I've just spent an embarrassingly long time laughing over the archives on Waiter Rant--no matter where you go, restaurants are all the same. It's pretty amazing to work in a place where you can see both the best and worst of people, though (sadly) usually the latter. I've realized that there are inumerable ways for people to display their ignorance and cluelessness--the stories are endless. I had a customer yesterday--or perhaps it was the day before(this whole summer has blended into one long yesterday for me)--who asked what kind of ice cream we have. Without showing my weariness too much, I recited, "Vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, and chocolate chip."

He looked confused. "So--the vanilla, strawberry, chocolate--is that all one?"

Ummm... if I'd meant Neopolitan, I would've said Neopolitan...

The really appalling thing was when I related the incident to another server, who said he'd had the same experience! How are people so incredibly dumb?

But the real hilarity yesterday came when the owner's son (who we think was deprived of oxygen at birth) strolled into the bar around 9. The restaurant was catering a wedding offsite last night, and someone had called him to pick up some more alcohol. Of course, he'd decided he didn't have to remember whether it was vodka or gin because that same person was also supposed to call the restaurant with the order. Fortunately the bartender was prepared, and handed over four bottles of Chopin vodka with alacrity. Oxygen-deprived Son stared down at them for a minute, then looked up at us and said, "Do you think I have time for a drink?"

Chronologically he is a grown man, as well as being the owner's son, and we mere minions can hardly tell him what to do. But I think our expressions made the general opinion fairly clear as we looked at him, looked at each other, and shrugged helplessly. The bartender murmured diplomatically, "Well, they probably need it as soon as possible."

"Oh, well, I'll just have a Dirty Goose--that'll be quick," said Son, sitting down.

More shared looks, more shrugs, and the bartender slid a glass down the bar to him. He took a sip, then said, "Anyway, if they'd wanted it quick, they wouldn't've asked me."

Funny because it's true...

The first time I tried to read How To Read A Book, I threw it across the room. In my defense, I was only sixteen, and Mortimer Adler can be that way sometimes. I am less sensitive to his pomposity now, and have decided that How To Read A Book should be a summer reading requirement for all tutors and students at St. John's. This is a particularly strong desire since we attended an alumni seminar in Seattle this weekend. It was led by Eva Brann, on Dostoevsky's short story "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man"--so far, so good. Those two elements were quite enjoyable. However, I was baffled by the attitudes of the other attendees. Being an alumni seminar, everyone there was 1), no longer attending SJC; 2), at the seminar voluntarily; and 3), unacquainted with anyone else (for the most part). These factors would cause me to assume that the discussion would be lively but mellow, with a united desire to understand the reading better and enjoy the insightful comments of our scholarly leader. How wrong I can be sometimes.

Actually, it was much like normal seminars at SJC, which made me realize that I DO NOT miss school. All the stereotypes were there, including the sunshine hippie who was disturbed by the negative connotations of the word "preacher", and the really-amazing-insight guy who was determined to convince us that the whole story was actually an allegory for the writing process. To be fair, there were several people who had quite intelligent things to say; however, I am already acquainted with most of them. (And for those of you who are wondering, no, I did not contribute to the conversation. I actually didn't plan to go at all, so was somewhat unprepared, but mostly I felt the way I did at SJC--I really didn't care what anyone else thought and had no desire to reveal my stunning insights to them. Or, in my sister-in-law's words, I didn't want to share with them, and didn't want them to share with me.)

St. John's is great in theory. And I really feel that Mortimer Adler could assist with the practice. One of the reasons I liked the book this time around was because I realized I do actually read the way he says one ought to (at least to some extent), and this is a rather unusual quality. Even at SJC people read to some purpose other than understanding, as if they want to "win" at seminar. We read the great books in order to understand ourselves better and, indeed, to seek the truth. Too many students (and tutors) allow themselves to be bound by fears and opinions and are unable to see truth in things they don't like. I take as example the Dostoevsky story. Ms. Brann several times brought up the question of religion, yet no one would consider the possibility of a true conversion experience, as if even thinking such a thing would somehow sully their liberal minds (though fortunately our dear Erin reminded everyone that this was, after all, 19th century Orthodox Russia). Now, there are plenty of books that expound ideas contradictory to my beliefs, yet I can still recognize some elements of truth in them. Also, I can accept an author's foundation in order to read his work, even if I don't agree with it in general. This doesn't seem difficult, but is apparently why Adler had to write his book.

Enough of annoying Johnnies. How To Read A Book is a book to which anyone interested in self-education should pay close attention. Even if you don't take the time to read it, consider these 4 questions the next time you read something of merit:
1. What is the book about as a whole?
2. What is the author saying in detail, and how?
3. Is it true?
4. What of it? (I.e., what do I make of it, and should I care?)

As well as being inspired to read better (and better books), I've decided to keep 4 kinds of books going at the same time, in order to keep my brain working and happy. Thus I am currently reading the following.
A work of poetry: Geography III, Elizabeth Bishop
A work of non-fiction: Pregnancy, Childbirth, and the Newborn, Penny Simkin
A work of literature: Sons and Lovers, D.H. Lawrence
A potato-chip book: Heir of Sea and Fire, Patricia McKillip

I'd like to break the non-fiction category in two or three, to delineate works of philosophy and religion, but that may be too adventurous at this point. For now, we'll see how the plan works.

25 reasons to homeschool. Not an exhaustive list by any means, but an amusing one!

Reading... in between work and company (after this summer I don't feel so lonely anymore!), which doesn't leave much time for blogging or anything else, really. I've been buying books and checking out enormous stacks from the library as if my life depended on it, and then realizing I just want to bury myself in fun fantasy and kid's lit--as usual. Mortimer Adler has been inspiring me, however, and I hope soon to get some better habits going.

Our new apartment is cozier and cooler, which is a blessing in this surprisingly hot Oregon summer, but since nothing on this earth can be perfect, we are surrounded by neighbors who smoke. YUCK! That stale scent wafting into my bedroom at night is nearly as disruptive as a boisterous party, but, unfortunately, much harder to complain about. I'm considering developing a severe allergy...

A quick recommendation for readers of all ages:

Butter on Both Sides and The Tie That Binds, by Lucille Watkins Ellison. Cherished favorites from my childhood, recently acquired from Amazon--sweet stories of life on a farm and old-fashioned family activities.

Elizabeth Hand's latest novel, Mortal Love, is probably the only book I've ever read where I had no idea what was going on until the last chapter. And even then it wasn't so clear. But it was fascinating enough that I persevered, and am still thinking about it several days later. It's about the Pre-Raphaelites, and the muse that gave them a glimpse into another world. Hand's style has not, unfortunately, improved with experience, and I got frustrated with being introduced to a new character and time period in every chapter, but the conclusion is lovely. I'd certainly recommend it, with the warning that all of her books are extremely weird; if you're interested in the Pre-Raphaelites you'll find it particularly interesting.

According to my sister, I am among the 7% of women not suffering from an eating disorder. Of course, as Odious pointed out, one can hardly call it a disorder at that percentage; rather, it's simply female behavior (I wonder if it's a recent development?). Anyway, I can honestly say that I am not obsessed with my weight, eating habits, or physical image. I'm interested in nutrition (Superfoods!), and like to be healthy, but I absolutely REFUSE to count Weight Watcher points or learn how many calories in an olive. There are much more interesting things to do in life.

For instance--reading! I just finished Ursula K. LeGuin's A Wizard of Earthsea, which I'd read a long time ago and been bored by, and this time around I liked it quite a bit more. It made me realize that I probably should revisit some books I read in high school; since my reading horizons have expanded, I'd probably appreciate things I didn't then. Actually, I'm surprised I didn't care for LeGuin, since her style reminds me a bit of Tolkien with its sort of legendary omniscience. Maybe it was the lack of action that bored me--this first one at least is less a story than a character development, so I'm interested to read the next two, or three, or four, or however many it ended up being after it wasn't a trilogy.

I also just read Madeleine L'Engle's An Acceptable Time, another one I'm sure I read as a teenager (some of it is vaguely familiar). The problem I've always had with her books is keeping the chronology and relationships straight; they're so interconnected that it's difficult to read any out of sequence. I can't figure out if the Murrys and Austins know each other or not, which makes things even more confusing. Anyway, this one is about Polly, who is Calvin and Meg's daughter, visiting her grandparents, who are among my favorite characters ever (I love that they cook over a Bunsen burner!) even though I rarely understand what they're talking about. What I find interesting but somewhat frustrating about L'Engle's books is that they always seem to be building up to some future climax--there are always great portents, and each book concerns a small but vital occurence. Maybe that's her philosophy--that everything that happens is for a reason, and even if you don't understand it, good must triumph so that the world can continue. Hmm. Anyway...

I drank too much alcohol last night, got too little sleep, drank too much coffee at work, am working a double today, and haven't eaten anything since breakfast. What better conditions under which to post? Anyway, I've been catching up on blogs, and for the first time in a while felt like writing something here.

