May 8, 2007
In my bag
Today 84 Charing Cross Road came in for me at the library (on Claire G’s recommendation). A bookish book! I am looking forward. I also brought home The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield to reread “At the Bay”, to which Janice Kulyk Keefer acknowledges her debt in The Ladies Lending Library. Stay tuned for a review tomorrow of that book, by the way. And I am now much intrigued to read Kulyk Keefer’s overtly Mansfieldian Thieves. Oh books books books. Thank heaven I plan to live for a long long time.
May 7, 2007
Final Shift
Tomorrow morning I will work my final shift at the library— five years after the last time I worked my final shift at the library. I think this time I mean it, however, as I don’t foresee myself returning to school anytime soon (or ever again), and it’s time I moved on from student assistantship. But I am going to miss it so. To be paid to walk up and down shelves and shelves of books. When I worked there as an undergraduate, I found “shelf-reading” quite tedious– reading call number after call number for about a half hour each shift to make sure the books were in their right places. But on my second run, I delighted in it. To run my thumb along the shelf and give a little attention to books no one has touched in years, the obscure volumes and authors Woolf’s essays taught me such an appreciation for, to return wayward books to where they belong, to blow the dust off. I loved shelving, and filling in the gaps. I never came up from the stacks without a stack of my own to take home. I liked working at circulation, where my duty was to be handed books (what a dream!). Checking books out, and imagining the connection between the book and its borrower. I revelled in Special Collections– I got to shelf the Woolf Collection when the library moved in 2001, and that I have touched these rare, beautiful volumes, books that SHE touched, is one of the penultimate features of my life. Today I held in my hands a book that had belonged to Coleridge and Wordsworth, and that was just an ordinary day.
I was not meant to be a librarian for innumerable reasons, but I do harbour dreams that the career ahead of me be bookish, however so, because then no day could ever truly be ordinary. There is no other object I’ve ever known that is invested with the magic of the book.
May 7, 2007
Park Life
It is hard to reconcile the inherent rubbishness of the world with weekends like this one. Oh weekends, you are the one thing that makes me pleased to be back in the workaday life. Though as a student/housewife every day was the weekend, that sort of took away the very point of it. And this weekend was extremely pointful. We went out for sushi and ice cream Friday night with Erica and Alex, which was splendid. Saturday we did our Kensington shop, which was a sweet summer dream. Saturday afternoon was a bike ride to High Park where we sprawled on our blanket all afternoon, ate strawberries, read books, and later I climbed a tree. The park was fullsville but the wonderful thing about parks is that we all share that wonderful space. It really was splendid, and nice to get the bikes out of the garage for the first time all season. Today Stuart was doing boyish things with other boyish types, and I was writing writing. The marvelous Natalie Bay came for supper, which was great. She’s just come back from Japan and brought us omiyage– pnis shaped cookies. I’d post a picture, but this is not that sort of blog.
I’m adjusting to my new life, and so reading/blogging have been slow of late. Though I’m working on two books at the moment: 28 Stories of Aids in Africa by Stephanie Nolen, and The Ladies Lending Library by Janice Kulyk Keefer (and there ain’t a better book for a summer’s day).
May 3, 2007
Orwell's Eleven Golden Rules of Tea
Today I was directed toward George Orwell’s essay A Nice Cup of Tea. This is serious business. He begins, “When I look through my own recipe for the perfect cup of tea, I find no fewer than eleven outstanding points. On perhaps two of them there would be pretty general agreement, but at least four others are acutely controversial. Here are my own eleven rules, every one of which I regard as golden.” I was intrigued by his assertion that drinking Indian tea makes one feel “wiser, braver and optimistic.” Interestingly, apparently Chinese tea doesn’t have the same effect.
May 2, 2007
Catch
Where I Was From by Joan Didion is the best book by Joan Didion I have ever read. This is no small praise. Yes, The Year of Magical Thinking came with a sentimentality creeping in which humanized Didion and I appreciated that, but reading Where I Was From I realize that she is at her very best when cold and watching. It’s the connections she draws which make her work so powerful, and I love the way she leaves us to do with them what we will. Or at least the way she seems to let us do what we will, for her words are so calculated, her logic so exact, that even when I disagree with what she is saying, I cannot help but see her point of view.
I am now reading The Fifth Child on the advice of Heather Mallick. Intriguing, apparently not typical Lessing, and much akin to We Need To Talk About Kevin, which was my best book of 2005 (and which I’ll be rereading this summer).
