And now I feel terrible.
Curse my impecunious state! If only I'd bought more books from A Common Reader! After writing that last post, I tried to access the website and found to my horror that the company went bankrupt a year and a half ago. What a loss to the reading world, and how sad to see yet another small business go under. I wish I were not forced to buy books inexpensively, when I do buy them; I try to shop at Powell's when I can, but the rest of the time, Amazon is all too tempting.
Well, even though it won't bring back A Common Reader, in their memory I will do my best to support small local bookstores from now on. Buying books is always a hardship, but somehow I'll manage...
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Vexatious reality! How rarely you fulfill anticipation!
When A Common Reader recommends a book, I am all attention. After all, it was in those diminutive newsprint pages that I was first introduced to Edith Pargeter, Alice Thomas Ellis, and Patrick O'Brian, to name a noteworthy few. And to label a book a TGR--well! I don't even have to write that title on my list--it burns there in letters of gold.
Sadly, my impecunious state usually keeps me from purchasing A Common Reader's delightful tomes, and I rely on the library system to supply what it can. Thus Elisabeth Luard's Emerald had been on the list for years--since college, at least--with no luck in the libraries of New Mexico, Colorado, Alaska, California, Tennessee, or Oregon (yes, I have library cards in all but one of those states--as previously mentioned, I have an addiction), until I happened to think of it, purely by chance, last week in Lake Oswego. I'll admit my fingers trembled a little as I took it down from the shelf, though that may have been owing more to the sheer exhaustion of hauling around a teething, highly active eight-month-old in town all day, than to the wonder of finding that the book existed after so many years of anticipation.
But vexatious reality reared her ugly head. Emerald is indeed a fast-paced drama with steamy twists and turns, following the adventurous and mysterious life of the daughter of Edward VIII, the man who would not be king, because of Mrs Simpson; but if it had not been recommended by A Common Reader, I would never have read past the first page. How do these first novels ever get published? What editor unleashes on the world such cliches, such unending pages of simple sentences, such clunking prose? What writer doesn't know the first rule of writing--"show, don't tell"?
Oh dear. After David Herter's email, I was supposed to be nicer to writers. Hrm. Ms Luard, my apologies. I'm sure you wish your novel were better written, too. And I will freely admit that I stayed up late to finish it. Even if I can't echo A Common Reader's accolades, I can give Emerald that much recommendation.
When A Common Reader recommends a book, I am all attention. After all, it was in those diminutive newsprint pages that I was first introduced to Edith Pargeter, Alice Thomas Ellis, and Patrick O'Brian, to name a noteworthy few. And to label a book a TGR--well! I don't even have to write that title on my list--it burns there in letters of gold.
Sadly, my impecunious state usually keeps me from purchasing A Common Reader's delightful tomes, and I rely on the library system to supply what it can. Thus Elisabeth Luard's Emerald had been on the list for years--since college, at least--with no luck in the libraries of New Mexico, Colorado, Alaska, California, Tennessee, or Oregon (yes, I have library cards in all but one of those states--as previously mentioned, I have an addiction), until I happened to think of it, purely by chance, last week in Lake Oswego. I'll admit my fingers trembled a little as I took it down from the shelf, though that may have been owing more to the sheer exhaustion of hauling around a teething, highly active eight-month-old in town all day, than to the wonder of finding that the book existed after so many years of anticipation.
But vexatious reality reared her ugly head. Emerald is indeed a fast-paced drama with steamy twists and turns, following the adventurous and mysterious life of the daughter of Edward VIII, the man who would not be king, because of Mrs Simpson; but if it had not been recommended by A Common Reader, I would never have read past the first page. How do these first novels ever get published? What editor unleashes on the world such cliches, such unending pages of simple sentences, such clunking prose? What writer doesn't know the first rule of writing--"show, don't tell"?
Oh dear. After David Herter's email, I was supposed to be nicer to writers. Hrm. Ms Luard, my apologies. I'm sure you wish your novel were better written, too. And I will freely admit that I stayed up late to finish it. Even if I can't echo A Common Reader's accolades, I can give Emerald that much recommendation.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I may at some point post about books again; in the meantime, you can read about our farming adventures here. Enjoy!
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
I should be crocheting right now, in an attempt to finish an afghan for a friend's baby shower on Friday, but the child is sleeping and I'm feeling vaguely inspired. My reading addictions lately have been even more eclectic than usual--I'm hooked on Trollope, Barbara Kingsolver, Colin Dexter, and Joel Salatin. I don't know why I never got into Trollope before; I read one of his novels as a teenager and enjoyed it, but not enough to seek out more. Then, a couple months ago, when looking frantically for a quickly-accessible book to read while breastfeeding, I picked up Barchester Towers on a whim and found myself sucked into the Dorset life. I loved the protagonist, Mr Harding--a character who managed to be thoroughly good without being boring or unbelievable. And, when he's deep in thought, he plays an imaginary cello--one can gauge his level of emotion by how agitated or melancholy his movements are.
I've gotten through three of the Barsetshire Chronicles now, and am anxiously awaiting Odious's return tonight with the fourth (he forgot it at the library last week). It doesn't often happen, as it did with Doctor Thorne, that I look forward so eagerly to reading further in a book. Often I'm driven to finish in one reading, but that's more of a TV-like mania, not actual enjoyment of the book itself.
And I'm having that mania with Colin Dexter, both in print and on the screen. My mother introduced me to Inspector Morse, whose character and that of his sergeant, Lewis, I like much more than the actual mysteries. It's hard to pass up a policeman who drinks good beer and reads poetry and sings Mozart and listens to Wagner, especially when he's accompanied by a solidly humorous and prosaic straight man. They're a great combo.
I'm also not sure why I never got interested in Barbara Kingsolver before. I'd read her essays, and enjoyed them, but other than The Poisonwood Bible hadn't read any of her novels because of a vague idea that they weren't quite my style. Then my mother finally convinced me to read Prodigal Summer, which was one of the best books on my list last year, and I recently picked up The Bean Trees and found it nearly impossible to put down, even when the child was screaming. [Book... Baby... So hard to choose...] Now I'm scouring her shelves for the rest of Kingsolver's books.
My love affair with Joel Salatin is also thanks to my mother, who read and recommended Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma (another favorite on last year's list). Salatin is a farmer in West Virginia whose farm is featured in Pollan's book; he's also written several books himself. From the first we read of him, it was clear that we thought alike on many matters, and could only admire his brilliant ideas and farming techniques. So I found You Can Farm: The Entrepreneur's Guide to Start and Succeed in the Farming Business at the library and made my way through its 500+ pages with considerable ease. His writing has a conversational tone, though a decidedly opinionated and unflinching one, and his advice is invaluable. All farming books are inspirational, but this one is in a completely practical way--it is possible to succeed in farming as long as you stay away from the conventional model and work closely with the natural world. We're all ready to get serious about it, which is good because we have two goats due to kid next month, two new beehives buzzing busily, a greenhouse bursting with seedlings, and 55 chicks on the way as soon as the new coop is finished, not to mention a couple of half-grown lambs growing promising wool coats and beginning to eye each other amorously. Spring has sprung!
I've gotten through three of the Barsetshire Chronicles now, and am anxiously awaiting Odious's return tonight with the fourth (he forgot it at the library last week). It doesn't often happen, as it did with Doctor Thorne, that I look forward so eagerly to reading further in a book. Often I'm driven to finish in one reading, but that's more of a TV-like mania, not actual enjoyment of the book itself.
And I'm having that mania with Colin Dexter, both in print and on the screen. My mother introduced me to Inspector Morse, whose character and that of his sergeant, Lewis, I like much more than the actual mysteries. It's hard to pass up a policeman who drinks good beer and reads poetry and sings Mozart and listens to Wagner, especially when he's accompanied by a solidly humorous and prosaic straight man. They're a great combo.
I'm also not sure why I never got interested in Barbara Kingsolver before. I'd read her essays, and enjoyed them, but other than The Poisonwood Bible hadn't read any of her novels because of a vague idea that they weren't quite my style. Then my mother finally convinced me to read Prodigal Summer, which was one of the best books on my list last year, and I recently picked up The Bean Trees and found it nearly impossible to put down, even when the child was screaming. [Book... Baby... So hard to choose...] Now I'm scouring her shelves for the rest of Kingsolver's books.