I'd been wanting to read Wives and Daughters for a while, since I like Elizabeth Gaskell despite North and South, but after a friend told me that the BBC adaptation was the cult movie at her school (preferred over "Pride and Prejudice"!), I knew I had to read the book (as well as see the film, if I can find it). I was surprised at how long it took me to get into the novel; for at least the first ten chapters I had to convince myself to keep going in hopes of it getting better. Fortunately it did, and I was fascinated to observe an incredible writing skill unfold before me. Many books include characters that at first seem pleasant and then turn nasty, but my opinions of nearly all the characters in this book changed over the course of reading it. One in particular I found effective because of her resemblance to someone of my acquaintance--she was at first presented as a sweet, kind, gentle governess, whose position in life caused her to be much pitied and sympathized with; clearly, a character that the reader is intended to like. As the novel progressed and her situation began to change, she was slowly revealed to be shockingly self-centered and manipulative--and it came convincingly out of her previous behavior. The heroine went through an opposite transformation, from a rather dull and mealy-mouthed child to a woman who knew herself and stood up for her beliefs despite being constantly beleaguered by those around her.

The plot of this novel was fairly simple and predictable, but that's not why one reads Mrs Gaskell. (If you want plot twists, read Minette Walters!) Like all her novels, this one can be summarized as the development of a girl into a woman, and a look at quiet village life. Molly Gibson is not a great heroine, but she is an interesting one, and the way she deals with the difficult people in her life is admirable.

I apologize to anyone who's been checking my blog lately. I have had barely enough time to check my email, and am not feeling at all inspired to write. I'll post again later on, but for the moment I'm going to withdraw from the blogosphere. TTFN!

See also where it began and other takes on the meme.

I found this meme at Semicolon, and had to spend some time thinking about it before attempting my own. It came out rather suddenly this morning after my shower, and though there's much more I could have said, this is what fell onto the page. Tomorrow I might write a different one.

Where I Am From...

I am from bright hard winter mornings, sun glittering off the snow, thermometer stuck at fifteen below; bundled in snowpants and boots to feed the horse snorting in great white billows, and the poultry eager for fresh hot water to bathe their chilly toes.

I am from wood floors, wood stoves, and red geraniums on sunny afternoons.

I am from homemade bread, handsewn jumpers, and a house open to all.

I am from music, everywhere, several kinds at once: piano, violin, recorder, Bach upstairs and Amy Grant downstairs.

I am from skiing and softball and the patientest teacher; I am from tea parties, doll houses, mud pies, and a long, long childhood.

I am from potlucks and Bible verses and families; I am from drama so deep it consumes.

I am from stacks of library books, and reading till senseless.

I am from Aristotle, Jane Austen, Kierkegaard, and C.S. Lewis; I am from thinking and talking and laughing myself silly.

I am from wonder and worth and warmth; I am from abundance.

My life of leisure is over, thank heaven. I've acquired a second job as a server at the Sweet Oregon Grill, where I hope to work as much as possible and make vats of money. This is unlikely, but we can still hope.

I recently read both Delia Sherman's novels, which I have mixed feelings about. The Porcelain Dove was, I think, the better book, but didn't hold my interest as well and collapsed a bit at the end. As for the other--though I knew Sherman and Ellen Kushner were an item, I didn't realize until I started reading Through a Brazen Mirror that it was considered "queer fiction" (how irritated I am to lose that most excellent word!). Hrmph. My main comment is that if you can't even make homosexuality normal in a fantasy setting (it's YOUR OWN WORLD--you can do whatever you want with it!), I'm not going to be very convinced that it's normal in the real world.

I had other things to talk about, but my brain is too scattered. So I leave you with this highly unsatisfactory post.

I'll have to remember this. It reminds me a lot of the descriptions of birth in Spiritual Midwifery, though without the psychedelic grooviness.

My mind is a whirlpool of thoughts today, brought on a number of things. Every time I visit my mother's new house, I want to stay there out in the country, away from the craziness of this life. And things are really crazy right now, with finances, plans for the future, a new job, etc... But I'm also continuing to chew over the ideas in Beyond the Shadowlands--what a great book. I'll have to jot down the dialogue going through my head as I read, and if it's sharable I'll post it. My brain is getting some much-needed exercise, plus I'm inspired to re-read all of C.S. Lewis' books. Hard to ask for much more from a book!

A few lines from Wendell Berry:

I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.

from A Timbered Choir

I've given up on Seeds of Deception. I was going to be diligent and at least skim through the rest of the book, but I just couldn't. Rob Waller, Mind and Media's Reviewer of the Week, was kinder than I was, but still said about the same things. It's just not very good! However, I've started on my next book, and it is excellent. Of course, it's hard not to be excellent when you're talking about C.S. Lewis, but I'm sure there are those who could manage it.

Wayne Martindale is a scholar who's spent years studying and teaching on Lewis, and has written a lucid, intelligent book called Beyond the Shadowlands, about Lewis's views of heaven and hell. This is something not talked about much, since no one can claim to have true knowledge of the subject, but as I read this book I'm realizing how important it is for Christians to know. There are so many people who have no concept of heaven and hell, picturing the former as eternity spent sitting on clouds and strumming harps, and the latter a fiery pit with pitch-forked demons. Frankly, neither image is particularly appealling or particularly distressing. We need to look forward to heaven with yearning and cringe from the thought of hell, and we need to be able to inform non-Christians about these things as well. Lewis had amazing insights about the after-life, often using mythology to illustrate his point, and Martindale does an excellent job of gathering the information into one place and elucidating on it. I know I need to hurry up and finish it so I can get on to the next book, but I want to savor every word and give myself time to think about the ideas. There've been precious few books on my nightstand lately that have given me food for thought, and this is a welcome change. Highly recommended.

After talking with Jack about midwife and doula training, I decided to go to the library and pick up a couple of books on the subject. Bad idea. As if the biological clock weren't ALREADY in overdrive! Last week I read Catherine Taylor's Giving Birth, and while the first part made me mad, I loved the second part and have been freaking Odious out by occasionally sighing about how much I want a baby. Taylor is a journalist who decided to research natural childbirth after becoming pregnant with her second child, and shadowed a number of different midwives in order to write a book to inform women of their options. Having been born at home myself, I've always had a definite opinion on the subject, and am tremendously grateful to my mother for making my first experience in the world a wonderful one, and for creating an immediate strong bond between us. I think it's one of the reasons that my family is so intimate! It's unfortunate that most women don't know how safe natural home birth is, and how much more pleasant and fulfilling than a drugged, induced hospital birth. I got very angry reading the first part of this book, as she describes her experience with nurse-midwives and the birthing center in a hospital--I suppose it's better than most hospital births, but for women expecting traditional midwife care it would be greatly disappointing. In the second part, however, she trains to be a doula, attends several home births, and finally decides to give birth at home herself. It's wonderful and inspiring and I can't wait.

In honor of National Poetry Month, a few lines from one of my favorite poets:

Myself unholy, from myself unholy
To the sweet living of my friends I look--
Eye-greeting doves bright-counter to the rook,
Fresh brooks to salt sand-teasing waters shoaly:--
And they are purer, but alas! not solely
The unquestion'd readings of a blotless book.
And so my trust confused, struck, and shook
Yields to the sultry siege of melancholy.
He has a sin of mine, he its near brother,
Knowing them well I can but see the fall.
This fault in one I found, that in another:
And so, though each have one while I have all,
No better serves me now save best; no other,
Save Christ; to Christ I look, on Christ I call.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins

His rhythm is beautiful--perfect for reading aloud. I've loved his work ever since sitting in on a senior oral exam at St. John's and being amazed that a whole 25-page essay could be written on one poem.

Catching up on blogs after only a weekend away is quite a task! I guess I'm not quite so dedicated a blogger as some... But I had a lovely weekend, marred only by Odious's absence--thanks to a scheduling snafu at work, he was unable to join me and our friends in Seattle on a delightful trip to Victoria. I'd decided when we moved here that I was not about to waste my proximity to another country again--it's most appalling, I think, that despite being hours away from Mexico for 7 years, I never took the time to visit that country. So, now I can add Canada to my short list, and will certainly return at the soonest opportunity.

Despite two of our party possessing passports still under our maiden names (one of which--not mine--was also 4 years expired!), we crossed the border with no problems and caught the ferry from Tsawwassen in good time. I may, at some point, post photos, but they are not developed as yet. The trip through the islands was calm and beautiful, and views of the rugged remote forests and mossy coasts put me immediately in mind of Charles de Lint--he describes just this sort of country in Memory and Dream and The Wild Wood . Once in Victoria, we eventually found our hostel on the Esquimalt peninsula, and knew ourselves blessed. It's an old house on the water, and could easily have been an expensive B&B with its lovely grounds and charming private rooms, but fortunately for us, the owner (who also works as a clown along with her companion Spike the Wonder Dog) has kept it shockingly inexpensive and inviting to the impecunious. Some of those latter seem to have made the place their semi-permanent home, which only adds to its charm--we chatted with three men, and others appeared out of the woodwork during our stay. One of my favorite things was the trampoline in the backyard, but the treehouse, canoes and kayaks, three dogs, two cats, chickens, rabbits, and guinea pigs were awesome too. And, after a good night's sleep, we investigated the mysterous "office" and found it to be a cosy little kitchen with a dining table set for breakfast. While chatting with the owner about her upcoming gigs, we feasted on cereal, toast, yoghurt, a delectable fruit salad, oj, coffee, and tea, all off beautiful china on a real tablecloth. Yes, this was a hostel--a far cry from the barracks of London and Paris!

