So far I've read two of Patrick O'Brian's books, and while I really enjoyed them, they both sure took me a long time to get through! With Master and Commander I got distracted, but with Post Captain I didn't read anything else and yet it took me nearly a week to read. However, I did enjoy it more than the first one, partly because it was, as Jack said, more Austenian in style. I've never been one for the men and boats stories, but O'Brian manages to make those parts of his books exciting and compelling (maybe because they usually catch up to whatever they're chasing, rather than pursuing a non-existent whale for hundreds and hundreds of pages!?!), and I found myself on the edge of my seat several times during Post Captain. What I enjoyed most, though, were the social exchanges and interactions that made up their lives off ship. In general what makes a novel interesting to me is the characters and their relationships, so it was nice to see so much of that in this book. It was especially neat to see the fluctuations between Jack and Stephen, and how their friendship won out when it really mattered.

'Tis the season for weddings! I've traveled across the country to attend two in the past few weeks, and Jack is on her way to another this coming weekend. It's wonderful and joyous, but a bit tiring, I must say. I spent a brief weekend in Ohio, celebrating the marriage of a dear friend who became my pen pal 12 years ago and who I just met face to face at my own wedding six months ago; and then Odious and I took a week off to fly to Oregon for the wedding of another friend who worked with us for a short time last year. After a few days in Eugene for the wedding, where we had a lovely time and met some marvelous people, we headed up to Portland to scope things out and take a quick vacation. Besides eating at some fabulous restaurants (I'm not so upset about leaving Santa Fe now!), visiting the Western Culinary Institute (which I will attend starting in January), wandering through the beautiful Rose Garden (where I was thrilled to see the Rose Music fountain from Virginia Euwer Wolff's The Mozart Season!), and getting ourselves hopelessly lost amid the tangle of one-way streets and mysterious exits, we also spent some happy hours in the world's largest bookstore.

Powell's is also called the City of Books, and takes up an entire block in downtown Portland, as well as spilling over into a number of offspring stores across the city. It is a wonderful place. We spent most of our time in the science fiction/fantasy section, which is roughly a quarter the size of our local Borders store, with a brief foray into children's, and that took nearly three hours. Of course every shelf had to be combed carefully to avoid missing anything, since they stock used and new books together, and an out-of-print treasure was often hiding innocently amongst current bestsellers. We walked away with a huge stack of finds, among them a signed first edition James Branch Cabell, Tasha Tudor's A Doll's Christmas, a collection of folk tales by Richard Adams, and The Essential Bordertown. Getting them all home was interesting, especially since that was not the only bookstore we visited--at a hidden basement shop in Eugene that stocked mostly used philosophy and theology, we walked away with an armful of Chesterton, the Schaeffers, and Jacques Ellul.

So as you can see it was a highly successful trip, and I'm certainly looking forward to moving to Portland in the fall. In the meantime, however, I'm going to enjoy being home and back to a somewhat normal schedule.

After reading a Writer's Digest special edition magazine about writing for children, I've decided that I really need to get back into that sort of writing. I've always enjoyed it, and for a long time intended to be a children's writer, but I haven't written anything in that vein for a while. Then I had an idea that Odious and I should write a children's fantasy novel together. We haven't yet decided what it should be about, but in preparation I started reading and rereading some children's fantasy (research is always important!). I love children's books so much--after reading them it seems pointless to bother with "adult" literature. Anyway, so far I've discovered a couple of excellent reads.

I'm already going to have to reread Peter Dickinson's The Ropemaker, because I started it while babysitting and consequently was interrupted too many times to absorb the beginning very well. Once I was able to settle down with it, however, I gobbled it down voraciously. The story is fascinating--a young girl named Tilja must go with her grandmother to discover why the magic is leaving their forest at home, and on the way they learn something quite unusual about Tilja that allows them to overcome all obstacles in their path. The characters are well-defined and interesting, and the writing crisp and clear. Highly recommended.

The unicorns in The Ropemaker got me inspired to reread The Little White Horse, by Elizabeth Goudge, which has long been a favorite of mine. The writing style is wonderfully flowery and verbose, with a dramatic flair that always delighted me. It suits this charming story perfectly, and is done with a masterful hand. Maria Merryweather is an orphan who goes to live with her cousin Sir Benjamin at the family manor, which has long been under a curse due to the quarrelsome nature of the Merryweathers. With the help of Robin the shepherd boy, the godly Old Parson, a well-spoken dwarf named Marmaduke Scarlet, the children of the village, and a menagerie of animals (who all seem to have a touch of magic), Maria charms the frightening Black Men who dominate the forest, reunites two long-separated couples, and solves the mystery that perpetrated the curse years ago. A truly delightful book.

I started reading Protector of the Small: The First Test yesterday afternoon, and found myself unable to put it down until I'd finished it. A long time ago I'd read Tamora Pierce's first book of Tortall, Alanna, and quite enjoyed it, though until recently I didn't know she'd written anything else. Turns out she's fairly prolific, and is working on a new series called Protector of the Small. I'm going to have to go to Borders today and get the rest of the books! Ten years have passed since the proclamation that girls may train to be warriors as well as boys, before ten-year-old Keladry of Mindelan, who has been trained since childhood in the Yamani martial arts, announces her desire to become a warrior. At the request of the master of the academy, she is put on a year's probation, to ensure that she will be able to keep up with the boys and prove her ability. It proves to be the most difficult year of her life, but through sheer determination and the stoicism learned from the Yamanis, she manages to complete the first test and receive an invitation to return.

I also read Cornelia Funke's The Thief Lord, which didn't impress me much. The story was too disjointed and confused, with some things that turned out a little too conveniently to be believable. Hopefully her newest book, Inkheart, will be better. Right now I'm rereading the third Harry Potter in preparation for the movie, and it's as good as I remembered it.

I started reading The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath on our honeymoon (yes, Odious thought that was weird, too), but the only thing I found depressing was that the volume began with her journal from when she was eighteen years old. That a teenager could write with such insight and grasp of character, and provide such beautiful descriptions and pictures of her life made me feel highly unaccomplished. But then, as usual, I got sidetracked with other books for a few months. Then I watched the recent movie starring Gwyneth Paltrow, which was terribly disappointing. I felt the movie gave no background or reasons for what Sylvia did, and it focused on her jealousy of her husband and his consequent affairs, with little attention paid to her work and writings. The IMDB gives one of the working titles as "Ted and Sylvia", which would have made more sense; because it's just called "Sylvia", one expects more of a biography.

So I went back to the journals in order to gain a better understanding of what happened in her life, and what caused her to commit suicide. Unfortunately the last two journals, covering the last three years of her life, are either missing or destroyed, so the volume ends with a cheerful account of their life and neighbors in Devon, England. However, I did quite enjoy reading the whole thing, except the parts that devolved into random thoughts and fragments, and found it a very interesting look into her personality. She was extraordinarily driven to be successful, often making lists of ways to move up in the world and spend more time writing, so that she comes off as rather narcissistic. I can sympathize, however, since my own journals include similar injunctions; sometimes one needs a good browbeating, and who better to give it than oneself?

About halfway through the journals, I bought an edition of her selected poems so that I could read the ones she referenced, and that was also illuminating. I don't particularly care for her poetry, especially the early works that seem a little too obfuscatory, but there is some beautiful imagery as well as wonderfully skillful scansion. I'd like to read more of her prose (other than The Bell Jar), to see if it's as well-written as certain of her journal entries.

So if you've ever wondered what the Iliad is about, and thought maybe you'd just see the movie instead--get the Cliffs notes.

On Sunday night, after a pleasant barbecue with a group of friends, we decided to go to a late showing of "Troy" for a good laugh. While we knew it would be a poor adaptation, I at least was not prepared for the depths to which film creators can go. We were somewhat cheered, at the end, to see in the credits that it was only "inspired by Homer's Iliad", but that was a small comfort. I suppose the other moviegoers were unamused by our hilarity during the movie, but it was impossible to keep from laughing at Brad Pitt's "smell the fart" acting.

All the acting, in fact, was remarkably terrible, although it may be unfair to criticize the actors when the script and direction are so wretched. We did agree that Priam was excellently portrayed, even before I discovered that the actor is Peter O'Toole; but the rest of the cast got bogged down in soulful looks, heroic profiles, and cliched lines about honor, credibility (?), and posterity (yes, fine, Achilles, your name will be remembered forever, now shut up!!). There were a number of memorable lines, however, though perhaps not for the right reasons. I liked how they illustrated my favorite Odysseus epithet, "devious-devising", at the beginning when Boromir--I mean Odysseus--says to Achilles, "You have your sword; I have my tricks." I bet Patroclus knows about that sword--oh, wait, sorry, that whole relationship was neatly avoided by making the two cousins. Probably just as well.

Later Achilles rouses his men to battle by saying, "Do you know what lies on that beach? Immortality! Take it! It's yours!" Quite.

And then Hector rallies his troops with the code by which he has always lived his life: "Honor the gods; love your woman; defend your country!" Which I must say I actually liked, outside of an Homerian context--they're not standards espoused much nowadays, particularly the last one. It reminded me that patriotism used to be more than pasting bumper stickers on one's car and occasionally writing a letter to the editor.

But perhaps the most interesting thing about the movie was that somehow the gods were not important enough characters to be included. Indeed, their existence was denied and disbelieved by a number of the characters--nearly all except for the fanatically wild-eyed priests and priestesses, and they kept getting proved wrong. So much for Paris being saved by Aphrodite in the nick of time; so much for the reason for Achilles' invulnerability; so much for the squabbles between Zeus and Hera that affect numerous outcomes of the war; so much for the guidance of Athene, etc, etc. None of that's important. What's important is watching Brad Pitt skip around the battlefield. Obviously.

