April 7, 2008
Sidewalk Sale
One of the best things about being settled in our new home is that we can start acquiring books again– particularly since we got rid of so many before we moved, because the new house has shelves built into every nook and cranny and we don’t plan to move again for sixty or seventy years. The memory of packing boxes upon boxes is beginning to fade already, and so today I was quite happy to buy new books from a sidewalk sale. Stuart picked up The Cider House Rules, as we both like John Irving and neither of us has read it yet. And I seemed to be on a British female novelist kick– I got The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte, under the influence of one of my favourite book bloggers; Virgina Woolf’s Orlando (though if I’m not careful I’ll have all of her novels read, and then what will I do?); and In the Springtime of the Year by Susan Hill, who I’ve never read before.
I’m still reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Unaccustomed Earth, and loving it, though I wish I’d given it to a week that was not so manic. Also reading David McGimpsey’s Sitcom (it is Poetic April after all), which is something else but I’m not sure what (which is not to say that it isn’t good, oh no).
And next up I am going to be reading The World my Wilderness by Rose Macaulay, because it’s the one “Virago Modern Classic” I own, it’s still unread, and everybody’s talking about Virago lately. To those of you who were wondering why we need an Orange Prize, do read the piece by Rachel Cooke, and perhaps you’ll understand, for not that much ever changes in the course of 30 years
April 4, 2008
Springwatch 2008
Even if you’ve never wondered how I get so much reading done, I will go ahead and tell you part of how. That when I finished grad school and was forced into servitude, I decided to forsake lunches out with my colleagues and devote that hour a day to reading instead. By now my colleagues have gotten over being offended, and this hour is the anchor of my working day, and now it is entirely monumental for me to note that today for the first time since (I think?) October, I read my book outside. In my coat and scarf, and my fingers were cold, but the sunshine was glorious. I’ve written before about how much my reading is connected to the natural world, and so it was a pleasure to return to the elements.
March 30, 2008
Isn't twenty-first century marriage just grand
The very best thing I’ve read lately is Andrew O’Hagan’s “Iraq, 2 May 2005” in the LRB, and it seems to be available online. A stellar piece of journalism, standing as evidence but not of anything too obvious.
This week I was interested to hear Diane Francis on The Current talking about her new book Who Owns Canada Now, for these are the details my job concerns.
Margaret Atwood on Anne of Green Gables (which I’m looking forward to rereading this summer). Lizzie Skurnick on Ellen Raskin’s The Westing Game (which is one of very few of my YA books that came with with me into adulthood, even surviving through the age in which I thought I was over all that.) Middlemarch celebrated. Justine Picardie guests at Dovegreyreader’s today.
Must get up now. My husband has just cleaned the whole of oven/stove and I’m still in bed (oh– but isn’t twenty-first century marriage just grand! He’s even brought me my tea. Can’t take this for granted though, or he’ll leave me for a cleaning lady).
March 28, 2008
As in everything
For all those fearing that the end is near, I wish to put forth that once upon a time, a child raised on Archie comics, YM and The Baby-Sitters Club actually grew up to me. Which might be dispiriting, but not, at least, for the future of literacy. Though my mother would take care now to remind me that my literary diet was also certainly well stocked with all the childhood classics, that I was well supplied with fine contemporary novels too. But the fact is, I would have tossed them all out of bed in order to to curl up with the latest from the Animal Inn series, or Sleepover Friends. So atrocious literary taste doesn’t necessary lead to the same. I also think that the 11-14 year age-range is tough going all around, when you’re too old for most things, not old enough for others, and no one is experiencing any of it at quite the same rate. In books, as in everything, it eventually gets better.
INCIDENTAL UPDATE: And thanks to my friend Jennie for sending on the news that in their latest editions, the Sweet Valley Twins have been shrunk from their identical perfect size six figures down to size fours.
March 19, 2008
How to be bad
So let’s begin with the assumption that the purpose of a book is to impart a lesson, though of course this isn’t something of which I am convinced. Children’s books in particular seem to have this expectation foisted upon them, which might be sensible for practical reasons (so much to learn, so little time, so might as well combine some tasks) but this still strikes me as a limited approach to reading (as well as a bit boring).
But what would happen if we approached adult fiction similarly? I believe it would underline the ridiculousness of what we expect kids to be reading, but it’s still interesting to think about. And for the sake of interestingness then, I will consider two books I read this weekend, both of which I enjoyed immensely: Paul Quarrington’s The Ravine, and Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy.
Such is the best thing about avid reading, I think– how one book after another can illuminate connections you mightn’t have thought of. Because otherwise, would I have noticed the similar tones of these novels? The identical aspirations of their protagonists, and the tendency of these protagonists to alienate those around them, to choose less effective means of communication, to be mean and often downright awful?
The last point being important as I consider one of Harriet’s few negative Amazon reviews: “Harriet is a mean-spirited little girl… We spent many sessions discussing what was wrong with Harriets positions and perspectives as we went through the book. She is compulsive and obsessive and is in serious grief over the loss of her nurse. These issues were completely glossed over.” From there this fair comment does descend into a bit of madness (“After reading this book, it is obvious to me why the 60s and 70s became a child-rearing society that created the greed, personal lack of accountability, and negativism in the young adults of the 80s, 90s, and new century”), but we won’t think about that part of the story right now…
Because it’s true, Harriet is mean. I don’t know that I would so pathologize her outbursts, but indeed even in all her spirit, she behaves in inappropriate ways. As does Quarrington’s Phil, whose name could be substituted for Harriet’s in a disapproving review of The Ravine. Now remember that we’re assuming the purpose of books is to impart lessons, so isn’t there still something we can learn from characters like these?
