March 3, 2007
Dashed hopes
In the midst of Mini Pops nostalgia, I remembered how I’d once longed to join their fan club. I don’t think I ever followed through, but thinking about this led me to remember one of the great disappointments of childhood– ads and offers in the backs of books.
As a small child, these appeared as invitations toward engagement with the outside world, and they seemed irresistable. Do you remember the scheme in Archie comics where you signed up to sell something (it was never clear what) and you could win points toward a new bike, a skateboard, or a tent? These marvelous full-colour images of everything you ever wanted. You could be an entrepreneur at the age of seven! Though I was never taken in. My parents wouldn’t let me do it.
Stuart told me today about how he wrote away to join the Beano club when he was five, and was promised “two badges and a newsletter or something”. His mum and dad helped him get the postal orders necessary, but he never heard back from Beano.
I had better luck with the Eric Wilson Mystery Club, though by the time I got my newsletter, years had passed and I wasn’t that interested anymore.
Part of the problem was that books tended to age, and it was always disappointing to see that the offer for ten books for a nickle had expired in 1963. Very very sad.
But nothing was as sad as when I wrote away to join “The Puffin Club”. I’ve got a copy of the ad on hand: “You will get a copy of the Club magazine four times a year, a membership book, and a badge.” The opportunity of a lifetime, I thought. And I heard back quite promptly, raising my hopes to the moon. But there would be no membership for me, in the end. They told me Canadian children weren’t eligible and I was absolutely gutted.
And so there would be no outside world for me for a number of years yet.
March 3, 2007
Full Disclosure?
I don’t really see how one can attack a collection of letters, except on two terms: the first, maybe you don’t like reading letters; the second, the letters are boring. As my entries of late have made clear, Decca: The Collected Letters of Jessica Mitford was hardly boring. This book was absolutely enthralling, and Mitford’s letters found their way into my dreams. Epistolary dreams! You can’t fathom it. This was such an absorbing book, a twentieth century overview, and a record of one absolutely fascinating life. Jessica Mitford was a complex, exasperating, difficult woman, but she was brilliant, funny and sharp, and I have never before gained such an intimate understanding of character from a book as I did with this one.
And so, when one takes a collection of letters that are decidedly not boring, the plan of attack must be through character. Fine, I suppose. Though that seems to me a strange approach for a book review, and probably inappropriate. And no doubt, Jessica Mitford herself would not disagree with Daphne Merkin’s review in Slate that she was neglectful mother, that “vitriolic archness was her first and last defense”, or that empathy was not always her forte. Etc. etc. (though I think this reviewer simplifies her character considerably– eg. why she “airbrushes” her deceased son from her memoir, because she could not bear to relive his death through writing about it).
What is inexcusable, however is for a reviewer to write such a review, with its snide attacks, and not mention that she herself is rubbished in the book, perhaps underlining her perspective? Decca, page 706: Sez Decca: “[Did you read the] New Yorker women’s issue? Some good, some awful. One of the worst was by someone called Daphne Merkin, v. long and all about how she craves to be whipped (she’s a masochist) with nary a joke in it. Marina looked up “Merkin” in the OED– says it means “a pub*c wig”.
So perhaps Ms. Merkin had a bone to pick, but shouldn’t she have been a bit more honest about picking it?
March 2, 2007
The Myth of Justice
A recent overdose of Decca had a detrimental effect on last night’s sleep. I’ve never dreamt in letters before. To do so is rather maddening. I’m starting Middlemarch today; Bronwyn’s reading it too.
The Guardian World Literature Tour in New Zealand: fascinating to read the discussion in comparison to Canada’s which turned in to an all-out internecine CanLit hatefest. Here for literacy initiatives. The usual suspects for Britain’s favourite books. Here for Granta‘s best American novelists.
Our beloved Curtis’s birthday plans were waylaid last night due to a ferocious winter storm. An emergency birthday party was thrown together with some success. Cake was devoured. Excellent. Bonne fête.
March 1, 2007
Titled
Today my story was named The Evolution of the Village Green. I think it is a wonderful title. Unfortunately it would probably be a better title for a story that wasn’t this one, and I’m tempted to rewrite the whole thing around it. All right, not so tempted. But still, as titles go, I’m awfully fond of it and I’ll keep it around until I find something better suited.
Along those lines, upon Sunday the whole darn thing will be done. Hell or high water, etc. How exciting!
March 1, 2007
The Library at Night
Many book gatherers could perhaps write a book such as this one, inspired by their own collections. Though of course most of them aren’t blessed with Alberto Manguel’s erudition– the feature which makes this intensely personal book of such wide interest. In The Library at Night, Manguel approaches his library as a work in progress whose completion is a most fortunate impossibility. The book itself is similarly constructed, of pieces and anecdotes connected by chance to make a history of libraries, and librariness. And though, as Manguel (via Virginia Woolf) points out, the difference between reading and learning is wide, that one can do both with this delightful book, and with such pleasure, must double its force. The history of the new library at Alexandria, the man who was buried in his apartment in an avalanche of books, book mobiles by donkey in Columbia (the biblioburro), the internet’s undying present, the history of the British library or the contradictions of Carnegie. How to catalogue books, or to find room for books, the best shapes for rooms for books. Political, whimsical, artful and bursting with stuff. The Library at Night was not intended for everyone, but to those for whom it was, this book will prove a valuable and indispensable addition.