And apparently there aren't any other important Greek playwrights, either, since their characters are so casually killed off. Too bad, Aeschylus, no Oresteia for you--it fits our plot better to let Briseis (yes, she's a character, just like Arwen!) stab Agamemnon. Oh, and Sophocles? It's a lot more interesting to let Hector take out Ajax than to let him commit suicide. Sorry.

So anyway, like I was saying, get the Cliffs notes. Or better yet, read the real thing. Then you can play the game!

I spent last weekend in Colorado, celebrating one sister's graduation from high school and another sister's birthday. A beautiful drive through the spring green freshness of New Mexico and the fields of wildflowers in Colorado raised my spirits immensely, and it was a great treat to spend four days with my whole family. Meg and I whiled away more than a few hours sitting on the porch and solving all the world's problems--one of my favorite activities!

And I must extend congratulations again to my little sister Emily, the only one of four sisters to graduate from high school--you're the greatest, Em! The ceremony was refreshingly free of shenanigans, thanks to strict rules this year; all the students were dressed nicely and, with one exception, deported themselves in a dignified manner. Speeches were mediocre, save for that of the salutatorian, who stepped up with a brief, clever, heartfelt, and uplifting message that was surprisingly bold in its profession of Christianity. Kudos to GHS for approving a religious message at a public ceremony!

For some reason I never read Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising sequence as a child. Well, that's not entirely true--I did read the first book and possibly one of the others, as they were part of our public library's collection. I loved the first one and read it several times, and if I'd realized it was the beginning of a sequence I would have looked for the others. Anyway, I just rediscovered them, and wow! What a treat! It's always heartening to read children's literature and find it as good or often better than the junk available to adults. Reading these books was like re-reading The Chronicles of Narnia--they never fail to delight, no matter what your age. I wish the sequence were not so obviously pagan--if the author didn't insist on spelling it out I could be very happy in my ignorance--but other than that it's a terrific story with riveting characters. Now I have to get my hands on the Prydain Chronicles (Lloyd Alexander), as Odious and Jack assure me they are excellent.

I was trying to remember why it had taken me so long to read Eagle Dreams, and realized that I could blame it mostly on Odious! After he read it while we were in Hawaii, he immediately loaned it out to two different people before I got my chance; then somehow it ended up getting shelved upon returning to our house instead of going straight to my nightstand. I happened to notice it the other day while looking for something to read, and I can only say I'm deeply ashamed I waited this long.

The author, Stephen J. Bodio, is Peculiar's stepfather, so we have been privileged to know him and his wonderful wife for several years now. Visiting them in the tiny New Mexican town of Magdalena is an experience rather beyond description, and one I hope to have again this summer. As they now have five dogs in their 4-room house, in addition to birds of varying sizes, I'm not sure how visitors will be crammed in amongst the impressive library and vast collection of items and artifacts from around the world, but we'll figure that out later.

Steve has been an avid falconer for most of his life (he's written several other books on the subject of birds), and Eagle Dreams is a memoir of his travels to Mongolia and Kazakhstan in search of eaglers. Because he writes much the same as he speaks, it's a fast-paced and infinitely fascinating account, combining travel notes with descriptions of food and alcohol (mostly vodka) and, of course, eagles and the men who hunt with them. He seems to have a knack for meeting thoroughly interesting and odd characters, and just as much of a knack of portraying them to his reader.

Though I heard many stories of Mongolia as a child, through a young missionary based from our church in Colorado, it had never particularly grabbed my interest until now. And I must admit that it's probably the things least appealing to most people that draw my attention--the cold, the vast barren sweeps, the solitude, and the animal population greater than the human. Steve makes it all, if not alluring, certainly fascinating, and I believe I may have to add Mongolia to my list of places to visit.

Jack has an excellent post up on Utility, a topic we've been discussing a lot lately. That and a concert at St. John's last night have inspired me to pursue voice lessons, which I've been meaning to do for a long time--I need something unnecessary and beautiful in my life. And I hope everyone appreciates that I've refrained from making a joke about Odious after that last sentence.

Also, my sweet sister Meg has started a blog called The Journey Project. She's an awesome writer, with great insights on life and faith, so her blog is well worth visiting.

Books and food are my favorite things in the whole world. Oh, and of course Odious. Ahem. Anyway, having the first two combined is always a wonderful treat, whether it be eating while reading (many of my books have crumbs ground into the bindings) or reading cookbooks or other food-related works. I recently had the pleasure of reading Monsoon Diary, Shoba Narayan's memoir with recipes included. It's the best kind of memoir, like M.F.K. Fisher's, where the history of the author is told through the various meals and food experiences that shaped it. And then there are recipes.

The last time we were in London we were privileged enough to have a South Indian meal cooked for us (by a wonderfully motherly young South Indian woman), and I wished I could have enjoyed it more. Odious gobbled everything down, especially the lime pickle, but unfortunately I found the flavors and combinations too alien for my palate to immediately enjoy. After reading this book I'm inspired to try again, because Narayan's descriptions are mouth-watering--particularly because she herself takes such delight in them. I love the sensuousness of foodies!

As a reader, I adore Patricia McKillip. As a writer, I loathe her.

For writers like John Grisham or Brian Jacques, one assumes that the reason they publish only one book a year is because people would notice more quickly that they're just recycling plots. But somehow Patricia McKillip manages to pop out books at a disgustingly regular rate while still making them GOOD. I hate her.

No, actually I really like her a lot. Although her last few books have been a little too enigmatic for me, Alphabet of Thorn is fantastic. Odious says he didn't care much for it, but then he's been reading Heidegger lately, so that illustrates his taste (or lack thereof). [Looking over my shoulder, he protests that that's a low blow, especially since he just brought me a chocolate croissant. Yum.] Anyway, I liked Alphabet of Thorn because it was a good story and I could understand it. And who can resist the appeal of time travel? Certainly not the sorceress Kane, or so it seems to the young translator Nepenthe as she untangles the thorny words of an ancient manuscript to reveal an unbelievable story. While cranky mages question Nepenthe's lover Bourne about his involvement in his uncle's rebellion, and the strange young queen wanders around in the wood practicing invisibility, the nearly forgotten history of Kane and Axis, the emperor she loved, becomes more and more relevant to the present world.

McKillip's writing is, as always, elegant and evocative, and her storytelling abilities are superb.

Hmph. I was going to leave an irritated comment on the site, but realized that then I would be doing exactly what bothers me most about such people. Ranting and raving about those who don’t share one’s opinion is counterproductive and pointless, and happens a lot in Santa Fe (I’ve stopped reading the weekly Reporter because it just annoys the heck out of me). So instead of screaming about how narrow-minded and intolerant people are, I will instead post a defense of traditional marriage in hopes that a positive outlook will be convincing and helpful, and I’ll start with words far better than mine.

The union of husband and wife in heart, body, and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy; for the help and comfort given one another in prosperity and adversity; and, when it is God’s will, for the procreation of children and their nurture in the knowledge and love of the Lord. Therefore marriage is not to be entered into inadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately, and in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted by God.

These words, which follow the well-known “Dearly beloved” in the marriage service found in the Book of Common Prayer, give a perfect summary of the solemnity and importance of marriage. Marriage is not merely a public commitment of love, or an arrangement for mutual financial benefit; rather, it is a sacrament, blessed by the church and witnessed by friends and family who are expected by God to hold the couple to their vows. This concept, “established by God in creation”, is something that seems to be slipping from our understanding, as groups of all sorts seek for recognition of their ‘marriage’.

The intent of marriage is for a man and a woman to become one, through avowal to each other and sealed by the Holy Spirit. Through marriage two people are stronger and better than they were before, as they help each other through life and provide stability for their family and community. It is a serious matter, to be well considered in prayer and discussion, and to be worked at and upheld. Yet it is also perfect joy, for two people to be joined under God’s blessing and to find delight and comfort in each other for the rest of their lives. A true marriage is something that can be counted on, that is strong and reliable and stable.

A civil union is not a marriage. The government cannot bestow blessing on a couple and wish them true happiness in a Godly life together. Only the church can do that, because marriage is and always has been a sacrament. However, marriage is also a fundamental building block of society. A man and a woman who have pledged themselves to each other, and who create a solid home in which they are happy and secure, cannot help but affect those around them in a positive way. Even a small degree of personal security gives one more ability to serve others, so that private harmony promotes public peace. A society based on such a firm foundation will only prosper.

And a society must be governed. For this reason, and because of the church’s fading influence, at this time it seems necessary for the government to consider its self-preservation, and define marriage as a union between one man and one woman, “honored among all people.” Our absolute need to maintain this successful tradition must be reinstated beyond a doubt lest our society crumble.

I've always loved Madeleine L'Engle, but for a long time would only read her books about the Murrys. Then I discovered her inspirational writings, and decided perhaps I should branch out a little and give the Austins a try again. I picked up The Young Unicorns at the library the other day, and quite enjoyed it, though my original problem remains in that the Murry stories are much more comprehensible. Reading this book gave me the uneasy feeling that I was missing something important, as often happens--I'm always more interested in the story and characters than in any analogy or symbolism. Which I suppose is perfectly legitimate, and authors could hardly complain about such a thing, and yet I wish I were better at recognizing philosophy or a deeper meaning. Oh well. That's actually why I like novels, because if they're written well, the story will illustrate the philosophy without pedantry.