My love affair with Joel Salatin is also thanks to my mother, who read and recommended Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma (another favorite on last year's list). Salatin is a farmer in West Virginia whose farm is featured in Pollan's book; he's also written several books himself. From the first we read of him, it was clear that we thought alike on many matters, and could only admire his brilliant ideas and farming techniques. So I found You Can Farm: The Entrepreneur's Guide to Start and Succeed in the Farming Business at the library and made my way through its 500+ pages with considerable ease. His writing has a conversational tone, though a decidedly opinionated and unflinching one, and his advice is invaluable. All farming books are inspirational, but this one is in a completely practical way--it is possible to succeed in farming as long as you stay away from the conventional model and work closely with the natural world. We're all ready to get serious about it, which is good because we have two goats due to kid next month, two new beehives buzzing busily, a greenhouse bursting with seedlings, and 55 chicks on the way as soon as the new coop is finished, not to mention a couple of half-grown lambs growing promising wool coats and beginning to eye each other amorously. Spring has sprung!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
I started a year-in-review post on our computer at home, but since I'm now at the library I'll skip ahead and post my haphazard list of Books to Read in 2007. I'm rarely, of course, at a loss for something to read, but I found it was helpful last year to have a goal to work towards--it kept me from reading nothing but junk and introduced me to some wonderful works I might not otherwise have read. Over the course of the year the list did change somewhat, and I'm sure the same will happen this year. Here, however, are my tentative and random goals for 2007:
Shakespeare--the plays I never read or may as well not have read
Rousseau--Emile
Stendhal--The Charterhouse of Parma
Balzac--Pere Goriot and others
Emerson--essays
Proust--as much of Remembrance of Things Past as possible
Milton--Paradise Lost
Sigrid Undset--Kristin Lavransdatter
Dickens--Nicholas Nickleby
Rudyard Kipling--Kim
Katherine Mansfield--Journal
I'll probably also keep working on the Modern Library list of 20th century best novels--I did quite well on it last year, and will post about that soon.
Shakespeare--the plays I never read or may as well not have read
Rousseau--Emile
Stendhal--The Charterhouse of Parma
Balzac--Pere Goriot and others
Emerson--essays
Proust--as much of Remembrance of Things Past as possible
Milton--Paradise Lost
Sigrid Undset--Kristin Lavransdatter
Dickens--Nicholas Nickleby
Rudyard Kipling--Kim
Katherine Mansfield--Journal
I'll probably also keep working on the Modern Library list of 20th century best novels--I did quite well on it last year, and will post about that soon.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Merry Christmas everyone!
An email from Sherry at Semicolon reminded me that I'd dropped out of the blogging world without any explanation, so I thought I'd post quickly to let anyone who still visits know what's happening. Odious and I usually decide to make a whole bunch of life changes all at once, and this year has been no different. We finally moved out to the country a few weeks ago, just in time to prepare for the birth of our first baby next month. We're tremendously excited and looking forward to meeting little Sam or Rose; I will be sure to post updates and photos after the great occasion. In the meantime, while Internet service is still sketchy out in the boonies, I'm no longer working and will have a little more time on my hands. Since I've been reading lots of good stuff, perhaps I'll return to blogging--I do miss it!
An email from Sherry at Semicolon reminded me that I'd dropped out of the blogging world without any explanation, so I thought I'd post quickly to let anyone who still visits know what's happening. Odious and I usually decide to make a whole bunch of life changes all at once, and this year has been no different. We finally moved out to the country a few weeks ago, just in time to prepare for the birth of our first baby next month. We're tremendously excited and looking forward to meeting little Sam or Rose; I will be sure to post updates and photos after the great occasion. In the meantime, while Internet service is still sketchy out in the boonies, I'm no longer working and will have a little more time on my hands. Since I've been reading lots of good stuff, perhaps I'll return to blogging--I do miss it!
Monday, September 18, 2006
I'm coming off a long phase of reading junk. Fortunately the realization that I was getting tired of it came along with the realization that filling my brain with nothing but pot-boilers (books and TV) was taking a toll and making me feel very depressed. I need more to chew on than Ruth Rendell, Alias, and Law & Order! So I took myself in opposite directions by beginning George Eliot's Daniel Deronda, which has been sitting on my nightstand for months, and renting the extraordinarily fluffy film "50 First Dates". It was good to think about real characters; it was good to laugh out loud.
So Peculiar thinks that I read every book I buy. Ha! If I didn't have constant access to libraries, I might, but those plastic jackets and spine markings have a pull on me that exceeds even the lure of smooth new paperbacks or rough-edged secondhand hardcovers. Since I'm not at home right now, and most of our books are packed up in hopeful preparation for moving, I don't think I can put together a list of ten books I've bought and not read, but I can probably come up with a few.
I've probably owned Rebecca West's The Birds Fall Down longer than Peculiar has, but it's now in a stack to read instead of on the shelf! I don't know why I've procrastinated on it, since The Thinking Reed is one of my favorite books--maybe I should check it out from the library...
I've had Incidents in the Life of A Slave Girl, by Harriet Jacobs, only a year or so--I bought it as part of a buy-2-get-1-free Barnes & Noble deal, because it looked interesting.
This one may not count, since I have read bits of it, but I bought a copy of the Apocrypha my sophomore year of college. I intend to read it all, I really do! Just not today.
Annie Dillard's The Living has only been in my possession since the last library book sale (this spring?). I've only read her non-fiction, so it should be interesting; this may be next after Deronda.
That's all I can think of right now; maybe I'll update tomorrow from home.
P.S. Sherry from Semicolon warned me from bothering with Christopher Paolini's Eldest; she was right. I checked it out from the library, sat down and read about 2 chapters, and chucked it back in the return slot. Bor--ing!
So Peculiar thinks that I read every book I buy. Ha! If I didn't have constant access to libraries, I might, but those plastic jackets and spine markings have a pull on me that exceeds even the lure of smooth new paperbacks or rough-edged secondhand hardcovers. Since I'm not at home right now, and most of our books are packed up in hopeful preparation for moving, I don't think I can put together a list of ten books I've bought and not read, but I can probably come up with a few.
I've probably owned Rebecca West's The Birds Fall Down longer than Peculiar has, but it's now in a stack to read instead of on the shelf! I don't know why I've procrastinated on it, since The Thinking Reed is one of my favorite books--maybe I should check it out from the library...
I've had Incidents in the Life of A Slave Girl, by Harriet Jacobs, only a year or so--I bought it as part of a buy-2-get-1-free Barnes & Noble deal, because it looked interesting.
This one may not count, since I have read bits of it, but I bought a copy of the Apocrypha my sophomore year of college. I intend to read it all, I really do! Just not today.
Annie Dillard's The Living has only been in my possession since the last library book sale (this spring?). I've only read her non-fiction, so it should be interesting; this may be next after Deronda.
That's all I can think of right now; maybe I'll update tomorrow from home.
P.S. Sherry from Semicolon warned me from bothering with Christopher Paolini's Eldest; she was right. I checked it out from the library, sat down and read about 2 chapters, and chucked it back in the return slot. Bor--ing!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Since I first heard about Christopher Paolini's novel Eragon, I figured I should probably read it out of homeschooler solidarity if nothing else. I picked it up a few times at bookstores, but wasn't interested enough to buy a copy, and its surprising popularity made it difficult to find at the library. Finally a couple weeks ago I saw a copy in one of the library displays and decided to check it out. Reading it made me wonder why I hadn't pursued publishing any of my fifteen-year-old scribblings! I wanted to rewrite almost every sentence, and as for the subject matter--there's little that can't be directly traced to well-known fantasy sources, mostly Tolkien.
For those who don't know the story, a teenaged boy named Eragon stumbles across a strange stone in the forest only he is comfortable entering. Unsurprisingly for the reader, the stone soon hatches a dragon that must be kept hidden from Eragon's family and fellow villagers, since dragons are believed to be extinct. But it's hard to conceal (and feed) an enormous flying creature, and all too soon Eragon is attacked by dark hooded riders and the bestial Urgals. Enter Gandalf/Professor Dumbledore/Obi-Wan Kenobi/wise yet mysterious advisor, who refuses to share his history yet expects Eragon to trust him fully. Back and forth across the Empire they flee, pursued by Nazgul and Orcs, trying to escape the Eye of Sauron--er, excuse me, all-powerful Emperor Galbatorix (who came to power by kicking his rival in the crotch during their final battle--clearly, supreme evil)--and figure out how Eragon can become a full-fledged Dragon Rider.