Though I could have easily spent the entire weekend at the hostel, we had a wonderful time poking about Victoria, dining at both the city's vegan restaurants (the joys of Orthodox Lent!), which were actually quite good; enjoying live music (Peter, Paul, and Mary with a Celtic flair) in a pub; buying goodies from Roger's Chocolates; and wandering along the waterfront. We also spent a long time in the Maritime Museum, which turned out to be much more fascinating than I might have expected. The best part was the first section, which covered local history and the history of shipping in Canada--amazingly interesting, with lots of placards that were well-written and full of history. Since I hadn't had much time to read, I found myself devouring the words of the said placards--maybe why I enjoyed it so much... But it made me realize that not only do I know nothing about Canada (other than the two facts unknown to my companions, viz., that the country has a prime minister rather than a president, and that it is part of the British Commonwealth), but I know so little of world history! There's so much to know, and after reading How the Irish Saved Civilization, I'm realizing how everything is connected, and one small action may have huge consequences over the course of time. So now I'm inspired to read history and get myself eddicated. I think I'll start with that Stephen Ambrose book about Lewis and Clark, which I've been meaning to read since we moved here.

I'm mad at Eleanor Cameron. I was really enjoying The Court of the Stone Children until I decided to look up the French artist Jean Louis Baptiste Chrysostome who features greatly in the novel. After twenty minutes on the Internet, I was forced to admit that he does not exist--she made him up! It makes me so mad because I loved the descriptions of his paintings and really wanted to see them to help me appreciate the story. It's just like A.S. Byatt's trick in Possession. Well, it was a good book anyway--a story of a little girl who wants to be "something in a museum" (a curator), and whose love of things from the past helps her to solve a two hundred-year-old mystery.

Personality Disorder Test Results Paranoid || 10% Schizoid |||||||||||||||| 66% Schizotypal |||||||||||||| 58% Antisocial |||||||||||| 50% Borderline |||||| 22% Histrionic |||||| 30% Narcissistic |||||||||||| 46% Avoidant |||||| 26% Dependent |||||||||| 34% Obsessive-Compulsive |||||||||||||||| 66%

Take Free Personality Disorder Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

Huh. This actually seems pretty accurate, after reading the descriptions of the disorders, although I definitely don't think I'm schizotypal. Schizoid and OCD, though...

Via Badaunt

UPDATE: Odious also took this test, but decided not to post his results as they were... um... rather more extreme than mine. Oh, the shock.

After watching the new Bollywood film "Bride and Prejudice" (an excellent movie), I was inspired to check out from the library the work of two Indian authors, Jhumpa Lahiri and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. Though the former has apparently won some award or other, I found her short story collection, Interpreter of Maladies, greatly inferior to all the books I've read by the latter. Divakaruni possesses the knack of creating rich stories and sympathetic characters while evoking culture and heritage and country in her style. Of the two books I just read, Sister of My Heart and its sequel The Vine of Desire, I liked the first one best even though it was clearly intended to have a sequel. The story follows the relationship between Anju and Sudha, girl cousins raised in the same house and so close they are more like twins in their intuition and intimacy. As they grow older the bond between them necessarily changes with experiences, but love, tragedy, secrets, husbands, pregnancy, and a move to America cannot keep them apart. I loved Sudha and the core of strength she possessed that kept her from compromising herself when she saw how harmful it could be, and I wished Anju had learned from her instead of retreating into victim-mode. Together the two books provided an interesting portrait of people who allow things in life to change them and people who change themselves.

I like Mother Earth News a lot. It's practical, useful, and inspiring, and it encourages individuals to change the world by starting in their own homes. Hence I'm disturbed when an article seems to contradict the purpose of the magazine with a statement like this:

...the environment has lost some of its sizzle as an electoral issue. The biggest issues in the last election appear to have been terrorism, the Iraq war, abortion, affordable health care and gay marriage. Although anyone looking back on this election 100 years form now will see climate disruption as vastly more important than any of these issues, few people voted in 2004 on the basis of climate policies or any other environmental issues. April/May 2005

Besides being impossible to prove, it's unrealistic--let's fix the whole world first, then worry about the problems right here at home, in our hearts and our families. I'm quick to agree that our planet is in trouble (though perhaps not as dire as one might be led to think), but so is our society, and claiming that one issue is greater than the other could be catastrophic. What's the use of saving the earth if we neglect the children of God? Do we really care more about the baby whales than the baby humans?

Environmentalism is important--the slaughter of innocents should no more occur in the wild than it should in abortion clinics--and at this point we probably do need loud-mouthed leaders for the cause, but they shouldn't try to emphasize one issue by scoffing at the others. What Mother Earth News tries to do is tremendously effective when it works, and that is to teach people to live their individual lives as if they were as important as the entire world. God requires us to be good stewards of every aspect of our lives--we can't neglect one thing in favor of another.

Once again I learn that not everyone can be a writer--or a good writer, at least--no matter how interesting the story to be told. I picked up On the Wing hopeful of a captivating narrative about falcons, but sadly Alan Tennant doesn't possess the knack for such an endeavor. His story is an unusual one, and I enjoyed reading about his travels, but he made the mistake of keeping too close to the actual experiences. There was no plot, no over-arcing connection to bind the adventures together. My editing fingers always start to itch when I read something like this that could have been so much better!

Yet I wouldn't discourage anyone from reading the book. Alan Tennant is a falcon research who spent several months following the migratory route of falcons from Texas to Alaska, and then back down to South America. It's a fascinating adventure as he and his pilot rattle across the country in a plane rather like the Millenium Falcon--they cross borders semi-legally, make emergency landings in the jungle, fly through a raptor "freeway", and are ecstatic every moment that the radio transmitter beeps and keeps them on the trail of the falcons. I couldn't bring myself to care much about his on-again off-again relationship with his long-suffering girlfriend, and the book ends on a note more bitter than sweet, but it was certainly worth reading--as is most anything about falcons.

Lars Walker says what I've been thinking about literature, and tried to express in my post on Virginia Woolf.

I found this meme at The Library of Babel, who in turn found it at The Little Professor. Which authors have you read ten or more books by?

L.M. Montgomery (she's the winning author on our bookshelves for number of books we own by one person--it's something like 25)
Charles de Lint (he's in 2nd or 3rd, vying with James Branch Cabell)
Louisa May Alcott
C.S. Lewis
Agatha Christie
Ellis Peters/Edith Pargeter
Charles Dickens
Jane Austen (if you count absolutely everything she wrote, including juvenilia and letters, I think that's somewhere around ten)
Plato
Ruth Rendell
Tamora Pierce
Robin Hobb/Megan Lindholm
Maud Hart Lovelace
Beverly Cleary
Patricia Wrede
Elizabeth Peters
Patricia McKillip
Roald Dahl
E. Nesbit
Laura Ingalls Wilder
William Shakespeare
Madeleine L'Engle
Gladys Taber
A.S. Byatt
Robin McKinley
Elizabeth George
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Marguerite Henry
Walter Farley
Connie Willis
P.G. Wodehouse

That's all I can come up with for now, though I'm not including the various authors of Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, etc. It's not as long a list as I would've expected, but of course, there are the authors who I would read ten books by if they'd written that many (yeah, Brontes, I'm talkin' to you).

You may have noticed the Mind and Media logo on my sidebar, just below the links--yes, I am an EXCLUSIVE REVIEWER. That's right. Ahem. Anyway, Mind and Media is a new business intended to help promote Christian authors via the blogging world, as well as being, in my understanding, a bit of an experiment to show how much of an impact blogs can have on advertising. I came across it either on Brandywine Books or a subsequent link, and thought it sounded like fun--get free books, talk about them on the blog, and, of course, become an EXCLUSIVE REVIEWER.

So I got my first book the other day. I'm supposed to post a logo of it, but can't figure out the HTML yet--maybe later. It's called Seeds of Destruction: Planting Destruction of America's Children, written and self-published by Georgiana Preskar and available from Amazon. First of all, the subtitle has got to go. It doesn't make much sense, and sounds as the author's goal is to destroy America's children, when in fact she's crying out against that destruction by society. Secondly, I'm beginning to realize that it simply isn't true that anyone can be a writer. Setting aside the issue of simple sentences and poor punctuation, there are people who just don't know how to tell a story. Ms. Preskar begins the book with an introduction that seems to lay a good foundation with the information that her town was just another quiet town until one man made national news by trying to get rid of "under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance. Great, thought I, so she's going to start here and show how our society is corrupted by these small actions. Then the first couple of chapters describe her and her husband's desperate grief when their son leaves for college. Besides being thrown off course, I found it disturbing that her son living 20 minutes away dragged her into such devastation and aimlessness. Maybe I'll understand when I'm a parent...

So far I've skimmed through nine chapters of the book. While I do agree with her general view that society is corrupting children, she needs at the very least a good editor (the book was edited by her family), or ideally a ghost writer. She doesn't know how to focus or create an argument, so each chapter leads to a new tangent and fresh rant on Nazis, homosexuality, TV violence--it's too much. I'm disappointed, because it sounded like an interesting book, but we'll see if things improve as I continue to read.

I should also mention that Mind and Media would like to have as many bloggers involved as possible, so visit the website if you're interested in receiving free books!