I've been reading a lot lately, but, unfortunately for you (I suppose), haven't felt much like posting or even writing much at all. Instead I've been filling my non-reading hours with work, staying up late and then sleeping in, and enjoying the lovely wet weather we've been having here in the desert.

Let's see, what can I say about books today... I must admit my fare has been extraordinarily light and hardly worth mentioning. I've been in a bookbuying mood, which is bad for many reasons, especially since I keep getting sidetracked into a dozen books at a time. Oh, I know, I am reading something quite good and certainly worth recommendation--Patrick O'Brian's Master and Commander. Odious and Peculiar saw the movie when it first came out, and Odious dove into the books soon after (Peculiar has already read quite a few of them). When Jack got interested too, I decided perhaps I should join the happy throng despite my usual dislike for stories about men and boats. We ended up buying and watching the DVD before I had a chance to start the first book, but the sweet wholesomeness of the movie inspired me to do so, and I am quite enjoying it. Of course, much of the time I have absolutely no idea what is going on, partly because of sailing jargon and partly because I've been reading it sporadically (it is good, but I just can't help getting distracted) and keep forgetting what's happening. Also the plot is a little scattered, and the book seems longer than necessary, but nonetheless it's excellent and I shall probably move on to the second at some point (particularly as Jack claims it is very Austenian in content).

I've been having fun researching midwifery lately, as a career I might later consider. It's such a fascinating subject, with lots of interesting books to check out. I just finished Spiritual Midwifery, by Ina May Gaskin, which was a lot of fun. Mrs Gaskin and her husband Steven founded a farm in Tennessee in the 70's, where expecting mothers still go for midwife assistance. The book is a collection of testimonies from the early years, as well as midwife instruction and theory, and I had a wonderful time reading all the stories of birthing. Especially enjoyable were the words "psychedelic" and "heavy" used to describe the various experiences!

I also read, just for fun, Karen Cushman's The Midwife's Apprentice, which is a sweet story with a few good tips on midwifery.

My cat--the good one--is sitting very sweetly on my lap, purring under his breath and occasionally nudging me for an ear scratch, while I bounce about the Internet reading various things of interest. I just found, via Salon, an amusing website called Manhattan Waiter, with interviews of waiters in Manhattan. Some of it isn't very interesting, but much is quite funny, with anecdotes of wretched customers and revenge taken upon them. People do such amazingly annoying things when they go out to eat--it's as if they've never done it before. Being in the business myself, it's fun to read what others have to say, as in the book Waiting: The True Confessions of a Waitress, by Debra Ginsberg. I just loaned that to the hostess at the restaurant where Odious and I are currently employed, and she said her complaint with it was that so much of the author's real life was left out. I think that's because the focus of the book is on her profession, and the weirdness of it, but I agree that it makes the job sound like her whole life. In a way, like most jobs, it can feel like it! Especially when, as happened to me a few nights ago, some jerk chews you out and leaves you feeling like a rotting piece of lettuce smushed into the cracks of the floor. I doubt there's any other job where customers feel such license to leave their senses of courtesy and civility at the door--it's really appalling the things they will say or do. The only thing that made me feel better the other night was that the guy made a complete fool of himself and knew it, so much so that he left no tip at all as a last spiteful dig. Sometime I'd like to write a manual to teach people how to eat out--it'd at least be satisfying.

I have never cared much for poetry. Now, I'm well aware that it's because of a lack of exposure and education, but I've also never made any great effort to expose or educate myself. I find it frustrating to spend hours on a few lines of verse, especially when the meaning of it may not have been clear even to the poet. Also, like Tina in Tam Lin, I prefer to take poems literally--I have no reason to think that the man stopping by woods on a snowy evening is not simply a long way from home and bed. This is probably why I enjoy the poetry of Billy Collins so much, because his poems can be read simply and easily, as an evocative and beautiful picture, just as well as they can withstand scrutiny and study. I feel at home in his work, quiet and peaceful and comfortable.

Jack has a good post up about reading poetry, that it must be savored to be enjoyed. I agree completely, but I discovered a few days ago that one doesn't necessarily have to be in a quiet room alone, either. I had tucked Mr Collins's latest collection, Nine Horses, into my bag when I went up skiing last Sunday, and brought it out to read while I ate my lunch. Like most cafeterias, the one at Ski Santa Fe is large, loud, and dirty. I sat at a well-becrumbed table, surrounded by scruffy men eating chili cheese fries, and was utterly entranced by the poem "Love". It gave me chills, right there in that unlikely spot. I wish I could post the whole thing, but I'm afraid that would infringe copyright, so I'll just quote the last few stanzas.

"And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God."

--Billy Collins, Nine Horses

Once again Robin Hobb took over my life for a few days as I read the Liveship Traders trilogy. It takes place in the same world as the Farseer and Tawny Man trilogies, and occurs in between the two chronologically. While existing as its own full story, it also fills in some gaps from the other books, in particular about dragons. The best thing about Robin Hobb's writing is her amazing creation of characters that are wonderfully real in their consistent flaws and mistakes as well as their moments of brilliance. This is no less true for the dragons. There's no doubt that the return of these incredible creatures will change everything, but not in a way that any human could have predicted. Yet it must be--as the Fool says in one of the Tawny Man books, "The skies must have dragons." For once the humans must learn to take orders again as well as giving them, and humble themselves into being lesser creatures. It's strange how unjust that seems at first!

Only one actual dragon appears in this trilogy, in the last book, but serpents (dragon larvae) abound throughout as they try to find their way to the hatching grounds. Along the way they are confused by the mysterious liveships sailed by humans, some of whom are strangely capable of connecting and communicating with the serpents. Every creature in the trilogy is essential to the story, and the various plots intertwine and weave together into a seamless fate.

I end up feeling rather disjointed and disillusioned with this world after immersing myself in Robin Hobb's, so much so that sometimes I start reading faster and faster in the need to get my life back to normal. It's an unsettling experience, and one I've never encountered with any other author. And yet I can't help but recommend and rave about her books, in the hopes that they join the ranks of classic fantasy.

I woke up much earlier than seemed necessary this morning, and after being walked over by restless cats until I was fully awake, I decided to re-read A Little Princess, which for some reason I had been thinking about. What a lovely little book that is! Though I still love The Secret Garden better, there's something so particularly charming and delightful about Sara Crewe. I was thinking, upon this reading, that really the reader should hate such a perfectly good and kind little girl, but what redeems her is the struggles she must go through to be so good and kind. It is not easy for her to be a princess, even when she is treated like one. Though she says that of course she is able to be good and kind when people are always pleasant to her, still she must watch her tongue when speaking to Lavinia or Miss Minchin. Yet, so she can completely understand what others are feeling and how best to help them, she needs the trials through which she goes to become a true "little princess".

After watching "The Missing" last week, I found the book on which it was based at the library--Tom Eidson's The Last Ride, which I read this morning. The writing style is certainly that of a Western, and the story hadn't been changed much for the movie, but I enjoyed it fairly well nonethless. The religion argument between the heroine and her father was a little overdone, and was resolved agreeably but not satisfactorily; the movie's way of dealing with the problem rang truer as well as being subtler. The movie also, surprisingly, gave the characters more depth--despite Eidson's delving into history and motivation, I found it difficult to care much about his characters. But of course it's always difficult to read the book after seeing the movie. In many cases the book falls a bit flat, unfortunately.

I'm too tired and spacey to type accurately much longer, so I'll end by listing some other books I've read in the past week or so (mostly quick easy library reads):
Durable Goods, Elizabeth Berg--the first of three related books, which I accidentally read in backwards order, giving an interesting portrait of childhood and adolescence.
Girl Goddess #9, Francesca Lia Block--very odd little stories with extremely heavy-handed treatment of social issues.
Bloodchild and other stories, Octavia Butler--again, heavy-handed, though much creepier.
Children of the Storm, Elizabeth Peters--the latest Amelia Peabody mystery, which I enjoyed thoroughly as always.
Goat Song, Susan Basquin--an interesting though ultimately depressing tale of the author's adventures in goat farming.
The Whim of the Dragon, Pamela Dean--rereading the third volume in the Secret Country trilogy was enthralling and delightful, though I do wish Dean were contracted to write more mythic fiction rather than more Secret Country books. I'm also in the middle of rereading The Dubious Hills, which I like better but still not as much as her other two books.

So I've been gone for a while--so, that's the way things go. Now I'm back.

Spring is really here, despite the fact that it never really seemed to be winter this year. The season goes by so quickly here that I'm never satisfied; plus I only got to go skiing once thanks to this wasting disease. Anyway, the trees are starting to come out in that mist of barely-there green, daffodils are coming up in cheery clumps, and apricot blossoms are beginning to pop. I walked by one tree yesterday that had a frenzy of bees around it, enjoying their first taste of nectar this year. I've been thinking a lot about bees lately, having read A Book of Bees, by Sue Hubbell, as well as meeting a family in town who keeps bees in their tiny urban backyard. Bees are fascinating creatures, and the book was excellent.

I first encountered Sue Hubbell in her book A Country Year, a lovely account of her farm and life in the Ozarks, and was pleased to find this newer book about beekeeping, which was her source of income. She kept three hundred hives all over the state of Missouri, which, naturally, occupied her time fully, but she says that having two or three hives in one's back garden is really no more trouble than a dog or cat. And after seeing the hives kept by our new friends, it's clear not only that this is true but also that it can be done nearly anywhere. Even urban settings are usually well-provided with flowering trees and plants, and for the times when there is little nectar, a supply of sugar water in the hive keeps the bees going.

