June 20, 2007
I've got a bucket of berries
We’ve been terribly busy around here of late, mostly with celebrating whether it be our anniversary, fathers, or my cousin’s upcoming nuptials. Last night Stu and I had dinner out at Kensington Kitchen, whose patio is entirely not overrated. We were in Peterborough for the weekend where fun was had, and we went strawberry picking with my dad on Sunday. Indeed, I had a bucket of berries and if all goes well (fingers crossed), by this time tomorrow I should have four tubs of jam. How exciting! I am obsessed with learning how to preserve, and one day I’ll have to tell you the story of of how Pickle Me This got its name. Among other stories to be told within the next few days. I’m bursting with them, but I just haven’t had the time. Things are promising to wind down soon, and this weekend we’ve got on nothing. Which is perfect.
Just finished reading Carry Me Down by M.J. Hyland, and I’ll review it here tomorrow. A little poetic action, also reading It’s Hard to be Hip Over Thirty by Judith Viorst, and loving it– strikes me as early Nora Ephron in verse. And tonight, a page or two before I fall asleep, I will begin Making it Up by Penelope Lively, who I’ve never failed to love. I’m looking quite forward to that.
The garden is desperate for weeding.
June 18, 2007
In honour of love
I should post my reading from Bronwyn’s wedding. I have mentioned the trouble I had selecting a reading, but once I saw this one, I knew it was perfect. As I prefaced it before, believe it or not, Virginia Woolf knew a great deal about joy.
Virginia Woolf The Voyage Out Chapter XXII
The darkness fell, but rose again, and as each day spread widely over the earth… this wish of theirs was revealed to other people, and in the process became slightly strange to themselves. Apparently it was not anything unusual that had happened; it was that they had become engaged to marry each other. The world… expressed itself glad on the whole that two people should marry, and allowed them to see that they were not expected to take part in the work which has to be done in order that the world shall go on, but might absent themselves for a time. They were accordingly left alone… driven to walk alone, and sit alone, to visit secret places where flowers had never been picked and the trees were solitary. In solitude they could express those beautiful but too vast desires which were so oddly uncomfortable to the ears of other men and women– desires for a world, such as their own world which contained two people…, where people knew each other intimately and thus judged eacdh other by what was good, and never quarrelled, because that was a waste of time.
They would talk of such questions among books, or out in the sun, or sitting in the shade of a tree undisturbed. They were no longer embarrassed, or half-choked with meaning which could not express itself; they were not afraid of each other, or, like travellers down a twisting river, dazzled with sudden beauties when the corner is turned; the unexpected happened, but even the ordinary was lovable, and in many ways preferable to the ecstatic and mysterious, for it was refreshingly solid, and called out effort, and effort under such circumstances was not effort, but delight.
June 18, 2007
Beloved doesn't come much bigger than this
Happy Second Anniversary to Stu.
Though I do like to be beside the seaside, most of all I like to be beside you.
More than the sky. xo
June 14, 2007
Remember when the boys were all electric?
What a good lunch break I had today, dropping out of a brilliant game of catch to read in the grass until the boys were ready to go back in. Sunny with a breeze. Now reading So May Ways to Begin by Jon McGregor, which connects me to the England I’m missing furiously post-vacation*. The book is wonderful so far. I read McGregor’s first novel If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things a million years ago, and though I enjoyed it and McGregor himself was doing something remarkable, the book wasn’t perfect. Whereas the sense I’m getting so far is that in his second novel, he’s finding his feet. Which is so exciting, and it’s wonderful to think of his career still ahead of him and books books to read. It will be nice to follow along, just as it has been so far.
And I was very happy to see that Madeleine Thien’s Certainty was nominated for the Amazon/Books in Canada First Novel Award. Pleased that Heather O’Neill’s much-deserving Lullabies for Little Criminals is on the list as well, but I’m rooting for Certainty. O’Neill’s had plenty of fun already, and Certainty is the very best book I’ve read this year.
*Ah, missing furiously. I listen to BBC Radio1 at work, and every since Monday have heard the songs we listened to as we drove across the North of England with the top down, and never in my life have I felt such nostalgia for a last week.
June 13, 2007
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
My favourite thing about Ian McEwan’s characters is how solidly these fictional creations reside in the world. His Edward and Florence in On Chesil Beach only underline this, and how their ties to the world are expressed in this small and subtle novel is a testament to McEwan’s talent.
As in the brilliant novel Saturday, ordinary lives are drawn not on the periphery of history, but firmly entrenched within it, almost powerless against it. Edward and Florence are a young couple on their wedding night in 1962, honeymooning on Dorset’s Chesil Beach in the South of England. “This was still the era… when to be young was a social encumberance.” On the cusp of a new era, with whole languages yet to be invented, particularly pertaining to sexuality, and it is for want of these words that the penultimate moment of the novel spirals so horrifyingly out of control. And in the chapter which follows, McEwan’s communication of miscommunication should be particularly commended.
The reasons I love McEwan’s writing are similar to why I so enjoy Margaret Drabble’s work–characters who live in the world, constructed of details, backstories and even their own paths not taken. Edward and Florence are recent graduates, Edward a historian and Florence a musician. These occupations inform the novel– Edward’s interest in “semi-obscure figures who lived close to the centre of historical events”; the pace of Florence’s music in the background, and the cohesion of her string quartet analogous to the tautness of this narrative. And it is the combination of their respective situations which renders the novel’s climax so inevitable and wholly realized. Such details are what allows, so essential in a novel so sparse, everything to mean something. Which I find truly a rich trip to discover.
June 12, 2007
Know more
I hope you got the print edition of The Globe this weekend, because Ali Smith’s “Torontode” wonderful, and I cannot find it online. She writes, “I love wandering about in Toronto. I dream about wandering about in Toronto, which could not be more perfect for the wanderer-about, with its leafiness, its windy wide streets in spring and autumn, the smell of sweetness and coffee on Bloor Street by that big grand hotel opposite the museum, the dainty suddenness of Yorkville tucked down the back of all the big-gun commerce like an afterthought, and especially Queen Street, I love wandering around Queen Street, I nearly saw Baby Spice once on Queen Street…” Of course she did.
Also in the same paper, I was impressed that Rex Murphy managed to connect Edward Causabon to global warming, though I am not so sure that I agree with him. Margaret Atwood on Polish writer Ryszard Kapuscinski: a magnificent article, because I’d never heard of him, but now I want to know more. And Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in The Guardian. Cool thing about that? I got to read it first on paper.
June 11, 2007
Unbooks
Though I do love books, I have a particular aversion to books that aren’t actually books. I am unfond of gift books, decorative books, foam books, faking books, and faux books. I do believe that these inferior items unjustly ride on the coattails of a sacred object. And so it was quite remarkable when I fell in love with this treasure up in the Lakes, though the price tag put it out of my league. 
I suppose I have a particular aversion to books that aren’t books, unless the book happens to be a teapot.
June 10, 2007
You are a shining light
I’ve just realized why “Intervention” by Arcade Fire has been driving me nuts since the first time I heard it: it is exactly the same song as “Shining Light” by Ash! In further music news, I bought tickets for Crowded House this morning.
June 10, 2007
Lettuce
Last night was a very exciting one in the land of Pickle, as our vegetable garden has yielded its first crop. The tomatoes aren’t ready yet, and so our salad was a scant one, only one of lettuce, but never, ever, has lettuce tasted so good.