Sherry of Semicolon has asked if Virginia Woolf is indeed a militant feminist and hence to be avoided, or if she should take her daughter's advice and read her books. Now, in my somewhat vague mind militant feminism has something to do with bra-burning, so I'm not quite sure how to answer the question... I always take a book with me to work, since there is usually some down time where I haven't anything else to do. The servers, if they're not too busy either, will often come up and ask what I'm reading, and one guy in particular is always very interested. After a phase in which I'd brought in Elizabeth Gaskell, Virginia Woolf, and various other women authors, he asked if I ever read anything written by a man or if I was a feminist. Well, of course I read things written by men, but I didn't really know how to answer him either, partly because I find such labels limiting. Hence my highly articulate response: "Uh...I don't know." Another server standing nearby asked, "Well, do you shave your legs?" "Heavens, no!" said I promptly. She turned to the first server. "She's a feminist." This is the long way of saying I don't really know what a feminist is. I believe in the equality of human rights for everyone--men, women, children--and I think all three have been subjected to injustice over the course of history. If I'd lived--I was going to say during the time of suffrage, but really any time before now, I would certainly have joined in the women's rights movement, and I'm glad to live in a time when I can vote and get a job and support myself if necessary. On the other hand, I don't really want a career or success--just a family and quiet home life. But I think that's the goal of feminism, to give women that choice.

Virginia Woolf was concerned about the role of women in society. She gives examples of the common view of the time throughout all her novels, but I think most shockingly in The Voyage Out. I'd have to speak up too if I heard a real person say what Mr Dalloway does, in reference to suffragists picketing Parliament: "Nobody can condemn the utter folly and futility of such behaviour more than I do; and as for the whole agitation, well! may I be in my grave before a woman has the right to vote in England!" To make it worse, his wife agrees with him. Woolf found it imperative to reveal this idea of women as inferior, and call, in her own way, for equality. She does not claim that men and women are the same, but that they deserve equal basic human rights and acknowledgement.

That said, there's much more to her books than the subject of women's rights, just as there's much more to Dickens than the issue of poverty. I think all authors have some sort of social commentary woven into their writing--it's part of literature and part of life. We can learn so much from fiction that is more difficult to learn from philosophy and theology texts; after all, Jesus knew what he was doing when he told parables. But Virginia Woolf also has much to say, as I mentioned in my previous post, on the progression of life and thought within a seeking mind. Her writing makes me feel more myself than most other books, and more aware of my thought process, growth, and femininity; furthermore, like Jane Austen, I feel her effect on my own writing style. For these things I value her, as well as for her sparkling prose and rich characters.

I just discovered Vita Sackville-West, who is similar to Virginia Woolf (they were friends) in her writing and subject matter. Rebecca West and Willa Cather are also excellent authors of the period.

I was feeling a little hungry for food writing the other day, so I picked up one of my favorites--M.F.K. Fisher's The Art of Eating. It's an omnibus of five of her books, some of which are amusingly revised. I like them all, but I think my particular favorite is The Gastronomical Me, mainly because it gives her personal history with food. It gets a little odd at the end, with vague mentions of her various partners in later life, but I always like reading about people's childhoods, especially the unusual ones.

How To Cook A Wolf was a welcome read as I'm trying to feed us economically--she describes how to cook cheaply yet still eat well. Of course, there's also the recipe for "Sludge", a dish for one's most impecunious times that I hope never to try. But it's good to be reminded that an excellent meal can be made of, for instance, eggs and a few vegetables--omelette, frittata, souffle, etc. Though I wouldn't call my cooking gourmet, I tend to think of beans and rice as my only options for inexpensive rations.

Serve It Forth is fun--a look at food throughout the ages, with much time spent on the oddities of medieval courts. It's interesting to realize how ideas about food have changed over the years. Even some of the things Fisher mentions as a normal part of her diet fifty years ago seem a bit unsavory to me, though not nearly as bad as the popular medieval seasoning of the liquid from fermented fish guts. Yum!

I read Consider the Oyster trying to think of the main ingredient as something other than the slippery, rubbery, briny, sandy object I gamely swallowed a couple of years ago after Odious and Peculiar had assured me of their merits. I want props for that willingness to try it, since afterwards I heartily agreed with Jack's description of the taste as like "licking the ocean floor". Anyway, I'm sorry I can't enjoy them with the same ecstasy that others, especially Fisher, seem to, but I must say they really are among the most disgusting things I've ever had in my mouth.

Not much to say about An Alphabet for Gourmets--sort of a smorgasbord of commentary, with various recipes. Fun, but not her best. Still, the entire collection is worth reading, and necessary for anyone serious about food.

After making an attempt to read Kate Dicamillo's The Tale of Despereaux and finding it unpleasantly self-aware and poorly-written (maybe I should've read the whole thing, but I really don't know how it got a Newbery Award!), I was hesitant about Because of Winn-Dixie. Oddly enough it was the review of the recently released movie that inspired me to try the book, and I am so glad I did. I read it straight through when I was sick the other day, and it brightened my morning tremendously--I even laughed out loud several times, which rarely happens. Everything about the story was so sweet and genuine--a perfect children's book and an excellent one for adults to pick up now and then. I think one of the things I like about juvenile fiction is that it reminds me how the world can be viewed innocently and optimistically, and how rewarding simple things can be. If only we could keep that childlike ability to approach everyone in the same way, without the judgmental and critical qualities that grow with age.

Well, I thought I was done blogging for the day, but then I went surfing and found some memes to try and stuff to link to... so enjoy, you get extra for once.

Quite a few folks have done the meme about the first five movie quotes to pop into your head, so I won't try to attribute it to anyone. Here are mine--and this was hard (but fun), I'm not good at these things:

1. "'I know I'm different, but from now on I'm gonna try to be the same.' 'Same as what?' 'Same as people who aren't different.'" --What's Up, Doc?
2. "I'm so degradatated!" --Little Women
3. "That'll put marzipan in your pie plate, Bingo!" --Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 6
4. "I'll always remember what she wrote in the card--'Jesus loves winners.'" --Drop Dead Gorgeous
5. "She can have them--yes! I'll take them to her!" --The Two Towers

There are a couple other things I want to post, but I'm expecting a call about a job sometime this afternoon and don't want to stay online too long. So I'll save the rest for later, and end with this link to Semicolon's list of 100 things to do when you're bored.

Well, looks like once again my mother's gotten me hooked on something. She's been staying with us for the past month while she works on renovating the farmhouse she just bought, and as a treat after the long days of labor she's reading "potato chip" books--mysteries and thrillers of various ilk. I'm not sure what made her pick up Minette Walters, but as soon as she finishes one she has to stop at Barnes & Noble for the next. Anyway, she seemed so involved that I had to try one for myself, and of course burned through it in a night. More of a crime novel than a mystery, The Ice House is much darker and more twisted than any book I've read previously, yet I found myself addicted! I may not make them a steady diet, but I've already
picked up The Dark Room and will probably have to go through the rest that my mother's bought.

What I particularly liked about The Ice House was how much information was simply assumed by the detectives, the supporting characters, and, naturally, the reader. The main characters made it all too easy for generalizations to be made about them, which I found an interesting psychological trick. Also, while I love Inspector Wexford, Adam Dalgliesh, Benson and Stabler, etc, it was nice to see some detecting perhaps closer to reality. The officials on the case were far from sympathetic or objective, and often almost vindictive, while the other characters showed continued depth throughout the novel as well.

I've been thinking about titles. It's always been difficult for me to come up with meaningful titles for my own stories--it's definitely an art, and one that I think few people possess. Certainly many writers have needed great help from their editors in choosing appropriate ones (which of the following screams classic to you--The Great Gatsby or Petruchio in West Egg?). One of the things I don't like about fantasy and mystery novels is that the titles often have so little to do with the story that I can't remember, after reading them, what they're about! Then, of course, there are the exceptions where the title is a succinct summary of the plot and adds little meaning or insight.

I began thinking about this as I was pondering a post on Virginia Woolf's The Voyage Out. Someone had asked me what the book was about, and I realized that in many ways it is indeed a voyage out. It's exactly the right way to describe the book, which is the story of a young girl "coming of age", if you will, beginning as a literal voyage on her father's ship with family friends who help draw her out of her innocent childhood into some understanding of life. Though the first of Woolf's novels, it has the same dexterity as later ones in illustrating the growth and progression of human life and thought. She tends to write about people who choose to progress, and are surrounded by many who have stunted themselves in a variety of ways; in this novel, the heroine Rachel seeks to know life and become someone, while her supposedly liberal and open-minded friend Helen is caught in her own web of superiority and cleverness.

Though I've never disliked any of Virginia Woolf's books (except perhaps The Waves, which, while again possessing an excellent and self-descriptive title, was rather too abstract for my pedestrian tastes), I particularly enjoyed this one and will be glad to peruse it again. I was surprised to find that Clarissa Dalloway was one of the secondary characters--and I didn't care for her at all! I assume it was the same woman as in the later novel, and perhaps Woolf decided to plumb her depths and discover what lay beneath the proper, party-giving, social veneer. Most illuminating. There's another interesting title--there's not much to the novel besides Mrs Dalloway, and it is at once who she is and who she is trying to escape. Neat. Then there's A Room of One's Own, although maybe that's cheating since it's not a novel, but it is the central idea of the book. I can't say much about To The Lighthouse, since it's been too long since last I read it, but again I think it's literal as well as symbolic.

Since the kind nod from Brandywine Books, I've had a flattering number of hits that have shamed me into posting. I've spent the past week reading about three books a day (it was kind of a bad week), yet I haven't much to say about any of them--mostly fantasy and juvenile fiction. Not that those aren't worth reviewing, but when I read that many at a time they all sort of blend together. A few of note:

Jenna Starborn, by Sharon Shinn. Oddly enough, an SF retelling of Jane Eyre. One of those things that either really works or really doesn't, and somehow in this case it worked. While the author stayed fairly close to the story, simply updating the time period, she cleverly changed a few things that made it her own yet kept the same feeling and atmosphere of the original. I really liked this, and will certainly try Sharon Shinn again.