It's truly a story written by a fifteen-year-old boy. Nearly every conflict is solved with violence, even the most minor of surprises. It's not long before Eragon discovers his dragon-enhanced magic, which mostly means that he can kill things from a distance. So he does. People get mad at him, but it doesn't really help. Clearly the best enemy is a dead enemy, and anyway, it's more exciting that way. Thus most of the book is taken up with traveling and violence, until finally they reach the Mines of Moria and receive a brief respite while Paolini writes the next book in the trilogy.
To be fair, I've got Eldest on hold at the library, and am interested enough in Eragon's story to read the whole thing and find out what happens next. Hopefully the author's writing will improve with age, and perhaps he'll even branch out into original territory. I just can't help thinking what I thought about Charles de Lint's recently published first stories--there's a reason for practice, and first drafts, and rejections. After a while, you get better! Paolini seems to have the stamina for fantasy novels, and probably could produce something of merit in time, but it's kind of unfortunate that his first attempt is out there to embarrass him forever.
For those who don't know the story, a teenaged boy named Eragon stumbles across a strange stone in the forest only he is comfortable entering. Unsurprisingly for the reader, the stone soon hatches a dragon that must be kept hidden from Eragon's family and fellow villagers, since dragons are believed to be extinct. But it's hard to conceal (and feed) an enormous flying creature, and all too soon Eragon is attacked by dark hooded riders and the bestial Urgals. Enter Gandalf/Professor Dumbledore/Obi-Wan Kenobi/wise yet mysterious advisor, who refuses to share his history yet expects Eragon to trust him fully. Back and forth across the Empire they flee, pursued by Nazgul and Orcs, trying to escape the Eye of Sauron--er, excuse me, all-powerful Emperor Galbatorix (who came to power by kicking his rival in the crotch during their final battle--clearly, supreme evil)--and figure out how Eragon can become a full-fledged Dragon Rider.
It's truly a story written by a fifteen-year-old boy. Nearly every conflict is solved with violence, even the most minor of surprises. It's not long before Eragon discovers his dragon-enhanced magic, which mostly means that he can kill things from a distance. So he does. People get mad at him, but it doesn't really help. Clearly the best enemy is a dead enemy, and anyway, it's more exciting that way. Thus most of the book is taken up with traveling and violence, until finally they reach the Mines of Moria and receive a brief respite while Paolini writes the next book in the trilogy.
To be fair, I've got Eldest on hold at the library, and am interested enough in Eragon's story to read the whole thing and find out what happens next. Hopefully the author's writing will improve with age, and perhaps he'll even branch out into original territory. I just can't help thinking what I thought about Charles de Lint's recently published first stories--there's a reason for practice, and first drafts, and rejections. After a while, you get better! Paolini seems to have the stamina for fantasy novels, and probably could produce something of merit in time, but it's kind of unfortunate that his first attempt is out there to embarrass him forever.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Though I originally started this blog to recommend books, I've found it's so much more fun to not recommend them. If I like a book, I feel that's all I have to say--read it, you'll like it too. But if I don't like a book, well then I have to tell you exactly why!
And Odious thinks I should share my outrage (since I shared it with him) concerning a fantasy novel whose reviewer had the gall to deem it "in some ways reminiscent of the Newford stories of Charles de Lint". Ha! I'll readily admit that Charles de Lint may be somewhat lacking in elegant prose and flowing style, but at least he has the knack of creating characters with whom I want to be friends, and neighborhoods in which I want to live, and stories that can be completely captivating. Not so David Herter.
I shudder to think what his first novel must have been like, as one assumes authors get better as they go along. Evening's Empire is his second attempt, and I really can't imagine what the editors at Tor Books were thinking when, first of all, they chose to publish this book, and second of all, they apparently fired their copy editors.
When I first read Ruth Rendell's excellent story, "From Piranha to Scurfy", I could immediately relate to the main character, whose self-employment consists of buying newly released hardbacks, reading them for errors, and writing polite letters to the authors to inform them of all mistakes. I sympathize now even more. My first inkling that David Herter might be overrated came when his protagonist mentioned that he was writing an opera to be produced in Santa Fe on March 17.
Only if he didn't actually want anyone to come to it!
As anyone who's ever been to the Santa Fe Opera knows, the opera house has no walls. The front of the building is completely open to the outside, which is marvelous and stunning and great fun (I still remember the coinciding thunderstorms during Janacek's "Katya Kabanova"). It also means that the opera season runs June-August, for the very good reason that nights during the rest of the year are far too cold for outdoor performances.
So it seems Mr Herter has not done his opera homework. And Tor Books needs to hire more copy editors. Indeed, they seem to have allowed this book to be published without editing of any kind. Useless conversations, sentence fragments, and clumsy style abound, but it wasn't until I read the description of a woman "gliding ebulliently" over the dance floor that I nearly threw the book across the room.
I'm currently composing the first draft of my letter to David Herter: "Dear Sir, Please stop writing." And my email to Tor Books: "To Whom It May Concern: I would like to offer my services as a copy editor." I'll keep you updated.
And Odious thinks I should share my outrage (since I shared it with him) concerning a fantasy novel whose reviewer had the gall to deem it "in some ways reminiscent of the Newford stories of Charles de Lint". Ha! I'll readily admit that Charles de Lint may be somewhat lacking in elegant prose and flowing style, but at least he has the knack of creating characters with whom I want to be friends, and neighborhoods in which I want to live, and stories that can be completely captivating. Not so David Herter.
I shudder to think what his first novel must have been like, as one assumes authors get better as they go along. Evening's Empire is his second attempt, and I really can't imagine what the editors at Tor Books were thinking when, first of all, they chose to publish this book, and second of all, they apparently fired their copy editors.
When I first read Ruth Rendell's excellent story, "From Piranha to Scurfy", I could immediately relate to the main character, whose self-employment consists of buying newly released hardbacks, reading them for errors, and writing polite letters to the authors to inform them of all mistakes. I sympathize now even more. My first inkling that David Herter might be overrated came when his protagonist mentioned that he was writing an opera to be produced in Santa Fe on March 17.
Only if he didn't actually want anyone to come to it!
As anyone who's ever been to the Santa Fe Opera knows, the opera house has no walls. The front of the building is completely open to the outside, which is marvelous and stunning and great fun (I still remember the coinciding thunderstorms during Janacek's "Katya Kabanova"). It also means that the opera season runs June-August, for the very good reason that nights during the rest of the year are far too cold for outdoor performances.
So it seems Mr Herter has not done his opera homework. And Tor Books needs to hire more copy editors. Indeed, they seem to have allowed this book to be published without editing of any kind. Useless conversations, sentence fragments, and clumsy style abound, but it wasn't until I read the description of a woman "gliding ebulliently" over the dance floor that I nearly threw the book across the room.
I'm currently composing the first draft of my letter to David Herter: "Dear Sir, Please stop writing." And my email to Tor Books: "To Whom It May Concern: I would like to offer my services as a copy editor." I'll keep you updated.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
"A woman of seven-and-twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again..." --Sense and Sensibility
I'd forgotten what extremes Elinor and Marianne are, as if Jane Austen set out to create caricatures for her title. Their temperaments are so defined that I think it would be difficult to spend any time with them, which I've never felt about any other Austen characters. I do believe Marianne is the only person I've ever seen actually fall into the depths of despair. When Elinor enters Marianne's room after Willoughby's rejection letter has arrived, Marianne thrusts the packet in Elinor's hands, presses a handkerchief to her mouth, and "fairly scream[s] with grief." Once she falls in love with Willoughby, nothing else can entertain her; when he is absent she has interest in nothing; and after his rejection she cannot even see another person without falling into another paroxysm. Elinor is remarkably compassionate towards her; I'd be inclined to give her a good smack.