A Book of Bees is an excellent start for anyone interested in beekeeping, as it includes practical information on acquiring and caring for bees, diagrams of hives and their various parts, all seasonal activities such as harvesting and wintering, catching swarms, and the problems that may occur. All this is part of a story, well-written and absorbing, rather than a how-to guide, and is a wonderful inspiring read.

An amusing sidenote: An acquaintance of mine noticed the book in my bag one day and asked me if it was scary! She didn't quite seem to understand when I told her it was actually about keeping bees. Hmm. I think I have odd interests.

I really tried not to compare Tracy Chevalier's The Virgin Blue to her Girl With A Pearl Earring, to give the former a fair chance, but now that I've seen the movie of the latter, this is a difficult thing to do. I'll have to read her third novel before I make a definite judgement of her writing, but I find it very hard to believe that The Virgin Blue came from the same author who produced the magic of Girl.

Chevalier's first novel has a complicated plot, with two stories from different eras weaving together, their heroines somehow mysteriously connected. It's a little too complicated. It's not quite a love story, nor yet a ghost story, nor yet a history, but rather hovers among the three without settling on one plot. The author didn't give herself enough leeway to tie up all the loose ends, so that there's much that is left unexplained, which, especially in such a story as this, is highly annoying. None of the characters were in any way likable, and most of them were particularly unpleasant. Worst of all, their cruel and immoral actions seemed to come out of nowhere--for the most part they were unexplained, random, and unresolved. I found it a disturbing book, and almost didn't finish it.

Later, on a positive note, I'll post about the lovely, lovely movie of Girl With A Pearl Earring...

Back to the desert. Boy, do I like humidity! I never thought I would, having lived all my life in severely dry climates, but curly hair, moisturized skin, and pampered lungs are certainly things I could get used to. And I don't think I have ever had a more relaxing time than those ten days on Kauai--it was such a luxury to know that we never had to do anything we didn't want to! We did get in a lot of hiking, all over the beautiful island, and spent quite a bit of time on various beaches, but mostly we read. It was wonderful. Odious, of course, hurried through his books much faster than I through mine, so that we had to make an emergency run to Borders; however, he did NOT read all of Heidegger's Being and Time--I TOLD him he'd want beach reads, not nasty German philosophers. Ah well.

So I read the last book in the Farseer trilogy, Assassin's Quest, on the plane to Hawaii, which I think was a bad idea. I was so moved by it, so lost in that world, that coming back to this one was a dreadful wrench and horrible disappointment. I have not felt like that since The Deed of Paksenarrion--the lose and injustice of being torn from that world back to this one is a tragedy hardly to be spoken of. I am not easily moved to tears, yet I wept at the closing of the door, and at my helplessness to aid the people who suffered so and were not rewarded with the happiness they sought and deserved. There aren't many books about which I say this, and few of them are fantasy, but Fitz and Burrich and the Fool and Kettricken and Nighteyes are my friends. I don't know any higher recommendation that that.

I had taken the first two books of the following trilogy (The Tawny Man), and Odious breathed down my neck to read them next (he'd read the Farseer books previously); fortunately the third came out just a few days after we both finished those, and we raced to a bookstore to obtain it. The story continues after fifteen years of Fitz's self-inflicted exile, and brings the lives of all the characters to a conclusion I never would have thought possible. Again I wept for them all and felt lost coming back to this world. These are books that have gained a permanent place on our shelves--or they will when we finally get around to putting up a new bookcase.

After a very long period of silence (I was working a lot, okay?), I appear briefly to announce another period of silence. My dear husband and I are off to Kauai in a few days to lie on the beach and do absolutely nothing for two weeks. I can't wait. Today we're going to Borders to stock up on fantasy novels, so I should have plenty to blog about upon our return. In the meantime, I've discovered Robin Hobb's Farseer series, which are really wonderful. Most fantasy readers are probably already familiar with these books, but for some reason I'd overlooked them until I picked up the first two at a booksale a while back. During this lingering illness (the wasting disease is still, well, wasting) I set aside my more challenging reads for some good entertainment, and burned through Assassin's Apprentice and Royal Assassin over a weekend. I don't always care for the typical "other world" fantasy, because it so often relies entirely on the other world for its fantastical elements. The world of the Farseer books, however, is rich and complex, with a fascinating story and great characters. I'll post more about them after I read the last two.

I've just updated my links, especially the blogs. Since Jack and Miss Kate seem to have dropped off the face of the blogging world, I decided to delete their links, but that left my list rather depressing, so I added some of the sites I've been visiting lately.

Robin McKinley has long been one of my favorite writers, even before I knew fantasy was a genre. I also love fairy tale retellings, of which she has done quite a few, but it's really nice to read something completely new from her talented pen. Sunshine captured me from the first page, and I read it in a fascinated gulp last week, as did Odious this morning. It's funny, however, that what sticks with me the most are the descriptions of Sunshine's life and surroundings, rather than the story itself, although that was very strange and interesting. This is usually the feeling I have with Charles de Lint, where I care less about the story than about wanting to live in his world; but I suppose Robin McKinley has never before written a novel in a contemporary setting, which makes a difference for me at least.

The story is about vampires in the near-future, which seems quite a leap from Beauty and the Beast, Sherwood, and Damar, but McKinley pulls it off with aplomb. Her heroine is a highly talented baker in a small village, in a world where "the Other" (vampires, werefolk, and further demons) are known, accepted as a part of life, and desperately feared. Thus it's never a good idea for humans to roam about on their own, especially deep into the woods, but Sunshine does it anyway--and therein lies the story.

I'll have to read it again to get a full sense of what happens, since like McKinley's other books there are several levels, but already I'd rank it above most of them. The writing is fantastic, the plot dramatic and compelling, and the characters a rich and motley crew.

The holiday season is over, which always makes me feel like life should settle down and get back to normal, but with the several-page-long to-do list and extra work coming up in the next couple weeks, I don't think that'll actually happen. At least I don't have to plan stuff anymore, or arrange people. Normally that's one of my favorite things to do, but a wedding, Christmas, and New Year's parties crammed into two weeks is a little much for my feeble brain, especially when my body is hampered with whatever wasting disease is currently infecting me. Fortunately it has given me the excuse to sit around and read quite a bit, though as usual not nearly enough.

I've found in the past few years that birthdays and Christmasses are not quite as exciting as they used to be, for several reasons, but mainly because I used to get great stacks of lovely new books from all and sundry. For me that's part of those holidays, but for some reason it hasn't been happening as much lately. I suppose people don't know what I'd like or haven't read, or simply that it would be too unimaginative a gift. In response, I think, I've started giving everyone else books in hopes that they will reciprocate. I love to get books--nearly the best gift ever! Even if it's something I've read or already own, it's still special to receive as something chosen because a friend liked it and thought I would too. Also my taste in books is so eclectic that I rarely come across something I really don't like, which is why it's fun to see what other people like and think I'd like, things I probably wouldn't have chosen myself but enjoy nonetheless.

Anyway, as you can probably tell, I didn't receive many books this year (only one, in fact--John Mortimer's Summer Lease, because my mother-in-law decided I needed yet another Italy book), but I did receive a gift card from Borders, also from my mother-in-law. So Odious and I spent the day after Christmas happily wandering around Borders, gathering up armfuls of random titles. Between the gift card and the bargain books, I walked out with a whole bag of books and only $18 debited from my checking account!

New acquisitions include:
Sunshine, Robin McKinley
Miracle and Other Christmas Stories, Connie Willis
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Close Range, Annie Proulx
Her Infinite Variety, Pamela Rafael Berkman
The Seeing Eye, C.S. Lewis
also a new journal which I do not need.

The next day my very dear friend Kelly came up to Santa Fe for the weekend, and we browsed through Books and More Books, an excellent little used bookstore down the street from our house, where I picked up
Evelina, Fanny Burney
Gracious Living in a New World, Alexandra Stoddard
Herbs and Spices
Fragments: The Collected Wisdom of Heraclitus
Nothing to Declare, Mary Morris
The Twelve Dancing Princesses, Marianna Mayer
First Person Rural, Noel Perrin

And the book buying continued when we took Kelly back to Albuquerque on Sunday, as none of us could resist a quick stop at Barnes & Noble. However, we only had time for a few, so I won't list those, although one was a pretty cool book on soapmaking.

Note to self New blog to keep an eye on: The Book Nook

Just visited another blog, by, apparently, the "Grande Dame" of blogging (she wrote a book about it). I liked her article at the Guardian better, but the blog was interesting too.

Though recent posts would suggest otherwise, I have been reading. Unfortunately for you all, I'm reading Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy, which is 1350 pages long. Even for me that's a lot. And I'm trying not to let myself be distracted by other reads, because then I'd never finish this one, and I am enjoying it quite a bit. It's not quite as bad as a Russian novel, in that most of the characters don't have nicknames, but there are just as many of them and they're all somehow related.

However, I just remembered that I never posted about Middlemarch, which I whizzed through last earlier this month and thoroughly enjoyed. I'd read it before, of course, and immediately listed it as one of my favorites, but had forgotten just how good it is. George Eliot is brilliant! I don't quite know how to describe it, since "a look at life in an English village" could sound pretty boring, but Eliot's writing makes the reader a part of that life. Like an ear-to-the-keyhole gossip, one can't wait to discover how Dorothea will respond to her late husband's nasty will, or if Rosamond Vincey will succeed in capturing Dr. Lydgate's heart. And more than that, which characters will rise above their circumstances and become heroes, and which will hide their heads in shame at their own actions.