Cart and Cwidder and Drowned Ammet, by Diana Wynne Jones. These are the first two books of the Dalemark Quartet, and I'm not quite sure how they're going to tie together, other than the common thread of rebellion and revolution. However, both were excellent stories on their own, which I always appreciate in a series, and Jones has a great style. (Also she grew up in Thaxted, a lovely little village in England that I was privileged enough to visit a few years ago.)

The Worldwide Dessert Contest, by Dan Elish. A very old favorite from my childhood--a funny, lighthearted story of a man who keeps coming in last in the dessert contest because at the last minute his desserts always turn into other things like trampolines, knee pads, super glue... Enter the rhyming Captain B. Rollie Ragoon and his roller-skating apple pies! Lots of fun.

The Winter Oak, by James A. Hetley. The sequel to The Summer Country, which I liked a great deal. Both are just the kind of fantasy I enjoy--urban, or mythic, as it's called. If only the characters weren't always abuse victims... Ah well. The scientist witch/cyber pagan in these books makes up for that.

Treve, by Albert Payson Terhune. I picked this up at a used bookstore in Portland for 35 cents! His Lad of Sunnybank books were among my favorites as a child, and this is one I read as well but didn't remember. A sentimental, manipulative, and perfectly wonderful story about, of course, a collie, and two men who own a sheep ranch.

A Stir of Bones, by Nina Kiriki Hoffman. This is a prequel to a couple of her other books, which I won't name because her titles are much less memorable than the books themselves and I can never keep them straight. Anyway, it's about 4 children who discover a haunted house, and is a good backstory though somewhat thin on its own.

There are a few other books I want to post about at greater length, but as they are somewhat more edifying literature I think I will save them for another time.

Turns out Hugh Laurie is nearly as funny as P.G. Wodehouse! Makes me want to see the episodes again as well as reread the books, but since we just went to the library and I again ended up with a huge stack, perhaps they'll wait for another day.

Via Brandywine Books.

Well, I'm heartened to discover via my sitemeter that there are quite a few people out there reading Anne Bronte. Unfortunately it's clearly for a class, since they seem to be too lazy even to go to a store and buy the cliffnotes ("summery [sic] of anne bronte agnes grey", etc). No summaries OR summeries here, suckers! I must confess sometimes I am tempted to, as Odious once did with the word "ninja" to affect the old banner ads on Blogger, put up a post of the names of bestselling authors, interspersed with "review", "summary", and "synopsis". But I refrain.

I'm trying to prepare our cats for this afternoon's arrival of my mother and her two dogs and two cats. I don't think they quite understand, although Finn clearly senses something is going to happen, as he's been extremely affectionate all day. Lizzy just yowls, but that's hardly out of the ordinary. She's been particularly annoying lately ever since they destroyed one of their old favorite toys and consequently created a new superfavorite toy. A friend of ours bought them a toy called the bird last summer, and it is really an excellent gadget--a bunch of feathers tied to a string tied to a long flexible rod. When swung through the air it makes a soft swooshing sound that they find most tantalizing, and will leap magnificently to catch and disembowel it. Well, as with all pet toys, it finally met its end when the string broke and they carried off the remains to a unknown hiding place. Now, however, they find the remaining string tied to the rod an even better toy than any we've conceived of yet. Lizzy spends about half the day (and night!) lying on top of it yowling piteously at everyone who comes near. It's pathetic, but mostly really, really annoying.

I did start this post with the intention of writing something about books--not much, but something. Oh yes, since someone found the blog with a search for Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, I thought I'd mention that it's not nearly as good as others of hers that I've read. The heroine was much too wimpy, for all that Mrs. Gaskell tried to describe her as strong and righteous, and I was so disappointed that she ended up marrying who she did. From the moment he was introduced it was clear they'd end up together, and yet I kept hoping... He was kind of a jerk. Anyway, Cranford and Mary Barton are much better, so I'll just write this off as the one she wished she hadn't written.

Also, I've now read The Sound and the Fury. I can cross it off my list. At some point I may possibly read another Faulkner novel, since I did like The Reivers, and found Go Down, Moses fascinating, but on the other hand I may stick to books with apostrophes.

The Internet is a scary thing. Some days I get on to check my email, look at friends' blogs, and then I'm done simply because I can't think of anything else to do. Then there are days when I understand how Odious can spend hours on end surfing the web. After clicking on a "next blog" button this evening and discovering, for once, a well-written and interesting site called The Anchored Nomad, I found myself swept away in a wonderfully interesting tide of literary blogs and sites. One leads to another, which leads to four others... Everyone's making note of Arthur Miller's death, which I must say excites little emotion in me, but I did learn that Pride and Prejudice has been named the most romantic novel of all time. I couldn't agree more; however, I was rather perturbed to find that Rebecca ranked #4 in the poll. Maybe all the people who voted are also the strange people who adore Laurence Olivier, but I'm having a hard time imagining a less romantic novel! Both the book and the movie give me shivers, and the characters are both impossible to relate to and hopelessly unsuited for each other. Ah well. My take on books is often quite different from the general one.

Other excellent finds: Brandywine Books and The Discerning Reader.

The only thing I don't like about reading a really good, captivating book (a Thumping Good Read, as dubbed by The Common Reader) is the feeling of loss once it's finished. No other book can fill the void, and I flit from tome to tome in the vain hopes of finding something to sweep me utterly away again. And then, very occasionally, I'm lucky enough to light upon an unexpected book that does just that.

Though I've read Elizabeth Moon's The Deed of Paksenarrion several times, in my opinion it ranks among the best fantasy--even the best fiction--ever written, and each reading only makes me lov eit more. Moon's prose is simple yet captivating, and the story a riveting one, with a nearly perfect heroine. With every reading my admiration of Paks grows--she possesses the quality of doing and saying, always, what she believes to be right, without being influenced by anyone else. Reading of her steady, quiet, honest journey from sheepfarmer's daughter to paladin chokes me up, and the many trials that she endures only serve to make her stronger. She is not particularly intelligent or good or brave in herself, but her strength of will and faith are astounding.

This may, in some poor fashion, serve to illustrate my condition after reading the last page of this trilogy a week or so ago. I cast about for something, anything, to content me again, and happened to alight upon a recently acquired novel by Arturo Perez-Reverte. I'd read his The Club Dumas on Odious' recommendation, and enjoyed it greatly until the unfortunately disappointing ending (he built it up way too much, and there was no way it could ever conclude satisfactorily). When I saw The Flanders Panel in a used bookstore, I was willing to give him another chance, and am quite glad I did.

The heroine is a young art restorer named Julia, who has been given a little-known yet valuable Flemish painting to restore its original condition so that it can be sold. During the process, however, she uncovers (literally!) an intriguing secret that purports to solve an ancient mystery. But it soon becomes clear that danger lurks in the present as well as in the past, when an old lover of Julia's is found dead. With the help of a taciturn chessmaster and an art dealer, Julia solves each puzzle as it is presented until mysteries both historical and contemporary are concluded. This book is satisfactory, and beyond doubt a TGR.

E.M. Forster's books always surprise me. One is so easily lulled by his gentle prose, by the eccentric characters going about their odd but pleasant lives, and then suddenly things happen with an abruptness that makes one realize just how shocking they are. Howards End is no exception--I was going to give an example, but don't want to spoil it for anyone. To be circumspect, great milestones of life suddenly surge up in a brief sentence that might almost be missed by the reader, just as those involved in such a situation might almost go on without noticing, then be brought back stunned by what has happened. Forster writes these things just as they might occur, blending into the rest of life until the shock hits after the fact.

I like this way of writing, that acknowledges how little there actually is to say about a sudden death, or a kiss, or the discovery of a hidden pregnancy--far more details are to be found in a conversation between friends, or a stroll down London streets, or the covert glances among family members concealing a secret. Life is lived in these small moments, not in the great occurences, and what we do in crises is merely a reaction based on the character built during the details and mundanity of every day.

I picked up The Good Earth because it was being read by a book group I wanted to attend--an hour later I found myself 2/3 of the way through and somewhat breathless. I can't quite say it swept me off my feet, as it's too unassuming for that; but the smooth steady prose is rather like drifting for miles down a gentle river without realizing just how far you've gone. Chinese history is not a subject that's ever appealed greatly to me, and I certainly wouldn't have wanted to live in China at that time (or, really, at all), but as an acquaintance of mine said about the movie "Hotel Rwanda", 'It makes you realize that most people just want to live well and love their families and be left alone.' Wang Lung's love of the land and simple desire to prosper and provide for his family particularly resonate for me right now as I yearn to be away from this life-in-limbo, to be steward of my own good earth.

The book group discussion turned out to be excellent, surprising me pleasantly. After St. John's, I'm used to sitting through "discussions" that turn into lectures or Q&A, but the leader of this group came as close to a tutor as I've found outside of school. We had quite a lively conversation, and everyone was interested to hear from me that Pearl S. Buck actually wrote a trilogy. A friend gave me a copy years ago, and once I'd read the first one I couldn't stop--I had to find out what happened. Sons was not as good, but I quite enjoyed A House Divided, as Wang Lung's grandson returns to a love of the earth.