Because ideally we would like books to teach us and our children how to be good. But failing that (and inevitably so, I think) isn’t it actually as effective and more realistic for stories to teach us how to be bad? Or more specifically, to teach us how to be bad in the best way possible? Because for most people, badness is going to happen at some point.
Now Quarrington’s prescription is less clear than Harriet’s, whose nurse informs her: “1) You have to apologize 2) You have to lie”. Of course this statement is qualified, but it still strikes me as quite useful advice. Awkward to deal with in “sessions” discussing “glossed-over issues ” and “wrong perspectives” (gross), but realistic and helpful in so many ways. A lesson Phil McQuigge might have been well served by.
Still, what Harriet and Phil are doing is more complicated than what our amazon reviewer supposes. We’re to imagine being them, though we aren’t required to act on that. (Is it that children can’t be trusted to make this kind of distinction?) and this exercise is pointless if a character is morally unambiguous. To me reading has no lesson but this very act of imagining, but what a lesson is that, worlds colliding and all.
March 19, 2008
The best things
The best things I’ve found online of late are as follows: a link to a fabulous radio interview with Lois Lowry. Spitzer through the prism of fiction (via Kate). Rona Maynard’s considered response to The Sexual Paradox. The Orange Prize longlist. Smut of my youth: My Sweet Audrina reread. Anne Enright profiled.
March 19, 2008
Library in Cartons
Here it is, our library in cartons. We packed the books up Sunday, which took up more time and boxes than we had supposed. And now we’re very grateful that we can afford to hire other people to carry that weight, as otherwise we’d be tempted to pull a Robin Pacific. Do note though that the thought of these boxes is the only reason I was able to leave the Balfour Books Half-Price Sale empty-handed on Sunday (but absolutely no reason why you should– the sale is on for the rest of the week). My prudence then negated today when I picked up my own Harriet the Spy.
Anyway the books will be unboxed in two weeks in the new house where they’ll have their own room.
March 13, 2008
Degrees of theft
A piece at the Guardian Books blog about stealing books, which you might remember I covered properly in my post on bibliokleptomania at the Descant blog. I’ve stolen quite a few books in my time, not so ashamedly. I think I stole my copy of Happiness is a Warm Puppy from a dentists’ office, and Love Story from a desk in my geography class when I was twelve. During the last month I have actually stolen a copy of The Animals of that Country by Margaret Atwood, or rather I liberated it, for it was being ill-treated by its former carers, stuck on a shelf with Barbara Cartlands and its cover torn off. I promise you that they will never even know that it is missing. And that I only steal from those weird sad dump-off libraries that nobody loves. And that once I committed the utter opposite of book stealing, which was donating my books to a charity shop and then deciding that I couldn’t live without them and buying my books back again.
March 12, 2008
All print, no demand
Last week in his Globe column, my friend Ivor Tossell wrote about the internet and self-publishing. Putting forth that the internet has begun to eliminate the stigma of vanity presses– “after all, the Internet is a giant vanity press full of self-published content. The spirit of the Web is to put whatever you’ve got out there, and see if it sticks.”
Ivor explores the exciting potential of online print-on-demand– small runs of textbooks, bad love poetry collections just in time for Valentines, keeping obscure books from ever being “out of print”. But, he writes, “At the same time, it means that books will lose their special status. The mere existence of a book with your name on the spine will no longer mean as much; nor will putting out one of your own make you look hopelessly self-absorbed.”
But I am not sure that I agree with him. Perhaps I just get riled at suggestions of the book losing status, but this seems to me one of those cases in which a book isn’t a book, after all. Poetry may be a different story, but I’m thinking in terms of fiction. Though of course I’ve not been round the world on this one, I hold fast to a belief that good books tend to get published– a belief I can hold if only because I read so many of them. And that a published book is the product of significant investment, not only by a writer, but by editors (and more editors, hopefully), and book designers, and art designers, and by publishers at the top who were willing to take the chance on it.
There are exceptions of course, and instances in which print-on-demand is the best route for a writer, but my suspicion is that any book devoid of such investment would be lacking. The lack would show in the look of the book and the reading, and any wannabe author could probably find these instructions a cheaper way to the same results. Economics being the point, which is where Ivor’s analogy between self-published books and blogs break down. While both are probably equally vain, awful and substandard, at least blogs can be accessed for free.
March 11, 2008
It's not just me
My husband is now reading Nikolski, inspired by my exuberant praise for the novel last week. So of course I was a bit apprehensive: I had declared Nikolski “perfect”, what if it failed to measure up?
Last night when I came to bed, I tried to ease him into the story. Saying things like, “The beginning’s a bit strange, I know. It’s hard to tell what’s happening but it will make more sense soon, and you’ll get used to the writing style, and soon the prose will string itself right through your mind, and the fish!!” (For it happens that I am going through a period of being obsessed with fish).
And Stuart said, “I love it already. But be quiet, I’m trying to read now.”
It’s rarely such a pleasure to be shushed.