Compare these reactions to Elinor's state when she learns that Edward Ferrars has been secretly engaged to Lucy Steele the whole time he has been acquainted with the Dashwoods. She is, naturally, shocked at the news, but instead of retiring permanently to her bedroom, does her best to rationalize the situation and gain an understanding of what must have happened between the two young people. Of course she is unable to share the knowledge with anyone, since Lucy has entreated her to keep the affair secret, and yet it is difficult to imagine that anyone could be capable of fashioning such perfect composure. She can even bring herself to mention the matter again to Lucy, and discuss it calmly despite suspecting the other girl's jealousy.
Odious thinks that their temperaments build off each other: that Marianne increases her passion and emotional state because she thinks Elinor should express herself more; and Elinor retreats into her rational shell because she wishes Marianne would be more restrained. There is certainly some truth to this, but I still wouldn't enjoy an afternoon with them as much as I would with the Bennetts.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Paul's henhouse is better than ours.
Well, okay, maybe not better, necessarily, but it does look like he actually measured stuff and had real plans and all that. I had been inclined to think such things were overrated, but after spending two days digging into subsoil with a trowel because our site was much farther from level than we'd thought, I decided maybe we should consider having pretty detailed plans once we're ready to build an actual house. But the Olin P.T. Younger Memorial Chicken Fortress stands proud, and is certainly not going to be blown away by stray breezes. And once we paint it a delicate pink, no one will notice the miscut plywood.
I recently said to Odious that I didn't want to post about a particular incident because I wanted to keep this a book blog rather than an online journal. Well, since I really don't feel like posting about books today, I'll tell you about the latest farm adventures instead. The chicken fortress will indeed be done once we get around to painting it, and the chicks are due next week. And not only do we have a real bee hive, it's now filled with real bees! (Or at least it was on Monday; we have not heard to the contrary.) Odious and I picked up our little nucleus Monday morning--a gently buzzing wooden box that turned out to be not quite as well-built as one might hope. Fortunately only a few escapees met sad deaths before we got the crack covered and made the rest of our 1 1/2 hour journey safely.
Once at the farm, Odious cavalierly slung the bee veil over his head, scorning the sturdy yellow gloves provided with our starter kit from Dadant, and strode with manly purpose out to the hive. Prying the lid off the box, he stared down for a moment at the the three frames swarming with docile but nervous bees, then turned to me and said in a tone that he claims was not more high-pitched than usual, "Why don't you go get those gloves?"
Bees are not difficult creatures, but they don't like to be fussed with. Any dealings with them should be brief and assured, and beginning beekeepers are, understandably, anything but. Despite the croonings in French (don't ask me), the bees were somewhat disturbed by their transfer. I still have a red welt on my temple, and Odious, with more French, pulled seven stingers out of various extremities. He's still immoderately enamored of the petits soeurs, though he's decided to take them rather more seriously next time.
Our next project? Rabbit hutches, for those freakiest of animals. Odious drew up the plans yesterday during a store meeting, where he was also presented with a customer service award. His prize? A $50 gift card, which will certainly come in handy. And a medal. Yep, that's right. The kind that hangs round your neck. We're going to hang it in a place of honor. I'm just disappointed he didn't get a plaque.
Well, okay, maybe not better, necessarily, but it does look like he actually measured stuff and had real plans and all that. I had been inclined to think such things were overrated, but after spending two days digging into subsoil with a trowel because our site was much farther from level than we'd thought, I decided maybe we should consider having pretty detailed plans once we're ready to build an actual house. But the Olin P.T. Younger Memorial Chicken Fortress stands proud, and is certainly not going to be blown away by stray breezes. And once we paint it a delicate pink, no one will notice the miscut plywood.
I recently said to Odious that I didn't want to post about a particular incident because I wanted to keep this a book blog rather than an online journal. Well, since I really don't feel like posting about books today, I'll tell you about the latest farm adventures instead. The chicken fortress will indeed be done once we get around to painting it, and the chicks are due next week. And not only do we have a real bee hive, it's now filled with real bees! (Or at least it was on Monday; we have not heard to the contrary.) Odious and I picked up our little nucleus Monday morning--a gently buzzing wooden box that turned out to be not quite as well-built as one might hope. Fortunately only a few escapees met sad deaths before we got the crack covered and made the rest of our 1 1/2 hour journey safely.
Once at the farm, Odious cavalierly slung the bee veil over his head, scorning the sturdy yellow gloves provided with our starter kit from Dadant, and strode with manly purpose out to the hive. Prying the lid off the box, he stared down for a moment at the the three frames swarming with docile but nervous bees, then turned to me and said in a tone that he claims was not more high-pitched than usual, "Why don't you go get those gloves?"
Bees are not difficult creatures, but they don't like to be fussed with. Any dealings with them should be brief and assured, and beginning beekeepers are, understandably, anything but. Despite the croonings in French (don't ask me), the bees were somewhat disturbed by their transfer. I still have a red welt on my temple, and Odious, with more French, pulled seven stingers out of various extremities. He's still immoderately enamored of the petits soeurs, though he's decided to take them rather more seriously next time.
Our next project? Rabbit hutches, for those freakiest of animals. Odious drew up the plans yesterday during a store meeting, where he was also presented with a customer service award. His prize? A $50 gift card, which will certainly come in handy. And a medal. Yep, that's right. The kind that hangs round your neck. We're going to hang it in a place of honor. I'm just disappointed he didn't get a plaque.
Friday, May 12, 2006
I crossed another book off my 2006 list the other day--Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie. I liked it enough that I'll probably try An American Tragedy too, although I'm not sure exactly why I liked it. For one thing, there were too many similarities to The Jungle--the sort of descriptions one reads with horror, and characters that one wants to believe could never exist. But there was also the same fascination that drew me quickly through it, watching the downfall of one character and the rise to glory of another.
And yet it doesn't take Dreiser's blatantly obvious ending to show that Carrie is actually somewhat lacking in glory. Throughout the book she lives by following other people, which serves her better than perhaps it should, but she never really thinks about what she might want, or what sort of person she might like to be. It may not be possible to consider these things when one must find a way to make money or starve, but Carrie's character is so different from the others in the novel that it's surprising that she is so willing to go wherever she's led.
In the end Carrie ought to be happy, in her secure position as a well-respected actress, with all the money she needs, a bevy of friends, and a posh hotel apartment, but, of course, she's not. How much better off is she than her seducer, Hurstwood, who comes to quite an unfortunate end? Dreiser says not much, and I have to agree.
And yet it doesn't take Dreiser's blatantly obvious ending to show that Carrie is actually somewhat lacking in glory. Throughout the book she lives by following other people, which serves her better than perhaps it should, but she never really thinks about what she might want, or what sort of person she might like to be. It may not be possible to consider these things when one must find a way to make money or starve, but Carrie's character is so different from the others in the novel that it's surprising that she is so willing to go wherever she's led.
In the end Carrie ought to be happy, in her secure position as a well-respected actress, with all the money she needs, a bevy of friends, and a posh hotel apartment, but, of course, she's not. How much better off is she than her seducer, Hurstwood, who comes to quite an unfortunate end? Dreiser says not much, and I have to agree.
Friday, May 05, 2006
My mother raised me well: I get more excited about a library booksale than almost anything else in the world. Despite getting to bed later than planned last night, I bounced up this morning ready to dig through other people's trash and find my own treasures. There's something so intoxicating about a room full of cheap, random, disorganized books--I feel a little crazed sometimes, trying to see everything at once before anyone else beats me to it.
Odious and I arrived at the library this morning 15 minutes before it opened. To my surprise we were the first ones there, but then I remembered that most people are not like Johnnies, willing to stand in line for an hour or more just to be the first one to caress and pore over those precious tomes. Most people are also not like my mother, who signed us all up to volunteer when she discovered that assisting the librarians with set-up meant first crack at the books (not to mention a 50% discount--I remember driving home, sated, with a carful of boxes that cost us somewhere around $40).