Last night I cried upon realizing that my days have suddenly become much shorter, which is the power of an eight hour workday. This was devastating to contemplate, as there I was aiming to finish Where I Was From, write the end to a stubborn short story, post an entry on Divisadero, and bake cupcakes all before bedtime. How I will miss my grad student/housewife days, where all of that was possible, and hours and hours more were open wide, and I was still free to cavort with the postman every morning, and read and write all day long. But then I got to work this morning and remembered that I’ve got a pretty lovely gig for the next few months, my coworkers are wonderful, I can ride my bike to get there, the work is (sometimes) interesting. More good things were underlined as we went outside to play catch at lunch time.
And so all is well, and time enough there will be. I suppose also that eight hours a day of wages will make evenings and weekends a delight.
May 2, 2007
Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje
In the midst of Divisadero, when I was asked if it was a good book, I wasn’t sure how to answer. “It’s a good book,” I supposed, “because I’m not sure Michael Ondaatje is not in the habit of writing bad books.” But I was not convinced from where I stood. Which is not to say that reading Divisadero was not an absolute pleasure, but I couldn’t tell where the plot was going. Where the plot eventually went, I could never have foreseen. Even now, having finished the book, I’m still not sure what to make of it, but then my response to that is to want to read it all over again.
Divisadero has a plot– an unconventional family, their ties forever severed by an act of brutal violence. One sister is researching the life of a French writer whose own story becomes the focus of the latter half of the book. Between the siblings’ separate lives and the life of the writer, Ondaatje draws connections through parallelesque plot lines, recurring symbols, characters haunted by their counterparts. But these connections are not in symmetry– symmetry would be too easy. And nothing is easy here. These connections are only suggestions, some of the story was so inaccessible to me (mainly due to my lack of familiarity with matters as divergent as the work of Balzac and the rules of Texas Hold’em), time shifts, narrative shifts, as a reader you are led you know not where.
And yet I trusted this writer completely. Clearly, I felt, I was in competant hands. This was not based solely on the writer’s reputation either, but rather the strength of the prose, the beauty of the imagery, the structure of the novel which demanded my engagement, no matter what else conspired to shut me out of it. Ondaatje’s ending tied up ends, not neatly of course, but in a way that cast the whole novel in a new light, which is why I so want to read it again. That so much can be obscured but made satisfying is a testament to great work. Similarly, that a book can be an abstraction, and yet well and truly solid.
April 30, 2007
Summer
Myself was grappling with the problem of Tolstoy, and how I want to read Anna Karenina, but just not now while I’m returning to the world of 9-5 (which is going to cut into my reading), and I’ve got a too many other books I am dying to read to devote myself to such a big one. Which I guess makes it sound like I don’t really care if I read Anna Karenina at all, which also might be true. But the great thing about self-discipline is that you can give it a break just to keep things fun. And so I am totally cheating for my May Classic. I’m going to read Summer by Edith Wharton, which is so tiny and not even old enough to actually qualify for my Classics Challenge, but oh well. I was inspired to read it after reading about Hermione Lee’s new Wharton bio in the LRB. (As an aside, predictably I am obsessed with the LRB, which so far has led me to read with fascination about things in which I have little to no interest– case in point Colm Tóibín on Beckett’s Irish Actors). And so that is that, which is all she said.
April 29, 2007
Summer by your side
So far, it’s been weekend most glorious.
Saturday Stuart and I went to afternoon tea at The Four Seasons, which was my treat for finishing school. We tried to savour everything for at least four bites, the scones were oishi, perfect jam, and we absolutely fell in love with pear tree green tea. Nothing short of delightful.
We were thrilled to accept an BBQ invitation last night by the Brown-Smiths, and we enjoyed our city rooftop summer night, until it got cold and we had to go in. It’s only April after all. But even indoors, the night continued in hilarity. Carolyn and Steve are wonderful company, and our glasses kept magically refilling themselves.
Today was fun in Trinity Bellwoods with Curtis. Tealish refills, Type Books birthday party (we had a piece of a cake shaped like a typewriter), fish and chips, and a fabulous game of frisbee.
Later I wandered lonely as a cloud.
And as if you needed any more proof…
All we need now are leaves on the trees– but then shade is overrated.
April 27, 2007
California
My only problem with Joan Didion is that when I think about her too much, I start singing “Lydia the Tattooed Lady” with her name in place of Lydia’s. Otherwise I feel about Joan Didion something just short of worship, on the right side of sane. From that magical day four years ago when I first picked up Slouching Toward Bethlehem, I’ve had her voice in my head. I will reread her forever, but it thrills me that there is new reading still in the meantime.
All of this because I’ve just began Divisadero and I find myself in Didion’s California. And so how can I not read my new copy of Where I Was From next? I love the way one book suggests another.
I am concerned though, as Anna Karenina is lined up to be my May Classic and I have this terrible suspicion that I might not get to it….