?Odious thinks I should post something about the Brontes; he’s been reading Villette, which sparked a long conversation since he finds it very odd. He was commenting on the vague illnesses caused by, apparently, depression, and I told him that he has to remember what the time period was like (I said, in fact, “You know, you’ve read Freud”, but then realized that of course he hasn’t!). Life was difficult for everyone in the 19th century, but especially, I think, for poor gentlewomen. Women of the working class could at least work, as servants or in shops, while well-to-do women were taken care of by their families should they be unfortunate enough not to marry; but women like those in Charlotte and Anne Bronte’s novels were, like the Brontes themselves, doomed to wretched cold lives as seamstresses or teachers. Odious was appalled to hear me say that Agnes Grey has an even more depressing life than Lucy Snowe or Jane Eyre, but I think it’s true, and it may also be why Anne Bronte is less popular than her sisters. Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are archetypal classic novels–their characters cry out to be recognized and remembered, and thus are more readily accessible to the reading public. They really are great books and are rightfully hailed as such, but Anne’s novels strike a different chord. She was more obviously a feminist of her time than her sisters; as it says on the back of my copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, “the slamming of that bedroom door reverberated throughout the literary world!” While I love Jane Eyre with all my heart, and appreciate the wild beauty of Emily’s prose, Anne’s characters are deeper and richer, and her writing paints, I think, a more accurate picture of life. There are no great heroes or heroines, or tremendous loves and battles of will, but only the quieter, harder, everyday struggles that are perhaps less exciting to read about but at the same time more resonant.

Days go by; life is...well...continuing; I escape by reading. I made the mistake last week of picking up Assassin’s Apprentice, the first book in Robin Hobb’s Farseer trilogy, and was from that point doomed to do nothing but sit glued to a chair until I’d finished both that trilogy and the following one, the Tawny Man. I know I’ve posted about these books before, but whatever I said bears repeating–her writing is truly astounding, and her characters all the more endearing because they are real in their flaws and mistakes and occasional blindness. I realized during this reading that I can’t agree with her philosophy because I don’t believe in the division of body and soul (that is, that a body can exist in this world without a soul, for any amount of time, or vice versa, or that bodies are somehow interchangeable), and yet the bonds this allows her to create are beyond philosophy. I think it’s like the flying and other impossibilities in kung-fu movies–Odious says those are metaphors for things that can’t be shown or even really explained, just as the Skill and the Wit stand in for bonds too amazing for us to fully understand.

I was looking through my reading notebook last night, where I’ve written down things I want to read, as well as cut-out blurbs from catalogues, and to my surprise I found one for Assassin’s Apprentice. After putting it in there I must have completely forgotten about it, since I remember picking up the first two books of the series at a library book sale, rather at random. It’s always odd to read someone’s summary of a book you’ve loved deeply, and see both their interpretation and attempt to encompass the whole of something in just a few words. That’s partly why I don’t give book reports here–you can go to Amazon for that–but rather my own thoughts about the book in hopes of inspiring others to share what I’ve enjoyed so much.

Suddenly I feel so much smarter.

I also meant to say that I tried to add the comments feature to this blog but did not have any success--this is kind of a weird old template (you will all, I'm sure, have noticed the lovely cut-off title at the top--argh!) so it didn't turn out right. I'll have Odious take a look, because it would be fun to hear from my visitors.

Well, what a fun surprise! I was just looking at my cooking blog, and discovered that several people have left comments. The best part is that I don't know them, so that means people other than my family read the blog...or maybe that's the scary part. No, I'm happy to share my infinite wisdom with all and sundry--I just wonder how on earth all the connections get made. The blog world is nearly as small as my old network of homeschool magazine editors, where eventually everyone knows each other. Weird.

Anyway, I finally have a job, as a hostess at the new Melting Pot restaurant opening in Portland, which means that I may actually start getting things done. A lack of schedule often sadly means a lack of productivity, unless, of course, one counts as productivity watching TV and reading for hours on end, in which case I've been busy as a bee. We've discovered all the nearby libraries, so Odious and I have stacks of lovely new-to-us books in the bedroom and have been reading them avidly. I love how every library has just a few more of the books I'm always looking for, keeping me happy yet not entirely satisfied. For instance, I was pleased to find one of the Borderlands books at the Beaverton library (although unfortunately I'd already read the story by Charles de Lint), and thrilled to find Nina Kiriki Hoffman's short story collection Time Travelers, Ghosts, and Other Visitors at the Portland library. Both were excellent, but only made me eager for more...

I'm not sure why I haven't kept up with posting. Heaven knows I've had enough time, and I've certainly been reading plenty as well. It's harder than it sounds not to have a schedule--the day sort of melts away when there's nothing one has to do. But I'll soon be back in the workforce, and most likely looking back longingly to these days of lounging about and reading fantasy novels.

I recently re-read The Gathering Storm, the fifth book in Kate Elliott's "Crown of Stars" series, and am now even more anxious for the sixth and last to appear. Much as I generally dislike getting into long fantasy series (even with my speed reading ability, a shelf-ful of two-inch thick mass markets is daunting, to say the least), with their convoluted plots and reams of characters, this one is actually worthwhile. I do think Ms. Elliott could have spared her readers some of the details and subplots, since 6000 pages is a lot to demand from any fan, and it's quite difficult to remember what has happened to each of the fifteen essential characters, but the skill with which she has brought each thread into her weaving is remarkable. And actually, the last book should be much easier to follow, since quite a few of the characters were either killed off or their stories resolved in The Gathering Storm.

I'm not going to attempt to explain the plot, since it would either take too long or be too generic to excite anyone (stalwart characters go on various quests to save their world), but Amazon might help if you're interested. Apparently some readers don't share my enthusiasm, but as I said, 6000 pages is a lot to demand.

I've been immersing myself in short stories lately, mainly because of our recent jaunts to Powell's and the number of bad anthologies I picked up there. Yesterday, however, I found the library (my wallet breathes a sigh of relief), and while our tax money seems to have gone to the building before the collection, I was able to find several things I'd been wanting to read. One was the latest from A.S. Byatt, a collection of stories called Little Black Book of Stories, which I read more or less in one sitting. Of course I inhaled them too fast, and will probably have to go back and savor them more carefully, but it's difficult not to gobble when the fare is so wonderfully tasty. There is a definite knack to short stories that, for lack of a better word, I call snarkiness--a sort of sly, wry humor that turns around at the end and elbows the reader in the back--and Byatt possesses it beyond a doubt. Someday, maybe, if I ever get to practicing, you'll see something from me like that.

Anyway, every story in this book is a gem. I particularly liked the first one, where two young girls sent away from their homes during WWII discover something bizarre and old and earth-shattering in a forest, and are forever after secretly affected by it; if ever anyone had an excuse for psychological hangups in later life caused by childhood nastiness, it was these two girls. Another story follows a doctor's concern for a young artist who is hired to decorate the hospital for Christmas and stays on afterwards, living in corners and creating strange and frightening sculptures with medical artifacts from the basement, and their disastrous but compelling love affair. The last story gives account of a husband dealing with the last stages of his wife's descent into Alzheimer's, detailing the small harmless ways in which he exacts revenge for her tantrums and messes, and the curious late-night visits of a beautiful woman who seems to know all about him and his wife. Every one made me shudder a little, and at the same time yearn for such talent.

Nina Kiriki Hoffman is a terrific writer. Unfortunately, however, it seems most fantasy readers don't agree with me, since few of her books are still in print and only one is readily available in bookstores (the newly-released mass market A Fistful of Sky). I just spent an irritatingly long time trying to find used copies of her short story collections online, but apparently they were published by a small press and have, even in this age of wonders and eBay, vanished from the reading sphere. So I suppose I must resign myself to continue my search for anthologies that contain her stories, though it's so much more difficult to appreciate them when sandwiched between authors who by some chance of blind luck became well-known and have all of their books still in print and stocked in bookstores. Not that I'm bitter.

During recent forays to Powell's, I picked up several anthologies for the sole reason that Hoffman's stories appeared in them (not, I must admit, that I scorned to read the rest of the stories!), and one in particular was really excellent. I enjoyed nearly all of the stories in Little Red Riding Hood in the Big Bad City (edited by Martin H. Greenberg and John Helfers), but Hoffman's was especially charming--a tale of that strange entity known to society as a mall. In fact, I think I have to quote from the beginning of it, as I found myself quite tickled.

Gwen hated the mall. It had eaten her three best friends when they were all in sixth grade, and even though it threw them up later, they had come back partially digested by shopping acid and were never the same. --"Mallificent"

Well, we made it to Oregon. We're happily settled into suburbia, in a cute little house with blue trim, a porch, and roses on the back patio. It'll do. Things are mostly unpacked and arranged, including all the books. We spent a happy day sorting and organizing, which has never really been done before and was desperately needed--now we actually have a nice library in our front room with everything arranged by subject (more or less arbitrarily). During this undertaking, of course, both Odious and I made new stacks of things to read, that had been buried or forgotten. One of them for me was Ellen Kushner's The Fall of the Kings, which I'd been meaning to read since we picked it up at a library book sale. Odious said he found it boring, as well as a little heavy on the buggery (which bothered me about its prequel, Swordspoint, also!), but I gave it a try anyway, and found myself completely immersed. I was disappointed by the ending, which seemed a bit of a cop-out, but the characters were well-developed and interesting and the plot fascinating (until it fell apart at the end, sadly). So I'm recommending it with reservations, if you liked Kushner's other two books.