I think if I went through and counted, I'd find that at least half of our substantial personal library consists of 50-cent rejects. While a number of books gleaned from these sales have been re-donated (paperback mysteries, disappointing sci-fi, accidental duplicates), we've gained quite a few prizes. None, perhaps, as exciting as Steve's signed first edition rarity (it was not a book I'd ever heard of, but apparently quite valuable), but I think the James Branch Cabell set I nabbed for Odious our freshman year may be one of the reasons he married me. And who wouldn't be pleased to count among their possessions lovely old hardback classics, dedicated with swooping Victorian penmanship, to "dearest Ida" or "Augustus on his twelfth birthday, with love"? And of course there are the completely random finds, like the collection of satirical mini-biographies of famous authors, illustrated by Edward Gorey, that fell into my hands at the last sale.
What did I find today, you ask? Well, sadly, nothing much. We had only a scant half-hour to buzz through the room, but even so I saw a lot of books from the last sale(this library has highfalutin ideas about booksale pricing). So, aside from a couple nice gifts for people who read this blog (hi!), I picked up Ann Radcliffe's gothic novel The Italian, the basic writings of Freud (well, he's interesting!), a Katherine Anne Porter novel, several collections of short stories (D.H. Lawrence and Willa Cather), and possibly something else that I'm forgetting. Odious's finds included a computer book about 3 inches thick and a new-to-us Arturo Perez-Reverte.
He's happy, but I'll be going back on Sunday...
Odious and I arrived at the library this morning 15 minutes before it opened. To my surprise we were the first ones there, but then I remembered that most people are not like Johnnies, willing to stand in line for an hour or more just to be the first one to caress and pore over those precious tomes. Most people are also not like my mother, who signed us all up to volunteer when she discovered that assisting the librarians with set-up meant first crack at the books (not to mention a 50% discount--I remember driving home, sated, with a carful of boxes that cost us somewhere around $40).
I think if I went through and counted, I'd find that at least half of our substantial personal library consists of 50-cent rejects. While a number of books gleaned from these sales have been re-donated (paperback mysteries, disappointing sci-fi, accidental duplicates), we've gained quite a few prizes. None, perhaps, as exciting as Steve's signed first edition rarity (it was not a book I'd ever heard of, but apparently quite valuable), but I think the James Branch Cabell set I nabbed for Odious our freshman year may be one of the reasons he married me. And who wouldn't be pleased to count among their possessions lovely old hardback classics, dedicated with swooping Victorian penmanship, to "dearest Ida" or "Augustus on his twelfth birthday, with love"? And of course there are the completely random finds, like the collection of satirical mini-biographies of famous authors, illustrated by Edward Gorey, that fell into my hands at the last sale.
What did I find today, you ask? Well, sadly, nothing much. We had only a scant half-hour to buzz through the room, but even so I saw a lot of books from the last sale(this library has highfalutin ideas about booksale pricing). So, aside from a couple nice gifts for people who read this blog (hi!), I picked up Ann Radcliffe's gothic novel The Italian, the basic writings of Freud (well, he's interesting!), a Katherine Anne Porter novel, several collections of short stories (D.H. Lawrence and Willa Cather), and possibly something else that I'm forgetting. Odious's finds included a computer book about 3 inches thick and a new-to-us Arturo Perez-Reverte.
He's happy, but I'll be going back on Sunday...
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Books by Women Meme
Just BOLD those you’ve read, ITALICIZE the ones you’ve been meaning to read and ??? the ones you have never heard of (or wish you had never heard of? Or the ones you wonder, "why is this book on this list?")
Alcott, Louisa May–Little Women
Allende, Isabel–The House of Spirits
Angelou, Maya–I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Atwood, Margaret–Cat’s Eye
Austen, Jane–Emma
Bambara, Toni Cade–Salt Eaters ??
Barnes, Djuna–Nightwood ??
de Beauvoir, Simone–The Second Sex
Blume, Judy–Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret
Burnett, Frances–The Secret Garden
Bronte, Charlotte–Jane Eyre
Bronte, Emily–Wuthering Heights
Buck, Pearl S.–The Good Earth
Byatt, A.S.–Possession
Cather, Willa–My Antonia
Christie, Agatha–Murder on the Orient Express
Cisneros, Sandra–The House on Mango Street
Clinton, Hillary Rodham–Living History?????????
Cooper, Anna Julia–A Voice From the South??
Danticat, Edwidge–Breath, Eyes, Memory??
Davis, Angela–Women, Culture, and Politics??
Desai, Anita–Clear Light of Day??
Dickinson, Emily–Collected Poems
Duncan, Lois–I Know What You Did Last Summer??????????
DuMaurier, Daphne–Rebecca
Eliot, Geroge–Middlemarch
Emecheta, Buchi–Second Class Citizen
Erdrich, Louise–Tracks
Esquivel, Laura–Like Water for Chocolate
Flagg, Fannie–Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe
Friedan, Betty–The Feminine Mystique
Frank, Anne–Diary of a Young Girl
Gilman, Charlotte Perkins–The Yellow Wallpaper
Gordimer, Nadine–July’s People??
Grafton, Sue–S is for Silence
Hamilton, Edith–Mythology
Highsmith, Patricia–The Talented Mr. Ripley
Hooks, Bell–Bone Black??
Hurston, Zora Neale–Dust Tracks on the Road
Jacobs, Harriet–Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl
Jackson, Helen Hunt–Ramona
Jackson, Shirley–The Haunting of Hill House
Jong, Erica–Fear of Flying
Keene, Carolyn–The Nancy Drew Mysteries (any of them)
Kidd, Sue Monk–The Secret Life of Bees
Kincaid, Jamaica–Lucy
Kingsolver, Barbara–The Poisonwood Bible
Kingston, Maxine Hong–The Woman Warrior
Larsen, Nella–Passing??
L’Engle, Madeleine–A Wrinkle in Time
Le Guin, Ursula K.–The Left Hand of Darkness
Lee, Harper–To Kill a Mockingbird
Lessing, Doris–The Golden Notebook
Lively, Penelope–Moon Tiger
Lorde, Audre–The Cancer Journals??
Martin, Ann M.–The Babysitters Club Series?????????????
McCullers, Carson–The Member of the Wedding
McMillan, Terry–Disappearing Acts
Markandaya, Kamala–Nectar in a Sieve??
Marshall, Paule–Brown Girl, Brownstones??
Mitchell, Margaret–Gone with the Wind
Montgomery, Lucy–Anne of Green Gables
Morgan, Joan–When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost??
Morrison, Toni–Song of Solomon
Murasaki, Lady Shikibu–The Tale of Genji
Munro, Alice–Lives of Girls and Women
Murdoch, Iris–Severed Head
Naylor, Gloria–Mama Day
Niffenegger, Audrey–The Time Traveller’s Wife
Oates, Joyce Carol–We Were the Mulvaneys??
O’Connor, Flannery–A Good Man is Hard to Find
Piercy, Marge–Woman on the Edge of Time??
Picoult, Jodi–My Sister’s Keeper
Plath, Sylvia–The Bell Jar
Porter, Katharine Anne–Ship of Fools
Proulx, E. Annie–The Shipping News
Rand, Ayn–The Fountainhead
Ray, Rachel–365: No Repeats???????????
Rhys, Jean–Wide Sargasso Sea
Robinson, Marilynne–Housekeeping??
Rocha, Sharon–For Laci??
Sebold, Alice–The Lovely Bones
Shelley, Mary–Frankenstein
Smith, Betty–A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Smith, Zadie–White Teeth
Spark, Muriel–The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
Spyri, Johanna–Heidi
Strout, Elizabeth–Amy and Isabelle??
Steel, Danielle–The House
Tan, Amy–The Joy Luck Club
Tannen, Deborah–You’re Wearing That??
Ulrich, Laurel–A Midwife’s Tale
Urquhart, Jane–Away??
Walker, Alice–The Temple of My Familiar
Welty, Eudora–One Writer’s Beginnings
Wharton, Edith–Age of Innocence
Wilder, Laura Ingalls–Little House in the Big Woods
Wollstonecraft, Mary–A Vindication of the Rights of Women
Woolf, Virginia–A Room of One’s Own
Just BOLD those you’ve read, ITALICIZE the ones you’ve been meaning to read and ??? the ones you have never heard of (or wish you had never heard of? Or the ones you wonder, "why is this book on this list?")
Alcott, Louisa May–Little Women
Allende, Isabel–The House of Spirits
Angelou, Maya–I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Atwood, Margaret–Cat’s Eye
Austen, Jane–Emma
Bambara, Toni Cade–Salt Eaters ??
