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)

A book is a gift you can open again and again – Garrison Keillor

Things are not as they should be just now. My head is all over the place. Too much work. Too much stress and anxiety. Too much to do, too little time.

The result? I have four books on the go. Yes, FOUR. Now that can’t be right, can it? I've never done this. I don’t know where I’m at. My concentration is shorter than short. My decision-making is non existent.

And so I have four books on the go. My endeavour to read Kundera’s essays continues. It’s a tad hard work. But not altogether unpleasant. Therefore, I persist.

In the meantime, I need to read for pleasure and so started Eugene Onegin.  Pushkin. A novel in verse.  A strange experience.  But enjoyable all the same.  Which is more than a little surprising, I don't mind telling you.  I’m not a big poetry fan.  Much to my chagrin.  I would like to be.  But I'm just not. So this was to be a challenge. That it's enjoyable is a great bonus. And so I persist.

Then after my bout of extravagance on eBay, a book arrived that I couldn’t wait to delve into. Literally, couldn’t wait. I unwrapped it and began to read. The Note Books of a Woman Alone. A strangely intriguing title. And you know my penchant for intriguing book titles.

 

The foreword in itself was stunning. The reasons behind the collection and publication of these notes books. The reasons having motivated an acquaintance of the woman alone in question. The rest are the starkly honest thoughts and mental meanderings of this woman alone. Along with snippets from authors, newspapers, novels, poems. Quotes and passages obviously close to her heart. Making a somewhat melancholy read. But so touching. I haven't finished it yet. But will. And so I persist here too.

And finally the fourth book: Where the Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein. During the Armchair BEA, a fellow book blogger recommended it to me. With gushing enthusiasm. Supported by comments from other book bloggers. I’d never even heard of it. So into my Amazon basket it went. And somehow it slipped into my post box. And onto my knee. And I started reading that yesterday...

 

Short poems. Yes, more poetry! Mainly for children, methinks. But delightfully written. Moral counsel. Cautionary tales. Childlike musings. A truly wonderful work.

 

Hug o' war. It's dark in here. Early bird. Rain. One inch tall. Sick. The crocodile's toothache. Lester. No difference. It reminds me somewhat of Hilaire Belloc.  Compulsive reading. Sweet. Instructive. Funny. And so I persist.

But this cannot continue. I’m divided. Pulled four ways. And that is never a happy situation. But I have train journeys ahead. So I hope to get everything back under control. Shortly. Soon. I hope.

I cannot remember the books I've read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Today is a bad day for me. A painful anniversary. One that has marred many aspects of life in recent years. And which keeps coming back. Year in, year out.

Sometimes the only thing to do when life is getting you down is to take refuge in books. To read. To learn. To force the brain cells to contemplate something else, often something worse than you’re going through. If only to get perspective.

And so came John Hersey’s Hiroshima. And believe me, mentally walking through the aftermath of an atomic bomb is a surprisingly effective perspective maker.

Written one year after the bomb was dropped, Hersey follows the experiences of six survivors.  And then returns to them all 40 years later.  To see if they’re still surviving.

This is not just a fascinating account of one of history’s world-changing events. But it’s compelling reading. Devastating, frightening, shocking. On so many levels. There’s nothing sordid or invasive here. And it’s certainly not sentimental.

 

These are real people, real lives. Each tale adds to the next. Indeed, the humanity in such inhumanity makes the whole real. Makes the statistics real. Make the suffering and the death tolls mean something. They bring the atrocities of dropping an atomic bomb to life.  And serve as a testimony to the resilience of human beings.

I came across this book through a course in speed reading. Would you believe. A course which I didn’t enjoy, I hasten to add. All the more so because the flash of text from this book made me want to read more. And slowly. Which of course was not the point.

To me, it's the kind of book that could be used really effectively to teach people about Hiroshima and its aftermath. To really help young and old capture the horror of the final days of the war. To move teenagers to understand why we seemingly incessantly point back to these world wars as so significant and shocking.

My anniversary is indeed painful. But very personal to me and my family. The anniversary of Hiroshima (and Nagasaki) should be painful to us all.