This weekend we'll be heading into Portland for, among other things, a pleasant visit to Powell's Books. Now that we've moved, I feel liberated to buy books again!

Well, I finally finished Nabokov's short stories. I was appalled to log on after a whole month and see that that book had been on my nightstand for so long, but as always, I got distracted. It took a little while to get into Nabokov, anyway. Several of the stories were delightful and entrancing, while far too many others were just Russian. Actually, they were all extremely Russian, but some had other things going for them. I particularly liked the story "A Bad Day", about a boy from the country who goes to a birthday party at his cousin's house. He doesn't want to go, because he knows it will be awkward and unpleasant for him, but of course the grown-ups expect him to want to go. It's an interesting vignette of a child's life--perhaps more depressing than I like to think, but fairly accurate--and the ending was shockingly heartwrenching and unexpected (if you're somewhat oblivious, like me). I also enjoyed the story about the man whose doppelganger makes his life difficult and harried--this one has a good ending too. The best thing was that I got inspired to write some short stories, and in fact started one at work last night. It's based on an odd dream I had, and will perhaps appear in Kate-hill sometime soon.

I believe it was Sarah Ban Breathnach who suggested always having three books on one's nightstand--one simply fun and light; one slightly more challenging that requires some attention; and one to study and learn from. This way you'll always have something that suits your present mood, without flitting, as I often do, from book to book and gathering great stacks next to the bed. Anyway, I've been trying to do this, and ended up setting aside a specific time each day to read something edifying. Since I need something to read while I eat breakfast, this seemed the perfect time for working through more serious books a chapter at a time, and I'm finding it an excellent practice. Besides giving me something to think about throughout the day, it also starts me off feeling productive!

Since starting this pleasant little habit earlier in the summer, I've read three terrific books and am just starting a fourth. The first book was recommended by my dear Meg--The Sacred Romance, by Brent Curtis and John Eldredge. Though a little too casual and chatty for my taste, the subject was thoughtprovoking and interesting, as the authors described a lifestyle that draws one closer to God. We don't usually think of a relationship with God as being romantic and passionate, but it must be in order to take part in all that He wants to give us.

My second book was Franky Schaeffer's A Time for Anger, which I found amazingly stirring and apropos despite its 1980's publication date. Many of the social problems and moral issues that still concern us today were fully blossoming at that time, and he addresses them with righteous anger and a call to action. He questions the apathy that modern Christians have fallen into--the mood of "tolerance" that seems to keep us from protesting the horrors and travesties that surround us. In particular he discusses the abortion holocaust that slips by general attention because even the staunchest pro-life advocates have been jaded into thinking of precious babies as mere fetuses and lumps of tissue. It's a book that will be on my mind for a good long time, and has already stirred me into speaking my mind more bluntly than usual.

A friend had sent us a copy of Hidden Art, by Franky Schaeffer's mother Edith (also the wife of the philosopher Francis Schaeffer and co-founder of L'Abri), and for some reason I couldn't get into it until I made it my morning read. Then I could hardly bear to read only a chapter at a time! With the premise that God is an artist, and the best way to worship him is to share in his creation by being artistic ourselves, she goes through all aspects of life with suggestions on how to become more creative and artistic. She doesn't necessarily advocate becoming a great artist, writer, or musician, but rather using those natural talents to enhance life and glorify God. A grocery list can be a creative outlet as well as a pleasant sight when it's decorated with a flowering vine or little cartoons of the needed items; evenings become pleasant and productive with an impromptu concert or singing circle; a house is more comfortable and welcoming when arranged with personal style and special finds; friends are always thrilled to receive long newsy letters filled with description, dialogue, and philosophical musings. Each chapter provides new ideas and fresh ways to brighten one's life and grow closer to God--I found it interesting, inspiring, and thoroughly enjoyable.

I just finished reading a really, really weird book. I’d read a few of Iris Murdoch’s novels previously, which were good but mostly unmemorable–The Nice and the Good, Under the Net, and I think one other. The Unicorn is really not in the same category. The best genre to which I can assign it is that of the Gothic novel, only in the 1960's instead of the 1800's. I’m not sure how much I want to describe it, partly because I still have to think about the sort of symbolism and metaphor of the situation and figure out exactly what happened, but I’ll do my best. The "unicorn" is a woman imprisoned by her husband in an incredibly remote house on the Scottish (I believe) coast, who has in turn imprisoned the group of people who care for her, keeping them under a mysterious spell. They are all enchanted by her in various ways, yet at the end of the book, when at last the spell is broken, it’s as if nothing happened. The mystery is shaken off, stowed beneath layers of normality, and they return to their respective lives. I don’t know why they’re not more changed or affected by the whole affair (which lasted seven years!), or if that’s the point... Hmm. More thinking is necessary.

"I have become unreal. You have made me unreal by thinking about me so much. You made me into an object of contemplation. Just like this landscape. I have made it unreal by endlessly looking at it instead of entering it."
–Iris Murdoch, The Unicorn

Perhaps, because it was so unreal, it was easier to leave behind–but if the characters haven’t learned anything, then what has the reader learned? I don’t usually analyze books so closely, but I really am baffled by this novel. I don’t know why it was written.

So I suppose it’s now my turn to say a word about the opera, since Odious and Jack have written extensive reviews with which I mostly disagree. Odious and I just spent a month of Wednesdays seeing Beatrice and Benedict (Berlioz), Simon Boccanegra (Verdi), Agrippina (Handel), and Don Giovanni (Mozart), which I liked in that order. I am not an opera buff, and have no desire to be one–what I enjoy most is the experience of going to the opera, dressing up and drinking champagne in the parking lot and feeling sophisticated. However, this summer I have also enjoyed the operas themselves, with the exception of, I am sorry to say, Don Giovanni. That was the only opera on the program that I had any experience with, and that was limited to listening to the CD a few times while cleaning the house. Of course I knew the basic story, but little about the music or the motivations of the characters. Unfortunately Odious for some reason was unaware of my ignorance, and thus got rather shirty with me for asking him to explain his comments about the opera (assuming I was playing devil’s advocate). Once we finally got that worked out, we were able to have several good conversations about it that helped me understand why I didn’t like the production.

While the singers were excellent, and the music of course beyond reproach (I would have to agree that it may be the best opera ever written), the producers chose an interpretation that took away nearly all of the impact and depth of the story, to the point where it stopped making sense because the music and the acting were so contradictory. It’s one of the few operas where the music actually has plot–like most Mozart, the characters are expressed through the music. For instance, Don Giovanni’s seduction takes place within the music, as the key in which he sings takes over the keys of his victims until they are completely under his sway. Because of this, it’s impossible to change the genre of the opera (from tragedy to comedy, basically) without making it ridiculous. Odious’s observation, which I thought quite apt, was that perhaps the producers felt that the story was morally unfashionable, and that Giovanni as a bad man who refuses to repent and so is sent to Hell (which, incidentally, is a bad place) would not be taken seriously. Besides having a problem with people who try to adapt morality to current social trends, I have to say the alternative failed miserably.

All the characters were acted shallowly and farcically until their conflicting emotions inherent in the music and lyrics made no sense and the story began to lose focus. Leporello was played as a clownish rascal who bumbled about the stage and grabbed large handfuls of female flesh, which was vaguely amusing until I started paying attention to the creepiness of his position. He’s a man who hangs outside of bedrooms while his master seduces women, and keeps records of each seduction in a little notebook. That’s not exactly normal! And it’s certainly not funny, at least in my opinion. Donna Elvira was disappointing, too, as a conniving bitch who stormed about screaming at everyone, so that when she began falling back in love with Giovanni it came completely out of the blue. Giovanni himself was more effective, since it would be hard for him to come across as anything but suave and persuasive, but because no one thought of him as evil, he wasn’t scary. To me, a man whose power over women is nearly absolute, and who has no compassion or sense of wrong, is terrifying, and this Giovanni was merely alarming.

I wish I could have liked it better, since Mozart is so wonderful, but frankly I got bored and irritated. At least it made Simon Boccanegra a welcome surprise, especially since Odious had implied that I probably wouldn’t like it. On the contrary, while the music wasn’t as exciting as Mozart, the story was much more fast-paced and compelling because, being Verdi, there was no other possible interpretation. Verdi defies irony, and this opera is perfectly straightforward. The singers were excellent, especially Boccanegra–he had a quiet dignity that propelled the entire production. I didn’t like some of the things Amelia did with her voice, though Jack found it effective and impressive vocal control. To me it sounded inconsistent–she would go from waveringly soft to rich and full within a single song, which reminded me too much of Jewel in her first album.

Well, I hate to spend so little time on an opera I enjoyed, after writing paragraphs on one I disliked, but it was simply an excellent opera that I found completely entertaining and have very few criticisms of! I have more to criticize in the opera we saw next–Beatrice and Benedict–but I also enjoyed it even more. It was not at all what I expected, being more like a musical than an opera (probably why I liked it!), with the songs interspersed with the Shakespearean dialogue. Fortunately this worked very well, thanks to terrific actors as well as singers. The gentleman who played Benedict, while not able to rival Kenneth Branagh, was a wonderful comic actor with a perfect sense of timing, and he had a beautiful rich voice, so that watching him was pure delight. In particular, the scene at the beginning with him and Claudio and Don Pedro, where they talk about marriage, was highly amusing and very well sung–they managed to stay steady while running about the stage and getting into mock fights. Beatrice, on the night we attended, was sung by an apprentice rather than the regular singer, and it was unfortunately obvious. She sang well, though too softly, but was clearly not comfortable in the role and didn’t quite understand Beatrice’s motivations. To be fair, however, Berlioz’s adaptation sets her up as a more tragic character–one who is still bitter about being jilted by Benedict. As the opera program noted, much of the "ado" is left out of the opera, focusing instead on the relationship between Beatrice and Benedict, so I would have liked to see the regular singer for a fuller experience of the opera.