Barnes, Djuna–Nightwood ??
de Beauvoir, Simone–The Second Sex
Blume, Judy–Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret
Burnett, Frances–The Secret Garden
Bronte, Charlotte–Jane Eyre
Bronte, Emily–Wuthering Heights
Buck, Pearl S.–The Good Earth
Byatt, A.S.–Possession
Cather, Willa–My Antonia
Christie, Agatha–Murder on the Orient Express
Cisneros, Sandra–The House on Mango Street
Clinton, Hillary Rodham–Living History?????????
Cooper, Anna Julia–A Voice From the South??
Danticat, Edwidge–Breath, Eyes, Memory??
Davis, Angela–Women, Culture, and Politics??
Desai, Anita–Clear Light of Day??
Dickinson, Emily–Collected Poems
Duncan, Lois–I Know What You Did Last Summer??????????
DuMaurier, Daphne–Rebecca
Eliot, Geroge–Middlemarch
Emecheta, Buchi–Second Class Citizen
Erdrich, Louise–Tracks
Esquivel, Laura–Like Water for Chocolate
Flagg, Fannie–Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe
Friedan, Betty–The Feminine Mystique
Frank, Anne–Diary of a Young Girl
Gilman, Charlotte Perkins–The Yellow Wallpaper
Gordimer, Nadine–July’s People??
Grafton, Sue–S is for Silence
Hamilton, Edith–Mythology
Highsmith, Patricia–The Talented Mr. Ripley
Hooks, Bell–Bone Black??
Hurston, Zora Neale–Dust Tracks on the Road
Jacobs, Harriet–Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl
Jackson, Helen Hunt–Ramona
Jackson, Shirley–The Haunting of Hill House
Jong, Erica–Fear of Flying
Keene, Carolyn–The Nancy Drew Mysteries (any of them)
Kidd, Sue Monk–The Secret Life of Bees
Kincaid, Jamaica–Lucy
Kingsolver, Barbara–The Poisonwood Bible
Kingston, Maxine Hong–The Woman Warrior
Larsen, Nella–Passing??
L’Engle, Madeleine–A Wrinkle in Time
Le Guin, Ursula K.–The Left Hand of Darkness
Lee, Harper–To Kill a Mockingbird
Lessing, Doris–The Golden Notebook
Lively, Penelope–Moon Tiger
Lorde, Audre–The Cancer Journals??
Martin, Ann M.–The Babysitters Club Series?????????????
McCullers, Carson–The Member of the Wedding
McMillan, Terry–Disappearing Acts
Markandaya, Kamala–Nectar in a Sieve??
Marshall, Paule–Brown Girl, Brownstones??
Mitchell, Margaret–Gone with the Wind
Montgomery, Lucy–Anne of Green Gables
Morgan, Joan–When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost??
Morrison, Toni–Song of Solomon
Murasaki, Lady Shikibu–The Tale of Genji
Munro, Alice–Lives of Girls and Women
Murdoch, Iris–Severed Head
Naylor, Gloria–Mama Day
Niffenegger, Audrey–The Time Traveller’s Wife
Oates, Joyce Carol–We Were the Mulvaneys??
O’Connor, Flannery–A Good Man is Hard to Find
Piercy, Marge–Woman on the Edge of Time??
Picoult, Jodi–My Sister’s Keeper
Plath, Sylvia–The Bell Jar
Porter, Katharine Anne–Ship of Fools
Proulx, E. Annie–The Shipping News
Rand, Ayn–The Fountainhead
Ray, Rachel–365: No Repeats???????????
Rhys, Jean–Wide Sargasso Sea
Robinson, Marilynne–Housekeeping??
Rocha, Sharon–For Laci??
Sebold, Alice–The Lovely Bones
Shelley, Mary–Frankenstein
Smith, Betty–A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Smith, Zadie–White Teeth
Spark, Muriel–The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
Spyri, Johanna–Heidi
Strout, Elizabeth–Amy and Isabelle??
Steel, Danielle–The House
Tan, Amy–The Joy Luck Club
Tannen, Deborah–You’re Wearing That??
Ulrich, Laurel–A Midwife’s Tale
Urquhart, Jane–Away??
Walker, Alice–The Temple of My Familiar
Welty, Eudora–One Writer’s Beginnings
Wharton, Edith–Age of Innocence
Wilder, Laura Ingalls–Little House in the Big Woods
Wollstonecraft, Mary–A Vindication of the Rights of Women
Woolf, Virginia–A Room of One’s Own
Saturday, April 15, 2006
I'm trying to remember why exactly I was so eager to acquire employment. Oh, right, the dwindling bank balance... If only work didn't interfere so much with my life--it's really quite vexing. And despite working in the same building--within winking distance--of my dear husband, the time we have together has shrunk to car rides and sleep. Perhaps because of this I find myself growing even more affectionate towards him (ah, absence), although I think it also has something to do with reading the much-maligned Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.
Yes, I was a scoffer too, but the book's got merit! Even Odious agreed that there was something to it, though he complained about the generalization. Unfortunately such books require a certain degree of generalization, and in this case John Gray, PhD, has gotten pretty close to the mark. His analogy of Martians and Venusians quickly ceases to amuse, but there is much within this book that I found helpful and enlightening. It gave me a little window into the male psyche (don't worry, guys, just a little one!) that has been tremendously freeing. Because I understand his reactions and intentions better, I can stop worrying about whether or not he's okay and just enjoy the fact that I have a fantastic husband who does laundry and dishes without being asked as long as he's allowed to play computer games!
I think the most interesting thing to me was the realization that relationships got difficult right around the time the word "relationship" started to mean something. Marriage as a friendship and partnership is a wonderful development for which I am truly grateful, yet it carries a myriad of problems. Men and women now seem to rely on each other for everything, which can be trying because of our differences. Communities and families have changed so that a husband and wife are expected to provide support of all kinds for each other, and sometimes it doesn't work out so well because we don't understand each other. While appreciating "relationships", we need also to seek out other supports as well as learning more about the differences between men and women. So, if you can get past the shame of carrying this book up to the counter of Barnes and Noble or your local library, I do recommend it--the guy's got some decent ideas.
Yes, I was a scoffer too, but the book's got merit! Even Odious agreed that there was something to it, though he complained about the generalization. Unfortunately such books require a certain degree of generalization, and in this case John Gray, PhD, has gotten pretty close to the mark. His analogy of Martians and Venusians quickly ceases to amuse, but there is much within this book that I found helpful and enlightening. It gave me a little window into the male psyche (don't worry, guys, just a little one!) that has been tremendously freeing. Because I understand his reactions and intentions better, I can stop worrying about whether or not he's okay and just enjoy the fact that I have a fantastic husband who does laundry and dishes without being asked as long as he's allowed to play computer games!
I think the most interesting thing to me was the realization that relationships got difficult right around the time the word "relationship" started to mean something. Marriage as a friendship and partnership is a wonderful development for which I am truly grateful, yet it carries a myriad of problems. Men and women now seem to rely on each other for everything, which can be trying because of our differences. Communities and families have changed so that a husband and wife are expected to provide support of all kinds for each other, and sometimes it doesn't work out so well because we don't understand each other. While appreciating "relationships", we need also to seek out other supports as well as learning more about the differences between men and women. So, if you can get past the shame of carrying this book up to the counter of Barnes and Noble or your local library, I do recommend it--the guy's got some decent ideas.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
My dear husband has just gotten me hooked on a YA fantasy series: Midnighters, by Scott Westerfeld. After mentioning that the books were quite enjoyable, he left the first one lying temptingly on the coffee table, where I picked it up in innocence this morning. Now I'm blogging instead of starting the second one, because there's no way I can finish before going to work in 45 minutes. But maybe I should try... Nope, I'll be good and save it for my lunch break--oh yeah, that's a great idea.
The series is based on a concept that reminds me of various other books and movies--nothing terrifically groundbreaking. But Westerfeld's style is gripping and fast-paced, with Nancy Drew-like short chapters ending in cliffhangers so that it's nearly impossible to stop reading, even when you have to drive your husband to work in five minutes. It's the story of a handful of teenagers in Bixby, OK, where every day lasts twenty-five hours. At midnight there's a secret hour that most people don't know exists, which these kids use for exploring and learning more about the history of the town and the other creatures that inhabit the darkness. Four of the kids have specific talents, but the new girl seems to be an anomaly when she first arrives in town. The first book, The Secret Hour, introduces the kids and builds up to the discovery of Jessica's talent, while the second, Touching Darkness, goes further into the mystery of the darkling creatures. I can't wait to immerse myself in it.