I read it like I do mysteries, or fantasy novels, with complete abandon and absorption, which was why I had to shake my head over the comment of a woman at work. I'd always thought of her as being fairly intelligent and knowledgeable, but when she noticed the book sitting on the table next to me, she said, as if carefully sounding it out, "Middle--march?" If, as I assumed from that tone, she had never heard of the book, she judged it by the cover (Penguin Classics) and the thickness when she then asked, "For fun or for class?" (By which I assume she meant school, not a desire for sophistication.) When I answered, "For fun," she looked very impressed and said, "Oh, wow!"

Don't people read?!?

Well, as you can see from my new name, I am now a wedded woman (I'll leave the rhyme to your imagination!). With friends and family still in town, and a nasty cold that took advantage of my stressed state, the fact has not quite had time to sink in yet, but Odious and I are having a lot of fun calling each other "my husband" and "my wife". Wonder how long our friends will find that cute!

So I'm sitting here at home by myself, pretending that the house doesn't need to be cleaned or the laundry folded or Christmas presents wrapped, and amusing myself as I haven't for a while by trying to find other interesting blogs. Blogger helped me out with a link to the British Blog Awards, which recognized several blogs that were at least readable--though I don't know if I'd visit them regularly. The problem, of course, is that each of these blogs sports a long list of links, some of which look interesting enough that I could spend all day following them. But I'm not that bored.

Anyway, I didn't read much of megnut (she's the co-founder of Pyra, the company behind Blogger, to give everyone their due), but it seemed tolerable, and I'm always a sucker for anything with the name meg. A Teenager Blogs kept my interest longer, despite being about nothing in particular. I do like reading about people's lives, but more so when we share common interests. I'm not sure if I'd revisit Going Underground again, but it was vaguely amusing and worth mentioning simply because I love the tube. Ever since I read 84, Charing Cross Road I've wanted to read Pepys' Diary, but it always seemed a little daunting. Of course it was only a matter of time before someone came up with the brilliant idea of posting one entry a day--with annotations, no less! I would prefer annotations on the same page as the entry, since following ten links for one short paragraph is really annoying with dial-up. I also checked out Belle de Jour, the diary of a London call girl, and this turned out to be a great mistake. It's not about her life outside of work. Blech!

I just finished reading Near A Thousand Tables: A History of Food, by Felipe Fernandez-Armesto. Of course I love reading about food no matter what, but this was a particularly fascinating read that I whipped through in no time. It's very accessible and interesting, with all sorts of tidbits and anecdotes. The author is a little too fond of bad jokes, and every now and then a random sentence appeared in a paragraph, as if he suddenly thought of something interesting and tossed it in without care for relevance, but overall he has a good flow and style. My favorite part was his discussion of the Columbian Exchange, when various food staples began to make their ways back and forth across the Atlantic. It's hard to imagine America without wheat or beef, but neither originated here; while Europe would not be the same without corn, potatoes, or chocolate.

I was surprised that the book didn't really inspire me to cook, or even to eat, but I did get the idea for tonight's dinner from the author's mention of the Native American triumvirate of nutrience: corn, beans, and squash. Since I had an acorn squash that needed to be dealt with, and some rather sad leftover black bean soup, I simmered it all up with a little frozen corn for a hearty dish served over hot cornbread. Not bad.

Went out with Odious today and got a cute little Christmas tree that just fits on our kitchen table (the only possible spot for such a decoration). It's sparsely decorated with multi-colored mini lights, a red wooden bead string, a few Pascha eggs, and a couple of ornaments from my grandmother, but it looks festive and has added the Christmas spirit to our abode. If only I had time to be in the Christmas spirit! With the wedding just a week away, I am burdened with all the last minute details that I desperately don't want to have to think about. Ah well.

More snow today, which is good since it was the opening day at Ski Santa Fe. Maybe next week they can open a third run. I'm still not used to the way people think about snow here, but I hoped this morning there might be a snow delay from the half inch that fell overnight. Sadly, it was an early and busy day as usual.

So I've been reading a lot lately, but since I've also been preparing for next week's wedding (!!!), haven't quite had time to post. Last weekend, when we woke up to snow again, I snuggled up in bed with The Long Winter, which has always been one of my favorites of the Little House series. My mother hated it, but she was never a big fan of winter, besides being claustrophobic. I think it's so wonderful that Laura Ingalls Wilder could make the horrible depression of that winter seem hopeful and cheery because of her family's strength and faith. The intrepid creativity of both her parents amazes me, as they draw on unfathomed wells of tradition and trust to provide for the family. I love reading about Ma making the button lamp, Pa nosing out Almanzo's seed corn, Laura looking out the upstairs window at the horses' hooves going by at eye level, and Almanzo and Cap Garland struggling through the snow to buy wheat and save the town. It's such a terrific book!

He that goes to bed, and goes to bed sober,
Falls as the leaves do, falls as the leaves do, and dies in October;

But he that goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to do, lives as he ought to do, and dies an honest fellow.

Maria Edgeworth, Castle Rackrent

I taught Odious to crochet yesterday. After a few hours of contortion and eyeball-popping, he caught on, and is moving right along on an only slightly deformed red scarf (I pointed out that he already owns a very nice red scarf, but apparently he wants two). So now we share a hobby! I suggested that he could teach me side kick in turn, but it's not going as well. I get bored more easily than he does.

We're at my dad's house right now, spending most of our time in front of the new woodstove (it's cold and snowy out), chatting and crocheting. It's a wonderful break, and I'm relishing it by reading very little. I did just read There's Treasure Everywhere, a Calvin and Hobbes collection; Odious said I was having way too much fun, as I giggled madly through the whole thing.

And now I must follow the inscrutable exhortations of my soul, and eat some more Chips Ahoy.

Just to warn the gentle reader, this post has nothing to do with books. I've been reading a lot lately, but haven't finished anything of note, so I decided to proselytize a little instead.

If you're feeling charitable with the holiday season upon us, or if you're racking your brain over what to get the people who have everything, here are some ideas for making the world a better place.

Whether or not you agree with the political situation in which our country is embroiled, it's important to support the troops who give their lives to protect us every day. You can send a greeting via email to a member of the armed forces at www.operationdearabby.net, or sign a virtual thank-you card at www.defendamerica.mil/thanks. To help service members stay in touch with their families, donate a calling card at www.operationuplink.org.

Unfortunately I just missed the deadline for Operation Christmas Child, which is a wonderful program that sends shoeboxes filled with Christmas gifts to children around the world, but Samaritan's Purse has plenty of other opportunities for donation. Check out the gift catalog or the current Prayer Point.

Probably my favorite charity is Heifer International, a great organization that provides impoverished families with various farm animals. You can give a flock of ducks, a water buffalo, a llama, or, of course, a heifer, to a family in desperate need of the sustenance and income. I think this makes a terrific Christmas gift, as you can make donations in the names of your loved ones, and they'll receive really cute cards with a picture of whatever animal you chose.

Supporting a third-world child costs $28 a month. Give up two lattes or one cocktail a week, and a child will be fed, clothed, and educated. And receiving their letters several times a year is really neat--it's wonderful to see God's work going on. Visit Compassion International to give a child a Christmas gift he or she will appreciate for years to come.

Last but not least, Focus on the Family never ceases to blow me away with their incredible and untiring hard work. For a small donation you can give or receive a subscription to one of their magazines (Citizen is one of the best magazines I know of), and also check out their many books and other materials for really worthwhile Christmas gifts.

I found Louise Dickinson Rich's book We Took To The Woods at the library while looking for Living the Good Life. For some reason its cover is very familiar to me, although I'm sure I never read it before--perhaps it was one of those that I saw so often at my hometown library that I just assumed I had read it. But I'm very glad I've read it now, as it was a lovely little narrative of life in the Maine woods. It was published in 1942, but it is available through A Common Reader, and I enjoyed it more than any of my recent reads.

It's hard to imagine anyone nowadays living such a secluded life (at one point in the book, Mrs Rich describes her first trip to "the Outside" in over four years!), but it sounds fabulous. The family was not entirely cut off from civilization, although during the in-between seasons of spring and fall, when the ice over the lake between their home and the nearest market was too thin to drive over and too thick to run a boat through, sometimes got very long and boring. But in other seasons there were lumberjacks, hunters, and hikers and campers, as well as a few neighbors, all of whom were perfectly likely to drop in for dinner at a moment's notice.

Each chapter of the book is titled with a question commonly asked of the Riches about their life--How Do You Earn A Living? Don't You Get Bored? etc--and Mrs Rich answers them fully, warmly, and humorously to create a truly enjoyable read.

Most junior French classes at St. John's read Madame de Lafayette's Princesse de Cleves at some point, as an example of French literature and fairly straightforward translation. As with most of the books I encountered at SJC, reading them now is so much more pleasant since I don't have to 1), think of something to say about them but rather think of what interests me about them, and 2), listen to other people's inane comments. And no, I'm not putting down St. John's. I really did love it there.

My point is that I found it terribly frustrating to have a discussion about The Princesse de Cleves because of my classmates' inability to fathom virtue. They accused Mme de Cleves of being boring and spineless for not giving in to her passions, when she is one of the few truly virtuous literary characters. I find it refreshing to read about someone who doesn't give in to temptation despite their constant barrage, and I would think others would feel the same. Apparently not.

