February 6, 2008
Credible space flight
I’m on the tail end of a short story run– I finished Simple Recipes by Madeleine Thien (whose Certainty was one of my favourite books of last year). Now reading Bang Crunch by Neil Smith, now out in paperback. And then back to novels come Saturday morning, as I’ll have airport waiting and flights to pass (dance dance dance). But lately I have found the short story quite delicious– perfect. Which is probably very fitting, as lately I’ve been writing quite a few of my own.
Fabulous things read lately include from Hilary Mantel’s review in the LRB, “Until the idea of space flight became credible, there were no aliens; instead there were green men who hid in the woods.” The Judy Blume profile that Kate was talking about. Boys don’t get it, do they? Bookninja thought the profile went on “a tad lengthily”. And I do wonder if it is girlishness that kept the Guardian Books blog’s celebration of Anne Shirley as one of the few pieces ever there whose comments didn’t descend rapidly into a churlish a*shole contest. Which is not to say that boys are as*holes, but the ones commenting over there usually seem to be. Or commenting most places, actually (but of course, dear readers, not here.)
Also, though I don’t agree with all she says here, I have fallen completely in love with Tabatha Southey. My love for columnist Doug Saunders is much older, but his piece this Saturday comparing today’s terrorists with those of the early ’70s was fascinating.
And also this stellar piece on the Munich air crash 50 years ago in which 8 Manchester United football players were killed, along with the crew members, team supporters, reporters and coaches: “On February 6, 1958, however, the news has only just begun to find the means of spreading itself at speed through the global village. An international network exists, although it is a primitive and unreliable mechanism compared with the digital world of the future.”
January 31, 2008
Bits and Pieces
My bits and pieces reading continues, and though all of it’s so good, I’m craving the solidity of a novel. So now reading Like Mother by Jenny Diski (whose blog I keep checking for updates), as well as My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead (which has just done me the great pleasure of introduction to Lorrie Moore).
I’ve been suffering from February in this mean mean wind, and it’s not even February yet. Consolation to be taken from a list of thoughtful artful stuff on the internet, 29 things to be happy about (via Leah), 100 books every child should read, and the teakettle whistle at the end of the Goldfrapp video.
January 29, 2008
Above all things
“I’ve been ringing up to your flat to see whether you were still in London &, if you were, to beg a cup of tea from you. I don’t like shop tea, & I can’t be bothered to make my own, & at the same time tea I love above all things.” — letter from Graham Greene, 14 September 1939 from A Life in Letters
January 25, 2008
Out of hand
This has gotten out of hand. Now reading Sister Crazy by Emma Richler, My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead by Jeffrey Eugenides, Graham Greene: A Life in Letters, Bear With Me by Diane Flacks, The New Quarterly Issue 105, and The Paris Interviews Vol. II. So now I have to quit my job and never sleep again. Hurrah!
January 24, 2008
Cleistogamous
New words I’m fond of are “jactitation”, “lintel”, “spoor”, and “cleistogamous”. Now reading Sister Crazy. Also quite pleased that the latest The New Quarterly has arrived in the mail. And it’s about time I read AL Kennedy, I think.
January 22, 2008
Stuff and Links
Now reading Four Letter Word, which is really lovely, and fascinating as anthologies go– more to come on that. I finished reading The Gathering last night, though I’ve not yet formulated my reaction. Too bogged down in hype and expectations for clarity yet, but my sense was that it was very good. Perhaps the story itself was more ordinary than I would have liked, but then: “Because, just at this moment, I find that being part of a family is the most excruciating possible way to be alive.” And challenging language in a way that was most rewarded. Yes then, I think I liked it.
Taking my thoughts about abortion’s inherent boringness and narrative challenge a bit further, Tabatha Southey dares to make it all a comedy with brilliant results. On why we should go back to myths (for it seems that snazzy modern takes do not suffice). My friend K. has a new blog called The Pop Triad. Dictators don’t do it better.
January 9, 2008
We all prefer the magical explanation
Have been reading/catching up. Penelope’s Way by Blanche Howard. Am just about to start What is the What by Dave Eggers, which I’ve been putting off for too long. Put off by prospect of the headiness, perhaps. Though Dave Eggers has never let me down before, and certainly the book has been buzzed about by many people I respect. I suspect I will be incredibly impressed.
And speaking of fictional autobiographies, I’ve just finished reading The Last Thing He Wanted by Joan Didion. “Speaking of…” I say, for Joan Didion’s fiction similarly seems to challenge the fic/non-fic divide. Now I am such a fan of Joan Didion, and partly because she’s a bit preposterous. I don’t enjoy preposterousity universally, but I adore any woman who can embody the trait and still come off as brilliant. (This caveat thus explaining why I don’t love that Coulter person). I love Didion’s migraines, and that she went to the supermarket in a bikini and wanted a baby, and cried in Chinese laundries. And if one more person tells me that although they like her non-fiction, her fiction is disappointing, I will yawn.
Not because they’re entirely wrong– I’m not sure about that. Certainly I’ve never read a Joan Didion novel that stirred in me anything like what I felt for Slouching Towards Bethlehem, but that to me is beside the point. Which it might not be. It is distinctly possible instead that I am just feeling awfully protective of Didion, but still, I think, to dismiss her fiction is tiresome.
Whether or not her fiction is enjoyable (and it can be, but in a slightly uncomfortable way) something fascinating is going on with it. Joan Didion is the one writer who completely defies my theories of fiction’s truth having more bearing on reality than that of non-fiction. I am not sure I fully understand it, but it’s something in her coldness, her acuity. In her non-fiction Joan Didion assembles the world and lets it speak for itself and it’s in this speaking that the life creeps in. Whereas in her fiction when she attempts the very same thing (for this is what she does), the made-upness is pervasive. When she assembles these made-up things, whatever speaks is more an echo than a voice. An echo of what, I don’t know. All of which is really odd. And doesn’t necessarily mean that her fiction is unsuccessful; Didion is too smart for that. Rather I think of her as treating fiction as a project I’ve still not got my head around.
January 4, 2008
Abookaday
During my holiday, I’ve managed to read a book a day (though this was accomplished by reading books that were primarily quite short and/or excellent), which has been tremendously satisfying, fun, stimulating and rich. I’ve got a lot of my new books read, and my focus is now on the older books I’ve picked up at sales over the past year and which have been lingering on my shelf. Now reading Perfect Happiness by Penelope Lively (who I love). But I’ll also be starting the new collection Graham Greene: A Life in Letters. I’ve loved Graham Greene’s work for a long time, including The End of the Affair, The Heart of the Matter, The Quiet American. Though it is Travels With My Aunt that stands out, actually. And I’ll be reading Brighton Rock shortly. It will be interesting though, as I know almost nothing about Graham Greene. Except for the Catholic stuff, which always gets a bit lost on me in his fiction (and I’ve had a similar problem with Muriel Spark). Perhaps this will help?
December 28, 2007
What she was finding also
“What she was finding also was how one book led to another, doors kept opening wherever she turned and the days weren’t long enough for the reading she wanted to do.” –Alan Bennett, The Uncommon Reader
December 20, 2007
Compounded indulgence
“Mrs Simpson took a sharp knife from the drawer, slit the top of the envelope, stealthy as a spy, and withdrew the flimsy sheets. She paused before unfolding them to fetch a bar of chocolate from the fridge, then settled down to the compounded indulgence of devouring sweets and words at once”. –Claire Messud, When the World was Steady