The series is based on a concept that reminds me of various other books and movies--nothing terrifically groundbreaking. But Westerfeld's style is gripping and fast-paced, with Nancy Drew-like short chapters ending in cliffhangers so that it's nearly impossible to stop reading, even when you have to drive your husband to work in five minutes. It's the story of a handful of teenagers in Bixby, OK, where every day lasts twenty-five hours. At midnight there's a secret hour that most people don't know exists, which these kids use for exploring and learning more about the history of the town and the other creatures that inhabit the darkness. Four of the kids have specific talents, but the new girl seems to be an anomaly when she first arrives in town. The first book, The Secret Hour, introduces the kids and builds up to the discovery of Jessica's talent, while the second, Touching Darkness, goes further into the mystery of the darkling creatures. I can't wait to immerse myself in it.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
I've been told my last post was a little odd--apparently I should stick to books and keep musings like that for my journal. Ah well.
Fortunately I have several books to mention--I've read some good stuff lately. Last night I finished Richard Wright's Native Son, which perhaps I shouldn't categorize as "good stuff"; however, I read it in two days. I hated it, first off: the story was grim and depressing and the main character unbelievably awful; and yet I found it strangely compelling. At the beginning I expected it to be one of those books I'd have to force myself to read a few pages of each day, spurring myself on with competitive thoughts of crossing it off my list, but instead I was drawn in, reading great chunks at a time in a disturbing eagerness to learn what might happen next. Odious said he put it down in disgust at the first gruesome occurence; perhaps I'm more bloodthirsty than he! Whatever the reason, I found Bigger Thomas's story an interesting one. I was going to say his descent into madness, or corruption, was interesting, but since his entire life was one of corruption and degradation, the crimes he committed were almost an ascent. Through the guidance of Mr. Max he became aware of himself and his reasons for doing things, and though that certainly didn't help him much, the story is effective in a way I wouldn't have supposed.
Now, the other book I was going to discuss is too different to include in the same post, so I'll return to it later. Thanks to the weirdness of our new work schedule, I'll be spending a lot of time in the Lake Oswego Public Library, which has excellent computers, so posting may be more frequent.
Before I go, however, here's a joke I read this morning, courtesy of Elle Jay, who got it from someone else. I just love jokes like this.
A neutron walks into a bar. The barkeeper says, "For you, no charge!"
Fortunately I have several books to mention--I've read some good stuff lately. Last night I finished Richard Wright's Native Son, which perhaps I shouldn't categorize as "good stuff"; however, I read it in two days. I hated it, first off: the story was grim and depressing and the main character unbelievably awful; and yet I found it strangely compelling. At the beginning I expected it to be one of those books I'd have to force myself to read a few pages of each day, spurring myself on with competitive thoughts of crossing it off my list, but instead I was drawn in, reading great chunks at a time in a disturbing eagerness to learn what might happen next. Odious said he put it down in disgust at the first gruesome occurence; perhaps I'm more bloodthirsty than he! Whatever the reason, I found Bigger Thomas's story an interesting one. I was going to say his descent into madness, or corruption, was interesting, but since his entire life was one of corruption and degradation, the crimes he committed were almost an ascent. Through the guidance of Mr. Max he became aware of himself and his reasons for doing things, and though that certainly didn't help him much, the story is effective in a way I wouldn't have supposed.
Now, the other book I was going to discuss is too different to include in the same post, so I'll return to it later. Thanks to the weirdness of our new work schedule, I'll be spending a lot of time in the Lake Oswego Public Library, which has excellent computers, so posting may be more frequent.
Before I go, however, here's a joke I read this morning, courtesy of Elle Jay, who got it from someone else. I just love jokes like this.
A neutron walks into a bar. The barkeeper says, "For you, no charge!"
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Godfrey: May I be frank?
Irene: Is that your name?
Godfrey: No, my name is Godfrey.
Irene: Oh. Well, be Frank.
--My Man Godfrey
So I'm going to be Frank: I'm having a hard time with these posts from Jack and Odious. When I first read Pascal, I thought he was exactly right about the human urge to be distracted from wretchedness, but it's only recently that I've realized I don't have that urge. Oh, sure, there are times when I watch TV or read a mystery novel because I don't want to think about cleaning the house, but for the most part, if I'm wretched I'm just wretched (and everyone knows about it). My journal entries will certainly attest to my tendency towards self-flagellation, while my husband will attest to my tendency towards tackling problems the second they arise--in parking lots, bathrooms, hiking trails, and other random spots. I have an almost pathological fear of turning a blind eye to things that bother me, much to his dismay. Why is this? I don't know, but it's certainly linked to my often brutal honesty. I can't hide my feelings; I can't pretend things are okay when they're not; I can't spend very long being wretched. So I pour out all the things simmering in my head--to God, to Odious, to my mother, to my journal--and then, pretty much, I'm okay. And that's just the way I am. This, too, is the way I am, that I have to make sure to add the disclaimer that I don't think Jack and Odious are wrong, far from it--I just don't understand.
Okay, so now I'm going to stop being Frank and go back to being Godfrey--er, I mean Kate.
Mental Multivitamin linked to this list of books "every adult should read before they die". If you can get past the shocking grammar of that sentence, here's the list (I've read the ones in bold):
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
The Bible
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy by JRR Tolkien
1984 by George Orwell
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
All Quiet on the Western Front by E M Remarque
His Dark Materials Trilogy by Phillip Pullman
Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon
Tess of the D'urbevilles by Thomas Hardy
Winnie the Pooh by AA Milne
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham
Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
The Prophet by Khalil Gibran
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Middlemarch by George Eliot
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzenhitsyn
Apparently I've got eight to go--not bad. Of course, I doubt I'll actually read those eight, other than All Quiet on the Western Front and possibly The Time Traveller's Wife because my mother recommended it. It's certainly a bizarre list, but then, librarians are an odd bunch. (I think I'm allowed to make that comment since I once was a librarian, or at least a library assistant. Anyway, no offense to Librarianne!)
And how I am doing on my own list? Well, I've gotten a bit distracted by reading at whim lately (mostly Elizabeth George, I must admit), but I think for three months' progress I'm doing pretty well. So far the best has been Death Comes To The Archbishop. I'm always surprised at how good Willa Cather's novels are, and I don't know why I should be--of the eight or so that I've read, there hasn't yet been a doozy. Her prose is clear and lucid and elegant, and her characters so thoughtfully created that they make me want to cry; I can't recommend her enough. I'd shied away from this book previously, for reasons lost to my memory, but I loved every word of the quietly good priest's life.
And finally, I've found some books that I REALLY want. I was reading The Old Schoolhouse homeschooling magazine at Borders today, and discovered this website and these lovely books illustrated by a homeschooler whose name is so familiar that I believe she was the friend of a friend years ago. At some point I will purchase at least one of her books, but I've had my splurge for today (no, not at Borders--at a restaurant supply store. I bought a pizza cutter, a fine mesh strainer, a pastry brush, and a rubber spatula--oh so exciting). Later, after a few more paychecks have rolled in...
Irene: Is that your name?
Godfrey: No, my name is Godfrey.
Irene: Oh. Well, be Frank.
--My Man Godfrey
So I'm going to be Frank: I'm having a hard time with these posts from Jack and Odious. When I first read Pascal, I thought he was exactly right about the human urge to be distracted from wretchedness, but it's only recently that I've realized I don't have that urge. Oh, sure, there are times when I watch TV or read a mystery novel because I don't want to think about cleaning the house, but for the most part, if I'm wretched I'm just wretched (and everyone knows about it). My journal entries will certainly attest to my tendency towards self-flagellation, while my husband will attest to my tendency towards tackling problems the second they arise--in parking lots, bathrooms, hiking trails, and other random spots. I have an almost pathological fear of turning a blind eye to things that bother me, much to his dismay. Why is this? I don't know, but it's certainly linked to my often brutal honesty. I can't hide my feelings; I can't pretend things are okay when they're not; I can't spend very long being wretched. So I pour out all the things simmering in my head--to God, to Odious, to my mother, to my journal--and then, pretty much, I'm okay. And that's just the way I am. This, too, is the way I am, that I have to make sure to add the disclaimer that I don't think Jack and Odious are wrong, far from it--I just don't understand.