Anything written about the French court is pretty weird, and serves to make me eternally grateful for not having been born into that time, but this book seems to me particularly steeped in gossip and intrigue. It's the story of a young noblewoman who marries a prince madly in love with her, who (unlike all other husbands of the time) continues to be in love with her throughout their marriage, despite her return of only mild affection. She believes herself to be incapable of love (and is hardly devastated by that belief, seeing the affairs and scandals going on daily around her), until M de Nemours, a dashing rake of a nobleman, appears on the scene. They are immediately mutually attracted, but she (unlike all other wives of the time) refuses to enter into an affair with him. Nemours does everything he can to persuade her, but she is steadfast even though every thought of him is a temptation. Finally she is so frightened by her passion that she confesses everything to her husband in the hopes that he will keep her away from the court and society. M de Cleves is overcome by the knowledge that, although she has not had an affair, she still is capable of being in love--just not with her husband. He eventually dies, supposedly of a broken heart, and because Mme de Cleves believes that Nemours was ultimately the cause of his death, she refuses to remarry despite her new freedom. After discovering the extent to which Nemours has been following and watching her (which touches her, oddly--in this day and age we'd call that stalking, but whatever), and enters a convent.

What's missing from this summary is the true accessibility of the characters--because of them, it's not just a French soap opera. Mme de Cleves is one of my favorite characters, and her husband is not the milksop he sounds. He loves his wife more than one would think possible, and that seems to me just as admirable as her strength. Nemours, on the other hand, is creepy and weird--Mme de Cleves is finally a little disturbed at the knowledge that he spied on her and then told what he heard to everyone at court--and it's rather incomprehensible to me that this was not her reason for rejecting him rather than the fear of betraying her dead husband.

It's really a fascinating book, in many ways, and I highly recommend it.

I finally posted a second installment of the current story at Kate-Hill, if anyone's interested. It's taken me this long to discover that I did in fact have the whole story on disk--the hard drive only had about a quarter, so I was putting off typing the rest.

I was going to post about "Winged Migration", the excellent film about birds that I saw last week with Peculiar, Jack, and another friend, but Peculiar wrote such a good review of it that I'll just give a link. However, he did not mention two things that graphically illustrate the creepiness of the animal kingdom. In one scene an injured sea bird was set upon by eager-eyed crabs, until it disappeared under a squirming heap of jabbing claws. Later on, a particularly unpleasant bird called a skoa devoured a baby penguin right in front of its parents, who strangely did nothing but squawk in alarm and flap their ineffectual wings--well, ineffectually. My remark to the "Meat is Murder" folk: At least humans kill animals before eating them.

Peculiar also has an excellent review on the movie "Whale Rider", which I enjoyed, while not quite as much as he, fairly well.

After I told my future mother-in-law how much I'd enjoyed Under the Tuscan Sun, she scoffed a bit and said that there were so many better books in that genre--and then proceeded to send them all to me! A few weeks ago I received a box from Amazon full of books about Italy, which was quite a nice little surprise. Several of them I'd heard of before, since they'd been excerpted in a book I reviewed here a while back called Desiring Italy--narratives by Iris Origo and Lisa St. Aubin de Teran. Because the box came at a time when I'd just gathered up from our shelves a stack of books that need to be read so that they can consequently be gotten rid of, I haven't delved very far into Italy yet. I have, however, read the one most recommended by Odious's mother, viz. Paulo Tullio's North of Naples, South of Rome, and another called Within Tuscany, by Matthew Spender.

The descriptions of food in the former were so good that they made me feel hungry despite reading the book while violently ill with the flu. Italians seem to be always sociable, and what better way to socialize than through food? Tullio describes not only the meal preparations of pasta (an excellent pastime which we have enjoyed upon occasion) and other dishes, but also the killing and preparing of a pig, and the gathering of the entire town for a huge dinner at the local restaurant. Unfortunately the author lacks an elegant writing style, but after a while I got used to the roughness of his prose, and it almost seemed a complement to the subject.

Within Tuscany lacked the coherence of the other book, as the author seemed interested in every aspect of his local area. Because of this the book had no overall flow to it--a chapter on beekeeping was followed by a chapter on visiting Michelangelo's quarry followed by the history (such as it is) of the Etruscans followed by the sculpting of a crucifix for the local church. It was all interesting, but I had trouble getting into the book because it was so disjointed. Also I was irritated by the recurring presence of a captivating young woman who kept Spender's mind on things other than his wife and children.

As you know, I've been looking for E. Nesbit's Five Children trilogy for some time now, but have never happened upon any new editions except for the first book. Well, to my delight, on our latest trip to Borders, I found not only The Story of the Amulet, but also a collection of short stories I'd never heard of before! Some of the stories in The Magic World are a little silly and preachy (what naughty Maurice learned from being turned into a cat), but most are quite amusing and enjoyable, like the story of the princess and the hedge-pig, or the story of the telescope that actually changed the sizes of whatever it was pointed at. Of course the best of E. Nesbit is found in the pages of Five Children and It, The Phoenix and the Carpet, and The Story of the Amulet, but her short stories bear reading as well.

It's been a crazy week, full of people and activity. Of course I've still managed to find plenty of time to read, mostly as a survival tactic, but haven't had much time to post until now. It's a cold and snowy afternoon, perfect for snuggling down with new library books and afghans, with tomato soup and grilled cheese for lunch--which is, in fact, what I have just done. I'm about halfway through Robert Silverberg's Roma Eterna, a novel detailing what might have happened had Rome never fallen. So far he's had the Romans struggling along, only surviving by chance occurences and luck, which I suppose would be fairly accurate. It is, of course, silly (and I haven't even gotten to the part illustrated on the cover, with a man in a toga watching a rocket take off), and yet I must quibble.

Silverberg has what must be a common modern view of Christianity, that it just happened to take over civilization because of specific things falling into place. At the beginning of Roma Eterna, a historian is telling his friend about his current study on the Hebrews. He is excitedly positing his theory that their strange religion would have become a worldwide cult had their great leader Moshe not unfortunately died before leading them out of slavery and into the Palestine region. (Similarly, later in the book, a loyal Roman saves the world from another cult by having Mohammad assassinated--but this is not my point.) As if God would be thwarted by the death of one man!

It's always interesting to take a box of books culled from one's shelves to a used bookstore, and see which ones they choose. I suppose it depends a lot on sellability as well as shelf space and demand, but quite often the books I expect to be taken are discarded for those I have trouble remembering why I bought, and have no idea why anyone else would be interested in them. Anyway, I just took an overflowing box to Title Wave Books in Albuquerque, only to have the clerk pull out a meagre stack of mass-markets, bypassing the decent hardbacks and (admittedly bescribbled) various editions of Homer. Hmph. Well, the St. John's library can have the rest for their booksale in the spring--and I can't really complain about the books purchased by Title Wave, since they paid for the few paperbacks I wanted to buy.

Title Wave has been one of my favorite bookstores ever since I was introduced to the parent store in Anchorage (there are only two stores, one in Anchorage and one in Albuquerque--very odd to have lived near both of them!). It's a great store, crammed with books of all kinds for very reasonable prices, and apparently they also sell books online. The store in Anchorage was much more personable, being in an old house so that one wandered up and down stairs, around corners, and into nooks; however, it recently moved to a new site which I'm sure is nice because of its size, but can't have the atmosphere of the original. The Albuquerque store is also somewhat lacking in charm, although this is always forgivable when one discovers hard-to-find fantasy anthologies, obscure translations, or treasures of children's literature.

I've long had a fondness for Natalie Babbitt, as the author of the book that brought Odious and me together. When he found out that I'd read The Search for Delicious (which, I must admit, I had read simply because the public library in my hometown owned it, and while I thought it was good, never would have thought much about it again), he knew I was the girl for him. Well, it is always nice to discover odd little connections like that.

Anyway, I just read her book The Eyes of the Amaryllis, which was just as odd as her others but in a quieter way. It's the story of a young girl who goes to take care of her injured grandmother; as she learns why the old woman is so tied to the sea, she is pulled deep into the tale herself. My favorite aspect was the description of the house on the shore, cosy and shipshape against the sea winds.

I've just spent the day cooking pumpkin, which involves cutting it into small pieces, steaming the pieces for nearly an hour (thanks to high altitude), scraping the flesh from the rind, mashing the flesh, and then spooning it into Ziplocs in careful measurements before storing in the freezer. It's a time-consuming but satisfying process, particularly as the results prepare for a winter of pumpkin pie, bread, soup, and cookies, all of which are quite tasty and even more so when made with home-cooked pumpkin. Later on I'm going to bake up a double batch of cookies for the Halloween party at work tomorrow (We're supposed to dress up. I'm going to wear my pajamas.), from a recipe out of the Sunburst Farm Family Cookbook. It's one of my favorite cookbooks--well, that's not really fair, since all of my cookbooks are my favorites--partly because of its recipes but mainly because of the pure amusement I get from it.

The cookbook was produced by the Brotherhood of the Sun, a Santa Barbara commune in the 1970's, which is quite enough in itself. Each section is prefaced with a note about their growing and cooking methods, the best ingredients to use, and so on, as well as occasional philosophical notes. My favorite is the "Eight Paths of Right Cooking" at the end of the book. I've just discovered that the book is available through Popula, for $12. I'm not sure if it's worth it, but to further intrigue you, here's the recipe for Pumpkin Cloud Cookies.

1/2 c butter or margarine
1 c honey
2 eggs
1 c steamed, mashed pumpkin
2 c whole wheat flour [or 1 c wheat and 1 c white]
1 t baking soda
1 t sea salt
2 t cinnamon
1 t mace [or nutmeg]
2 c chopped walnuts

Cream butter; add honey. Add eggs and pumpkin. Mix dry ingredients together and add to the rest, including the nuts. Drop on greased cookie sheet. Bake in 350 oven for 15 minutes. Makes 30 cookies.