February 27, 2007
A Hardheaded Woman
When I proclaimed I would never be brainwashed into a cult, it became clear that there is nothing like obstinacy to make other people irate. Though no doubt I was right, and perhaps Stuart was just short on sleep or in need of a feed, he was made furious by my nerve. That I would never anything drove him to “Hah! I’ll show you.” He never did, of course and I remain free of any cult-like associations to this day.
But I understand what drove Stuart (beyond generic grumpiness). Any person who dares to plant her foot on the ground and say “I will never…” makes one want to cover the world for exceptions, the one circumstance in which that person will. Particularly if one is bossy and a mite controlling (like myself)– to have another escape your limits and plant their foot out there all of their own accord is a wee bit rankling. Especially if the foot-planter is just as hardheaded, which she would have to be in order to say “I will never…”.
The foot planter who’s been driving me mad of late is the Toronto woman who is aiming to produce no garbage. She is blogging about it here. Why, you might wonder, would such a noble endeavour bother anyone? For the reasons I’ve outlined above, I think, but (wait!) there are problems with the plan. First– that they use whatever garbage they do produce as material to make art from (the one example I remember is collages made from the stickers on fruit) and give to their friends. I don’t know. Garbage made into art is still garbage, usually, unless you are really good at art. Basically they just pass their crap onto someone else who can’t throw it out either because it was given under the guise of a “gift”. Second– it’s not so much that they’re producing no garbage, but rather they’re opting not to take it home with them. Living in society you are part of an entire system that produces waste, whether or not you can see it yourself. And so it’s sort of narrow-minded to pat yourself on the back for refusing a napkin for your muffin at the coffee shop (for example) when the napkin is obviously there and you’re supporting the establishment that will give yours out to someone next in line.
I see the value in what these people are doing as a statement. She just recently managed to go 31 days garbage-free. It is excellent that they are raising awareness about the stupid amounts of waste we produce, and the problem of over-packaging. Many of their waste-reduction tips are probably quite valuable to the average person. But still, I’m annoyed. Hah, I’ll show them.
I think I am being difficult (short on sleep and feed, I suppose).
Update: I do wish to affirm that the annoyingness cited in this post is mainly my own. A response to my kvetching is here and sensible.
February 26, 2007
The Worthwhile Quest
Jacqueline Wilson on her own story. My favourite BBC Radio 1 DJ Edith Bowman profiled. Loved this response to this book hate-on from a couple weeks back. (My response on the blog was: “Hating books and authors is a waste of time. The books I don’t like don’t suit my tastes, but this doesn’t mean those books are crap. I like Zadie Smith and evidently others don’t. I don’t understand why this is a point of contention.” I still don’t.)
And how about The Library at Night. Can I just read you the beginning?
“Outside theology and fantastic literature, few can doubt that the main features of our universe are its dearth in meaning and lack of discernible purpose. And yet, with bewildering optimism, we continue to assemble whatever scraps of information we can gather in scrolls and books and computer chips, on shelf after library shelf, whether material, virtual or otherwise, pathetically intent on lending the world a semblance of sense and order, while knowing perfectly well that, however much we’d like to believe the contrary, our pursuits are sadly doomed to failure.
“Why then do we do it? Though I knew from the start that the question would most likely remain unanswered, the quest seemed worthwhile for its own sake. This book is the story of that quest.”
February 26, 2007
The good and the bad
The good news is that I received a wonderful letter recently. My grade three teacher (and that was twenty years ago, please note) saw my story in The Star last summer, and tracked me down. For me, this was the teacher. Whilst under her tutelage at the age of eight, I penned my first poem, short story, received my first publication credit, and decided I wanted to be a writer. And so it was wonderful to hear from her, learn what she was up to these days, and I was so pleased that she’d read my story.
The bad news then? She tracked me down by sending the letter to my dad’s house. He received it ages ago, opened it, read it, proceeded to lose it, found various pages again, and finally the whole letter. I finally got my paws on it when I was home this weekend, but there is no sign of the envelope. Which was of course where the return address would have been found. And so I have this wonderful letter, but no way to reply. I’ve done some searches on Canada411 but to no avail. What a mess!
February 24, 2007
Injurious Reads
Everyone is right. Disgrace is wonderful. And Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford is impossible to take in morsels– I keep binging. Now reading Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin. Upcoming: The Library at Night.
I had a reading-related injury today when I read whilst brushing my teeth, paid too little attention to the latter activity, brushed too hard and and now my poor sweet gums are ailing. Reading is a dangerous business really. Sometimes holding the book makes my elbow ache.
I just came back from a splendid dinner at the beautiful new home of Natalie Bay whose fine company made the evening fly by. We’ve lived in all the same countries and so we spend most of our time talking about things no one else can stand to hear about. Which suits us well. And we’re off to Peterborough for the weekend, and the temperature calls for brass monkeys.
Further, Tide Simple Pleasures has rendered our apartment redolent with something slightly synthetic, but we like it. It smells better than we do. And, all real pleasure this week has been brought to us by crumpets.
