely bewailing her fate. Just giving you the experience.

Esther increasingly isolates herself as her tale unfolds. Rejects all help, affection and love to the extent possible. And thereby the bell jar descends. You can really feel this odd sense of distance permeating her account. Distance from others, from reality, from the life she is attempting to get to grips with. Other people remain very much in the background of her existence. Her family. Her friends. Her colleagues, sponsors. Surrounding her. Part of her life. Yet cut off from her by her own inability to function. That said, their pain and frustration remain tangible somehow. 

The end brings little joy. The worst seems to have past, but there's little to convince that this is truly so. And yet such is life. For some more than others. One long struggle after another.

I read that this book was very much a shock to audiences when it first came out. Possibly because such things weren't talked about, or even imagined, in those days. Possibly because they were just hidden away. Today, I think it may be less shocking, but the whole remains equally uncomfortable. And sad. Just sad.

This was certainly a strange note on which to end my holidays. Of the reality of life. And its ups and downs. And why it's so very important to hold on tight to those ups. And all those who bring them...

 

There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love - Christopher Morley

I have just finished Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. Just this minute. This very second. I wanted to share it with you. But also to hold onto it a tad longer by writing about it immediately. And yet the moment is already slipping away…

This was the absolutely perfect book to read at the start of my holidays. A luxurious, indulgent read to soften the edges of a harsh year. And relax me into the next few weeks. Beautiful people a world away from anything I’ve ever known. And yet troubled by the same dilemmas and disturbances of any other existence. Sometimes in gigantic proportions.

I actually bought this copy of BR way back in the 1980s or thereabouts. I believe I’ve tried to read it before, but never got into it. I can’t think why. It’s a warn, yellowing book now. Featuring a young Jeremy Irons and Anthony Andrews on the cover in stills from the Granada TV adaptation. Which I vaguely recall. For the attractive young men, rather than for the story methinks.

Through the eyes of Charles Ryder, Waugh recounts the adventures – if they can thus be called – centring around Brideshead, seat of Lord Marchmain and his family. An odd, dysfunctional group. Although engaging all the same. CR is charmed as much as he is disarmed by them.

The story begins at Oxford University. CR encounters the youngest family son, Sebastian who is already manifesting traits of a troubled mind. After much circling around, Sebastian reluctantly leads him back to Brideshead. And CR is sucked into the family and their ways. From England and across Europe to North Africa.

It’s interesting – or just telling – that there are no simple, ordinary and problem-free people in BR. None. Characters sit at extremes: sly, mean, devious and crooked; lonely, sad, despairing and desperate. Manipulative. Emotional. Stifled.

And around all this hangs in the air like incense Roman Catholicism. To believe or not to believe. The rights and the wrongs of this Church. Its traditions and beliefs. And ultimately the idea that you’ll give in in the end. They all do.

Re-reading my immediate thoughts, I can’t imagine why I liked the book. I’m not making it sound very inviting. And yet there is the power of Evelyn Waugh. He has such a majestic way of writing. A mastery of language.  A smooth, engaging manner. Much like rich, dark chocolate that’s been melted. A delight to admire, a temptation impossible to resist, richness beyond belief. Waugh challenges ideas, argues points, and presents genuinely unpleasant character traits in the most inoffensive, leisurely tones. Dripping indulgence. Delightful.

I have just seen that there was a film made in 2008. I might have to see it. I’m loathe to let the BR feeling go. I wanted to finish, and yet so didn’t. That rare joy loitering in the pages of a good book. Indulging in the indulgence. What to do now? Where to go? I may need a glass of wine or two to help me move on…

A mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge - George R. R. Martin

I can't seem to do anything too much of late. I'm thinking it may be the sunshine and heat. Lazy days. Lulling us into a haze of inactivity. Maybe it's the inevitable slump after the over-excitement of watching the recent successful sporting events. Maybe it's just the end of a long six months...

I managed some (belated) spring cleaning last week. Although my back still hurts and I (somehow, once again) wrenched my (already damaged) shoulder. Ouch.

My brain seems to have switched off though. Left the building. Gone off without me. And yet things still need to be done. Lists of things. I'm still at work. Not yet on holiday. Tasks need to be completed. Here and there.

There has been one achievement though. Just the one. Merrily being ticked off my list as I write. I finished Eugene Onegin. Pushkin. A life-size, drum-roll kind of an achievement, my friends. A novel in verse. A tragic poem. Read from start to finish. And enjoyed, into the bargain.

Indeed, a few lines in and I forgot that this was poetry. I was drawn in, pulled along by the tale and the characters. Wondering, imagining. Worrying and anxious. I think this is a good sign. I will certainly try more poetry. Of length. In the future. Some time.

For now, I'm satisfied. Although the tale was sad. Romance and tragedy inexplicably and irresistibly intertwined. Once again. Love and tears, life and death. It seems to be the only way.

I have the ambition of one day reading Pushkin in his native tongue. Possibly not EO, but something all the same. In the meantime, how grateful can we be to all the translators out there and the massive job they have to convey great literature to us not only in a tongue we can understand but in a manner we can appreciate? And in this particular case of EO, it's just all the more impressive. Not only did Stanley Mitchell have to convey the Russian into English. He had to do it in verse. Incredible. Mind blowing. And to do it so well. In my humble opinion. Although I have, of course, very little to compare it with. I'm sure my few words of praise would have little effect on him. Still, to all intents and purposes, it felt right. Thanks, Stan. You're the man.

And that's all the rhyming you'll get from me. Which can only be a blessing...

After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world - Philip Pullman

I have read absolutely nothing of interest over the past few days. Nothing from my reading list. Nothing from my non reading lists. Nothing from my piles of organised one day, holiday or just plain maybe books. No trashy novels or the like.

I travelled. I was with friends. Inspired, upbuilt, encouraged. But I got nowhere close to reading something I could write about here.

Apart from tons of articles on Andy Murray. Wimbledon Champion 2013. They in themselves are words to delight. At least, to delight the hearts of tennis fans. Of British tennis fans. Of Andy Murray fans.

I cannot not mention it. After the Lions' win on Saturday, it was the cherry on the cake of a pretty cool weekend.

A belated well done, Andy Murray! Not that you will ever hear my best wishes. But let those who pass by these pages know that you have rejoiced the hearts of the faithful. Thanks! :0)