Okay, so now I'm going to stop being Frank and go back to being Godfrey--er, I mean Kate.
Mental Multivitamin linked to this list of books "every adult should read before they die". If you can get past the shocking grammar of that sentence, here's the list (I've read the ones in bold):
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
The Bible
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy by JRR Tolkien
1984 by George Orwell
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
All Quiet on the Western Front by E M Remarque
His Dark Materials Trilogy by Phillip Pullman
Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon
Tess of the D'urbevilles by Thomas Hardy
Winnie the Pooh by AA Milne
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham
Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
The Prophet by Khalil Gibran
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Middlemarch by George Eliot
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzenhitsyn
Apparently I've got eight to go--not bad. Of course, I doubt I'll actually read those eight, other than All Quiet on the Western Front and possibly The Time Traveller's Wife because my mother recommended it. It's certainly a bizarre list, but then, librarians are an odd bunch. (I think I'm allowed to make that comment since I once was a librarian, or at least a library assistant. Anyway, no offense to Librarianne!)
And how I am doing on my own list? Well, I've gotten a bit distracted by reading at whim lately (mostly Elizabeth George, I must admit), but I think for three months' progress I'm doing pretty well. So far the best has been Death Comes To The Archbishop. I'm always surprised at how good Willa Cather's novels are, and I don't know why I should be--of the eight or so that I've read, there hasn't yet been a doozy. Her prose is clear and lucid and elegant, and her characters so thoughtfully created that they make me want to cry; I can't recommend her enough. I'd shied away from this book previously, for reasons lost to my memory, but I loved every word of the quietly good priest's life.
And finally, I've found some books that I REALLY want. I was reading The Old Schoolhouse homeschooling magazine at Borders today, and discovered this website and these lovely books illustrated by a homeschooler whose name is so familiar that I believe she was the friend of a friend years ago. At some point I will purchase at least one of her books, but I've had my splurge for today (no, not at Borders--at a restaurant supply store. I bought a pizza cutter, a fine mesh strainer, a pastry brush, and a rubber spatula--oh so exciting). Later, after a few more paychecks have rolled in...
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Jack is back! That, and the exhortation that it is my duty to recommend books to my friends, and a day off, all combine to put me in front of the computer determined to write something.
I've been reading Elizabeth George's mysteries as if there were an infinite supply; after getting off work yesterday, I read two. No, I didn't do anything else. It was nice, but I think I might be ready for a break, which is good because I think I've reread them all within the past few weeks. Besides this potato chip fare, I've been reading more Iris Murdoch, who I like quite well. I'm not sure why she isn't a more well-known writer, because her style is unusual and seems to have affected literature in general. It may be, however, because she wrote so many novels without producing any that particularly stand out from the rest; it'd be difficult to choose one for a high school English class or a 100 best novels list, for example. Indeed, of the five or six that I've read, it's hard to choose a "favorite" or even one that I'd say was specifically well-done. For the first time I'm having the experience of liking the author more than her books, or maybe outside of her books.
If I had to pick a favorite, it would probably be one I read a few weeks ago--An Unofficial Rose. I might never have picked this one up, since our library branch doesn't have it, were it not for a book of essays I found at Powell's last year. I believe I mentioned it at the time, since I'm always pleased to find anything by A.S. Byatt. This book, Imagining Characters, is a collection of discussions Byatt had with a friend, a psychologist named Ignes Sodre, and has proved quite fascinating and insightful on Mansfield Park, Villette, and The Professor's House thus far. Because the two women discuss the books so deeply, I wanted to read each book before reading its companion discussion, so that's why I sought out An Unofficial Rose.
One might make the claim that Murdoch's books aren't really about anything--there's not much of a plot to summarize or a conclusion to analyze. But before you turn away with a yawn of disinterest, let me say that in my opinion, they're about something crucially important and largely misunderstood. In The Magus, John Fowles says that "Men see objects and women see the relationship between objects"; well, Iris Murdoch had astonishingly clear vision. In all her novels she explores the strangenesses of relationships and the way people interact with each other, to an almost excruciating degree. To her there is nothing more absorbing than the ways people live their lives, and I'm inclined to agree.
If I were to attempt a summary of this novel, it would read something like a soap opera episode (the blurb on the back of my library copy was appalling): When Hugh's wife dies, he decides to go back to his mistress Emma. Emma's companion, Lindsey, is having an affair with Randall, Hugh's son. Randall has a fight with his wife Ann and leaves the house. His daughter Miranda flirts with her cousin Penn who is visiting from Australia. Mildred, a family friend, has designs on Hugh because her husband Humphrey is gay. Humphrey takes Penn to London. Felix, Mildred and Humphrey's son, has adored Ann for years, but so has the vicar. Randall convinces Hugh to sell his beloved painting so that he can use the money to marry Lindsey. Hugh finds out that Emma is dying.
Are you reeling yet? The novel actually wasn't that hard to follow, partly because the relationships are so clearly delineated that they define the characters. Here's a slightly more lucid review; and do look for the book by A.S. Byatt as well, especially if you've read or plan to read any of the other novels she discusses.
I've been reading Elizabeth George's mysteries as if there were an infinite supply; after getting off work yesterday, I read two. No, I didn't do anything else. It was nice, but I think I might be ready for a break, which is good because I think I've reread them all within the past few weeks. Besides this potato chip fare, I've been reading more Iris Murdoch, who I like quite well. I'm not sure why she isn't a more well-known writer, because her style is unusual and seems to have affected literature in general. It may be, however, because she wrote so many novels without producing any that particularly stand out from the rest; it'd be difficult to choose one for a high school English class or a 100 best novels list, for example. Indeed, of the five or six that I've read, it's hard to choose a "favorite" or even one that I'd say was specifically well-done. For the first time I'm having the experience of liking the author more than her books, or maybe outside of her books.
If I had to pick a favorite, it would probably be one I read a few weeks ago--An Unofficial Rose. I might never have picked this one up, since our library branch doesn't have it, were it not for a book of essays I found at Powell's last year. I believe I mentioned it at the time, since I'm always pleased to find anything by A.S. Byatt. This book, Imagining Characters, is a collection of discussions Byatt had with a friend, a psychologist named Ignes Sodre, and has proved quite fascinating and insightful on Mansfield Park, Villette, and The Professor's House thus far. Because the two women discuss the books so deeply, I wanted to read each book before reading its companion discussion, so that's why I sought out An Unofficial Rose.
One might make the claim that Murdoch's books aren't really about anything--there's not much of a plot to summarize or a conclusion to analyze. But before you turn away with a yawn of disinterest, let me say that in my opinion, they're about something crucially important and largely misunderstood. In The Magus, John Fowles says that "Men see objects and women see the relationship between objects"; well, Iris Murdoch had astonishingly clear vision. In all her novels she explores the strangenesses of relationships and the way people interact with each other, to an almost excruciating degree. To her there is nothing more absorbing than the ways people live their lives, and I'm inclined to agree.
If I were to attempt a summary of this novel, it would read something like a soap opera episode (the blurb on the back of my library copy was appalling): When Hugh's wife dies, he decides to go back to his mistress Emma. Emma's companion, Lindsey, is having an affair with Randall, Hugh's son. Randall has a fight with his wife Ann and leaves the house. His daughter Miranda flirts with her cousin Penn who is visiting from Australia. Mildred, a family friend, has designs on Hugh because her husband Humphrey is gay. Humphrey takes Penn to London. Felix, Mildred and Humphrey's son, has adored Ann for years, but so has the vicar. Randall convinces Hugh to sell his beloved painting so that he can use the money to marry Lindsey. Hugh finds out that Emma is dying.
Are you reeling yet? The novel actually wasn't that hard to follow, partly because the relationships are so clearly delineated that they define the characters. Here's a slightly more lucid review; and do look for the book by A.S. Byatt as well, especially if you've read or plan to read any of the other novels she discusses.
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