I used to be able to lie on my bed and read for hours and hours on end until I was dizzy and disoriented--and I would do it daily as long as my mother didn't interrupt me with her fears that I would become fat and lazy. I guess she was right. Anyway, I don't have much chance to do that anymore. Yesterday, however, was a blessed exception--I spent two hours in the afternoon burning through the Roald Dahl Omnibus, and then another two or so in the evening to finish it. What bliss! And they're such delightfully snarky little stories, too--just the way short stories should be. A few are a little too creepy for my taste ("Pig", "Skin", and "William and Mary"), but others such as the classic "Lamb to the Slaughter" and "The Great Automatic Grammatisator" can't fail to please the reader.

Every now and then I have to read some science fiction to remind myself why I don't read it regularly. It's odd to think that I used to read it quite frequently as a teenager, but I believe this was because I had not yet discovered that there was such a thing as the fantasy genre. And I will admit that there is some science fiction that I do enjoy, mostly Ray Bradbury's short stories, but for the most part I find it difficult to stay interested in tales of the future, since I have not yet read one that seemed to me believable. I can't believe that people could change enough to allow the sort of apocalyptic worlds such as the Matrix or even the Global Community, and I certainly don't believe in any sort of utopia; rather, it seems that life will continue much as it always has.

Anyway, this may be a slightly drunken ramble, and I will continue to my main point, which is that Octavia Butler's Parable of the Sower had little to distinguish it from any other apocalyptic science fiction except for the "God is Change" religion. Of course, that was also the boring aspect of the book. I can't decide if the scripture developed by the heroine is actually a belief of the author, or if Butler was simply trying to imagine what a woman in these circumstances might turn to in her need for meaning. Either way, I kept hoping that Lauren and her compatriots would in fact meet their goal of colonizing another planet, but instead they made their excrutiatingly long journey along the California coast, avoiding the pyromaniac drug addicts to reach a place where they might possibly have a chance of building a community. Dull, sadly, and yet I read it with unusual dedication. Perhaps it was simply the expectation that surely, at some point, something had to happen, but sadly all that happened was that I finished the book.

Why is it that the second installment in a trilogy is nearly always the worst? The only exception I can think of is The Two Towers, which is my favorite of the Lord of the Rings trilogy (because of the Ents), but that doesn't really count because it wasn't written as a trilogy. Anyway, it's always been irritating to me that one has to suffer through the middle of a trilogy--that should be the good meaty part even if there's no climax or conclusion.

I can't remember if I posted about Peter David's The Woad to Wuin, the sequel to Sir Apropos of Nothing, but I found it much cruder and more contrived, with little of interest occurring and rather forgettable as a whole. The third book, Tong Lashing, however, while not as enjoyable as the first, is a nice ending to the story of Apropos, with fewer but better puns and a more coherent story line. I think one of my favorite things about these books is that not only is Apropos not a hero, what happens to him is realistically not black and white. The reader is never quite sure who is his enemy, or even if there is one--which is a nice change. And I like that the person with whom he falls in love in this book is the Ho of the Skang-Kei clan. Hee.

At the moment I am entertaining my cat by alternately typing and swirling the cursor around on the computer screen. She's fascinated, sitting upright on my lap with her eyes fixed eagerly on the excitement I am creating. Hmm, she has also just produced an interesting stench--down, Lizzy, down!

Well, since I haven't actually finished a book for several days now, instead I'll recommend a CD I bought at Borders the other day. It was, I must admit, an impulse buy, but only a minor one since I've had Over the Rhine on my list for quite some time, ever since a friend introduced me to their music last year. Anyway, once I saw this CD it seemed silly not to buy it, since it was 2 discs for $15.99. It's the band's latest, called Ohio, and is rather more modern and streamlined than their older, more bluegrassy sound. The music is mellow and ballad-like, weaving in the musicians' backgrounds of country western, southern gospel, and rock and/or roll for a style all their own. So far my favorite songs are "What I'll Remember Most" and the title track, both on Disc 1; I haven't had much chance to listen to all of Disc 2.

Our small group of friends has been reading The Odyssey lately, as my readers know if they are also readers of Odious and Jack. I won't go into my thoughts on it, as these two have pretty much covered everything I had to say, except to insert a nice little quote which may well be Odysseus' reason for going home (to put forth an answer to a question that came up in recent conversation). Whether it is or not, I think it's the best sentiment in the book.

...then may the gods give you everything that your heart longs for;
may they grant you a husband and a house and sweet agreement
in all things, for nothing is better than this, more steadfast
than when two people, a man and his wife, keep a harmonious
household; a thing that brings much distress to the people who hate them
and pleasure to their well-wishers, and for them the best reputation. Lattimore, lines 180-5

Anyway, I haven't gotten very far with The Odyssey because I got sidetracked by trying to remember what happened with Agamemnon. His infamous sacrifice comes up a lot, so I decided to go back and read Iphigenia at Aulis for the whole story.

What a weird play! It's Euripides' last and thus most cynical, as well as being unfortunately fragmented. Much of what remains is suspect, and the ending is almost certainly spurious, since a quote from Aelian suggests a much more logical and devious conclusion. I like the play, though, because nobody comes out of it retaining any sort of reputation at all. I can't say I ever thought much of Achilles anyway, but he's a real pompous jerk here, and Odysseus is just bloodthirsty. At first Agamemnon seems somewhat sympathetic, but then he caves in to his brother's emotional blackmail; and because of this I really can't feel terrifically sorry for him when Clytaemestra kills him off in Aeschylus' play (which of course I had to read next).

More than in any other Greek tragedy, the characters in Agamemnon have the disturbing quality of being completely isolated from each other. In between soliloquys that of course are not directed at anyone in particular, there are exchanges that appear to be dialogue (at least in that two characters take turns talking) but aren't at all. Perhaps it's not fair to use Cassandra as an example, but when she and the Chorus are talking, they might as well be on different planets for all the communication there is between them. But even Agamemnon and Clytaemestra are clearly (and deliberately) talking about two different things upon his homecoming, although it's also a classic example of passive argument--she's trying to get him to talk about something without actually addressing it herself, and he is refusing to acknowledge that he knows what's she's talking about.

It's a lot more fun reading Greek tragedies now that I don't have to; more and more I'm realizing the truth that freshman year is wasted on the freshmen.

So one of the reasons I read Under the Tuscan Sun was because I thought I remembered Odious's mother saying that she had quite enjoyed it, and I've always found her to have excellent taste in books. But to my surprise, when at lunch the other day I mentioned having read it, she wrinkled her nose and said that really if I was interested in that genre there were thousands of better books. She told me of several others, and promised to send them along, but I am not yet persuaded against Frances Mayes.

Yet another booksale last weekend has added a new pile of books to our overloaded house, as well as a stack of LPs--old Gilbert and Sullivan, opera, and jazz. Of course, we don't actually own a turntable, but you know...

It was a really great booksale, with a better selection of children's books than I've ever seen at such a venue. I went a little crazy, mostly buying picture books for the daycare where I work, but also pouncing on such personal treasures as one of my all-time favorites, The Maggie B., by Irene Haas. It's a wonderful story of a little girl who wishes one night for a ship of her own, and in the morning she awakes in the cabin of the Maggie B., along with a goat, a toucan, chickens, and her brother James (who was a dear baby). Together they have a perfect day, catching fish for their dinner, singing sea chanties, and weathering a brief storm. The illustrations are warm and cosy, and it's just the sort of ship I would have if I could.

I also found several books by E. Nesbit--The Book of Dragons, The Story of the Treasure-Seekers, and The Phoenix and the Carpet. Reading the last brought back fond memories of my childhood, when over and over again I would check out from the library a red hardback edition of all the Five Children stories. What a terrific trilogy that is! I can't wait to find a copy of The Story of the Amulet so that I'll own them all.

So the other thing I found inspiring about Under the Tuscan Sun was, unsurprisingly, the aspect of building/renovating a house to suit one's ideal. (This is another reason why I will not see the movie--how on earth could such a thing convert to film?) Every two months, when I receive the latest issue of Mother Earth News, it provides further inspiration for future plans of building the perfect house. This is a common topic of conversation between Odious and me, as we have long wanted to build an energy-efficient, environmentally-sound house using many different ideas culled from Mother. Frances Mayes gave me even more ideas, though some I know will not be feasible in places of the world other than Italy, and I will have to incorporate her descriptions of terraced gardens and stone patios into my vision.

However, I don't think we would ever put ourselves through some of the nightmares that Mayes and her husband had to endure, caused in part by unfortunate choices in contractors. Seemingly simple renovations (restoring the original finish on chestnut beams, putting in new doorways, etc) turned into massive projects with months of clean-up that, despite the final satisfaction, don't quite sound worth it to me. Thus our plan to build a new house to our specifications (although Odious warns he will need to be allowed more than one try--I can just see a property somewhere in the West, littered with deserted environmentally-not-so-sound houses). On the other hand, the incredible discoveries the Mayeses made make their trouble almost worthwhile.

While stripping the paint in the dining room, they uncover an old fresco--a country scene that, while not a Giotto, is wonderfully charming. Later on, workmen dig through three layers of stone floor before unearthing the original, centuries-old, foundation; and every gardening venture reveals more Etruscan artifacts and wall-markings. This would indeed be amazing beyond belief, but having to endure smoking toilets (a misdirected water heating system), having to camp out in one room for months while the rest of the house is in utter turmoil, and dealing with disappearing workmen who leave behind all too apparent piles of rubbish, sounds like more than I could handle. Fortunately for us, however, it makes a delightful read!