Don Pedro tried to take over the antic role that is rightly Benedict’s, instead of maintaining a certain amount of dignity that sets him apart from the other characters, but his fine voice almost made up for it. Claudio was just what a Claudio should be–mildly handsome, earnest, and nondescript, and Hero was about the same. Berlioz’s made-up character, Somarone, who takes the place of Dogberry, was very funny, although a half-hearted striptease during the party scene fell flat as a pancake.

I nearly forgot to mention the set, which sported a rippling yellow floor, slanting purple trees that I at first mistook for large quill pens, and, in the entire first act, several rows of red-clad dormitory beds (we were relieved when these finally disappeared for the second act). Odious liked the antic, Dr. Seuss-like quality it lent the opera, but I found it distracting and unnecessary.

Another pleasant thing about Beatrice and Benedict was that it was quite short–only 2 ½ hours with intermission. The next opera, Agrippina, lacked that appealing feature–3 acts, 2 intermissions, 3 ½ hours. Thank goodness it was Handel! Even so, the second act could have been cut almost entirely, as the plot lagged dreadfully and few of the songs were, in my opinion, terrifically interesting. However, I realized as we left that I liked it as much as Boccanegra, to Odious’s surprise. It was the only opera where the music engaged me more than the story (which was good, because the story was pretty silly)–even if Handel recycled all his music, it’s still Handel! Anyway, he wrote this opera at age 24, so it’s actually the original of more familiar pieces (when the overture started, I thought automatically, "oh, the Messiah!"), and I enjoyed every note.

It was also a treat to hear two fantastic countertenors–one was so good it took the whole first act for me to determine whether a man or a woman was singing. In fact, one of the male roles was sung by a woman, as is traditional now because of the lack of castrati. In Handel’s time, the oddity of castrati was what drew audiences to opera–more like a freak show than anything else. Still, I have to admit that the countertenors really made this opera worthwhile–it’s such an unearthly, androgynous sound that somehow suits Handel’s music perfectly.

I do, however, have to agree with Jack that it was somewhat disconcerting to hear such beautiful music and voices attached to such scheming, disloyal characters! The story and the music were so disconnected, especially, as Odious says, for those of us spoiled by Mozart. And yet at the same time it was effective, as an illustration of how easily people can be deceived (not, obviously, by 10-decibel asides, but by sweet voices and flattering words) and how often we don’t want to see what’s right under our noses.

The last opera on the program is La Sonambula, by Bellini, which is coming up in a few weeks. It’s already sold-out, so it should be good–we’ll see how it ranks with the rest!

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me... Odious is sitting on the bed, all dressed up to go out for my birthday dinner, while I lounge at the computer in shorts and t-shirt. It's too hot to get fancy yet! Anyway, I wanted to post briefly, since I've read several good books in the past week or so but haven't had time to write anything about them.

After a long time of believing Wallace Stegner to be a writer of westerns (don't ask me why), I finally picked up Crossing to Safety a year or so ago and absolutely loved it right off. I had Angle of Repose sitting on my bookshelf for quite some time before an acquaintance urged me to read it, but I didn't get into it as immediately as I did the other. That's partly because I was reading it in little bits and never got a good bite to savor, but also it started out a little slow. After a while, though, I became thoroughly engrossed, and greatly enjoyed the story. It's about Lyman Ward, a disabled 60-year-old man in 1970 who's writing a novel about his grandparents. His grandfather was a mining engineer and his grandmother an elegant society girl, so their marriage was quite a struggle in the rough West of the 1800's, detailed in a vast series of letters and other documents to be sorted through. The book switches back and forth between Lyman's life and excerpts from the novel, which is more or less historically accurate and a study of the marriage. I found it really interesting, though it was hard not to be irritated with the marital mistakes so clear from my omniscient view as a reader. Oliver and Susan Ward were astoundingly different people, and had a very difficult time relating to each other; yet even in its tragedy it's a beautiful story. However, I was most disappointed by the end of the book. I won't give anything away, since other than that it was a terrific novel, one to really sink your teeth into, but I hate cop-out endings like that.

Oh dear. And here I just said this morning that I wasn't buying any more books until we move.

I decided to start a new blog today. For a long time I took up most of my journal pages with book reviews and food notes; then I started this blog, and that took care of the books, but I still tend to go on for pages about food. Hence, Milk and Honey (which is also the name I plan to give my future bakery/bookshop). And now I have room in my journal to write about the other things happening in my life! Hmm... this could get depressing...

My day yesterday was unusually uneventful, since I wasn't feeling quite up to snuff and so stayed quietly at home cleaning, talking on the phone (for more hours than I care to count up, although I did take the chance to do a little crocheting and sewing), and reading a book by Robert O'Brien called The Silver Crown. My previous experiences with this author were confined to Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH (an excellent read), so I was pleased to find this reissue, which I quite enjoyed. It's a simple tale of a young girl whose life goes completely awry on her tenth birthday when she awakes to find a strange silver crown on her pillow. Donning it strengthens her belief that she is not just Ellen Carroll, but a queen--of what she doesn't yet know, but the consequent adventures lead her closer and closer to the answer.

I have to say I wasn't overwhelmed by Reading Lolita in Tehran itself--it was interesting, but a little too scattered to capture me entirely, and the writing style kept all the characters very impersonal and unindividual (which was perhaps intentional to protect privacy). Also I was a little disappointed that the books read and taught by Azar Nafisi were not discussed more, and that their effect on the characters seemed unimportant. However, I did enjoy it, especially because it inspired me to read the books the author talks about.

I'd read The Great Gatsby as a teenager, but wasn't old enough to appreciate it--my memory of it was vague and slightly distasteful. I just finished reading it again today, and I am blown away. From the first page I was enthralled with the clean elegant prose and the strange intricacy of the characters' lives. This is a great novel, and I'm sorry not to have recognized that before.

Odious, Jack, another friend, and I had the recent pleasure of attending a book-signing and talk on Eagle Dreams at a lovely little bookshop in Albuquerque. We hadn't seen the author, Steve Bodio, or his wonderful wife Libby for quite some time, so it was quite a treat to visit with them as well as to hear Steve give more background on his travels described in the book. They were pleased to see us as well--I had the gratifying feeling of being a celebrity when Steve finally noticed us in the crowd and interrupted his talk with a delighted wave and greeting--and quickly introduced us to their other friends who had come as well. We met several falconers and a wonderfully adorable little girl named Grace, and got to see part of the extensive native bee collection that Steve has been working on for UNM, before heading out to a nearby bar for several rounds of cocktails and, of course, vodka shots. When one has just been hearing about a country where the staple foods are mutton and vodka, it's rather inspiring to go out and drink expansively. The frightening thing, as Jack remarked, was that after two shots of Ketel One and an impressively large cocktail each, we were all quite sober enough to drive--the dangers of living the restaurant life.

I had brought along the other two books of Steve's that we own, as this seemed the right time to have them signed for posterity, and handed them over at the appropriate time. After expressing surprise that we had found an original edition of Aloft (his 1990 meditation on pigeons and pigeon-flying), he opened it up to the title page to discover that it was already signed. While I was feeling mildly embarrassed for never having noticed, he read the inscription and realized that he had written it to a friend in 1992, over the weekend that he and Libby first met! So he signed it again, in hopes that Odious and I will keep it longer than Sana did, and we now own an interestingly historied book. Odious says that we almost have to sell it, just to see if the cycle continues, but I don't intend to let any of Steve's books out of my hands. Which I suppose is a recommendation in itself.

I've been meaning to say something about Tamora Pierce ever since briefly noting that I'd read the first Protector of the Small books, but haven't gotten around to it until now. Well, after that first book, I gobbled down the rest of the quartet in a couple of sittings. When I went to Ohio a few weekends ago, I took along the third book (which didn't last beyond the plane), leaving behind the other three. Odious happened to pick up the first one while lazing about in bed, and met me at the airport with an insistent demand for the one I'd taken (to be fair, I did get a brief hug first). They are particularly charming books, with a compelling story and characters that become as dear as friends--definitely a treasure among children's literature, and indeed literature in general. This quartet follows the life of Kel, a young girl who is the first to be allowed to train as a knight, from her lowly beginnings as a page to her fateful adventures as a lady knight. Throughout it all she displays admirable self-control and determination, working towards her goal with single-minded motivation despite prejudice and pitfalls. I found myself rooting for her far more violently than I usually do for any character. While Pierce may not possess a fantastic writing style, at least in these books it's polished enough not to intrude upon the story.

The Immortals quartet, published previous to Protector of the Small, is unfortunately not so polished in style, but I enjoyed the story nearly as much, as it gives the background of one of the most intriguing characters in Kel's story. Since her mother's magic brought on the destruction of her family, Daine has done her best to avoid magic, including the small vestiges she seems to possess. After she is taken under the wing of the sorcerer Numair, however, she begins to learn that her magic may help to save the land from a dangerous threat. I spent most of our time in Eugene last month whipping through these four books, and found them well worth it.