This new site meter is very interesting--it's a little disturbing to find that people are not only visiting my blog, but also linking to it! So I guess now I should write something, although I'm feeling a little discombobulated having just endured a brief scare that I'd lost my wallet. Turned out I'd already taken it out of my purse about five minutes before. Hmph.

Reading Under the Tuscan Sun, by Frances Mayes (and no, I'm not going to see the movie--please, Diane Lane?!?) has been very inspiring in several different ways. I always seem to get in the mood to cook just when I have no time and a completely different schedule from Odious, and this book only made things worse. Her recipes for baked peppers with ricotta and basil, folded peach tart with mascarpone, and even, I am ashamed to admit, rabbit with tomatoes and balsamic vinegar, have caused me to add a copy to my Barnes and Noble shopping cart. Of course it won't be the same without fresh ingredients purchased from an Italian market, but we can't all live in Tuscany, I guess.

I have more to say about this book, but will continue tomorrow as it is nearing my bedtime.

So yesterday was Odious's birthday. His delight in the gift I gave him was a great vindication (ah, there's the word I've been trying to think of for a week now) of our upcoming marriage--I guess I know him pretty well. One of his favorite books has long been G.K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday, which I have to say has never overly impressed me. It's not easy to find anymore, being fairly unknown, and to our great dismay his treasured copy was recently redecorated by my dear rabbit (almost his only flaw is his taste for books!). I felt guilty enough about it that it weighed on my mind for some time, and finally I decided to visit Alibris in search of a better copy for a birthday gift. What a terrific site that is! I much prefer it to Half.com, which delivered the wrong edition of the Chronicles of Narnia to my door a while ago--but I digress. To my delight I found that an annotated version had been recently published; a new, discounted copy was readily available and delivered within a week. As an added bonus, the annotator is Martin Gardner, whose notes on Alice in Wonderland have long been a staple of our library. Anyway, Odious was so pleased that he claimed it was the best gift he'd received since his first bike--I feel that that deserves a little self-congratulation.

Well, having installed a site meter for this page, I now feel compelled to post things with some regularity, and that, of course, means reading something of substance. Also, I suppose, bringing my brain to think about what I'm reading. Odious asked me the other day what topic I've been thinking about lately, and I was ashamed to say nothing, which is unfortunately true. I keep myself awake at night thinking about things like how to address the envelopes for the wedding invitations, and what to include on the wedding registry--it's very sad, and becoming obsessive. However, I think I'm doing well with not talking about it constantly with my friends, so I will try to do the same here.

I'm in the middle of a couple of books that will be worth discussing when I finish them, but until then I'd like to recommend Nick Bantock's The Forgetting Room. I'd read the Griffin and Sabine trilogy years ago, and loved it far more for the guilty pleasure of reading someone else's mail than for the story itself, although the artwork is fascinating. Then I came across one of the continuations to the trilogy during a recent library visit, and found that Bantock had written several other unrelated books. The Forgetting Room is a simple story, which is a little disappointing since it is set up as a quirky mystery, but the process he goes through of creating a painting is interesting and curious, and the evocation of a Spanish village is particularly good.

Yikes. It's been a while. But in my defense, a lot has happened lately. I am now the proud owner of a lovely diamond engagement ring! Oh yes, and also a fiance. Because of this I have to keep reminding myself that the rest of my life is still going on, and wedding planning is not all-consuming.

Another reason I haven't blogged is because I haven't been able to motivate myself to read anything challenging or thought-provoking. I have read some more excellent fantasy novels, in particular Nina Kiriki Hoffman's latest, A Fistful of Sky. Oh, and our computer has been doing weird things, including not connecting to the Internet. So I have to grab a few minutes here and there at library computers, which does little for my concentration. Anyway, I will be blogging more when I am able to do so.

Just as I was vowing to stop spending so much money (both mine and Odious's), Charles de Lint's latest book came out. So of course I had to buy it in hardcover--but it was definitely worth the price. Spirits in the Wires is set in Newford, but features some lesser known residents of the city. In fact, my biggest complaint about the book was that my favorite character Jilly never appeared. Still it was nice to get to know Christy and Geordie Riddell better, as well as their friends of unusual origin. The novel builds off a great story from Moonlight and Vines about Christy's girlfriend Saskia, who emerged one day from the wilds of the Internet--specifically the website "The Wordwood". The site was created by another Newfordian, Holly Rue, and some of her friends, but when it suddenly seemed to grow a mind of its own they lost contact and control of it. De Lint explores just how that happens in this new book, and it is a terrific read--definitely one of his best.

Since my mother informed me that she no longer wanted to provide storage space for me (perfectly understandable, but rather dismaying), I came back from CA with five boxes of books from pre-college years. This is, of course, just what I need--more books to cram our little house to bursting! I went through them the other day and managed to sort out a box to dispose of, as well as cleverly rearranging shelves to accomodate the rest. These activities always put me in the mood of wanting to read everything, and wondering why on earth I'm wasting my time doing anything but reading. Nevertheless, my reading has been shockingly intermittent lately (due in part to lack of sleep and a generally distracted mind), and I've managed to finish few books besides old childhood favorites and fantasy anthologies. Also I'm re-reading Anna Karenina, which is a marvelous book but for some reason is difficult to read for large periods of time. All this to say, when I finish something of note, I'll blog about it.

I recently got back from vacation, a lovely week in California at my mom's house where I did very little besides lounge about and read light summery books. I traipsed along with Annie Dillard through Pilgrim at Tinker Creek; skimmed halfheartedly through White Apples, Jonathan Carroll's latest; strolled through London with Inspector Wexford in Ruth Rendell's Murder Being Once Done; shivered at the re-released From a Whisper to a Scream, originally published under Charles de Lint's pen name for his darker novels, Samuel M. Key; and thoroughly enjoyed Past the Size of Dreaming, Nina Kiriki Hoffman's sequel to A Red Heart of Memories. But there were two books that were more than summer reading.

Bread Alone, by Judith Ryan Hendricks, is indeed a fluffy beach novel in many ways. It has a simple, predictable story, as well as a plotline that's been done to death--middle-aged woman is cast adrift after her husband ends the marriage, and must find herself while dealing with various other upheavals in her life. However, as I read it I found the plot to be almost incidental and secondary to what was really happening. During the divorce negotations, Wynter Morrison moves to Seattle to live near her best friend and to work in a small local bakery. Baking bread has always been one of her ways to relax, ever since she studied with a famous baker in France, and now she does it for a living, along with the oddly assorted women at the bakery. Reading about the bread-baking process is nearly as soothing and satisfying as actually doing it, and the included recipes only add to the charm. I attended my mother's book club meeting on this book, and while we didn't end up discussing it nearly enough, it was interesting to hear everyone's responses--nearly everyone loved it, for the same reasons I did. It's just a really nice story!

The other noteworthy book is in a completely different category, unsurprisingly. I'd been wanting to read Laura Hillenbrand's bestselling Seabiscuit since it first came out, but somehow never got around to it until the release of the movie. Since I prefer to read the book before seeing the movie, I took along a copy on vacation. The first part was a little hard to get into, since it covered the background and history of the people involved in the story, so after reading that I set it aside for a few days. Finally I returned to it, after having refreshed myself with lighter matter, and once sitting down I didn't get back up again until the last page. What an amazing horse! I've always loved horse stories, especially ones with racing scenes--nothing else can get me on the edge of my seat like a well-told equine struggle to win--and this was exceptional. Many of the descriptions choked me up, which is something that very rarely happens; I couldn't help by get teary over the incredible drive and courage of that funny-looking little horse. I'm still looking forward to the movie, though I am pretty sure how it will be dramatized and Hollywoodized, but there's no way it will compare to the book. Don't be turned off by the fact that it's a horse story--it's written for everyone to enjoy.

It isn't often that I really miss being in school, and even when I do it's more for the social part than for the classes. The community of a college is such a strange and wonderful thing, where spending time with someone doesn't even require a phone call. I always loved the casualness of strolling over to someone's dorm room to hang out, or continuing a conversation after class, or even sitting in companionable silence over another wretched cafeteria lunch; whereas, in the strangeness of this in-between life I lead now, too much planning is required for time with friends, especially if more than one is involved. It's difficult to make friends and get to know people without the commonality of shared classes or dorm life, which frustrates me into thinking that a commune might not be such a bad thing.

Re-reading Pamela Dean's Tam Lin brought all these feelings to the surface (particularly because my first experience with the book was when Odious read it aloud to me during our freshman year in college), but I was surprised to find myself also missing classes and study. I think this was partly because St. John's was so lacking in the fields that particularly interest me; namely, literature and the English language. Janet, the main character in Tam Lin, is an English major, and many of her friends are studying Classics, and in reading of their gallops through poetry and strolls through Shakespeare, I realized how much I've missed out on and how much there is to learn. Unfortunately autodidactic study is difficult and often one-dimensional, but it will have to do until such time that I have money and inclination to return to school.

But this post is not all about the fact that I will be twenty-five in a few weeks and am wondering what I'm doing with my life--I'm also recommending a book! As always, Pamela Dean defies description, but in Tam Lin she has recreated the wonder and exasperation of college life, interspersed with moments of oddness that build up into what is literally a fairy-tale ending. The characters are strange and lovely and just the sort of people you wish you'd known at college, and utterly real and alive in a way only Pamela Dean can manage.