February 8, 2007
At 57 Mount Pleasant Street
Bronwyn and I once had the pleasure (or terror) of seeing The Proclaimers live at the T in the Park festival in Scotland, and I must say I’ve never been part of a scarier crowd. We both very nearly cried, but then neither of us thrive in chaos at the best of time. We just thought that we like “500 Miles” sort of, and we could hum along with it, but the experience was like being at a ten-thousand-strong revival when you’re sort of not bothered about Jsus. It was a cultural thing, and I thought of it whilst reading this article about how the English just don’t “get” the point of those bespectacled boys. The Costa Book of the Year has been won, and it’s a book researched entirely in the British library which takes place in Northern Ontario. Ohhh! CanCon (sort of). On movie/book cover tie-ins. Irène Némirovsky. And last night I was lucky enough to attend Trudeau night at The Kama Reading Series which was lovely, except that Stephen Clarkson and Peter C. Newman never showed!
Today I’m starting Jacob’s Room for the first time.
February 8, 2007
Saturday Night and Sunday Morning
Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was absolutely stunning. If you read it, I promise you will like it. The story of Arthur Seaton, a factory worker in 1950s Nottingham with insatiable tastes for married women and liquor, and the smartest, deepest soul. Really a cracking story with humour, a marvelously rich and complex character, a reflection of a time, and oh the language. Concluding with “Well, it’s a good life and a good world, all said and done, if you don’t weaken, and if you know that the big wide world hasn’t heard from you yet, no, not by a long way, though it won’t be long now.” This is the most subtly delicate masculine book I’ve ever read.
And I read it because of this article from The Observer last month about Nottingham now versus then, and the idea of reading any book set in Nottingham really appealed to me because I used to live there and I miss it all the time. There is something about reading about a place where you’ve lived (I particularly remember feeling this whilst reading Russell Smith’s books when I was an undergrad). Even if the book is set fifty years before you set foot in that town, and the Raleigh Factory is gone now, and all the rough places are even rougher and even the nice places aint so nice anymore. I would posit that reading a book about a place you know well is a vastly different experience from reading a place you’ve never been, or a place that never was. They’re whole different species of reading, I think.
It was also interesting to read Saturday Night and Sunday Morning having just read No Longer at Ease and Things Fall Apart (which was published just a year after Sillitoe’s novel). And the relationship between Achebe’s postcolonial Nigeria and Sillitoe’s 1950s Industrial Midlands, which is just fascinating. And I thought this even before the African character Sam rolls into Nottingham and they reckon he’s so good at darts “as a legacy left over from throwing assegais”. Just these similar themes and emotions experienced by the protagonists, and the fact that a “Morris” automobile is a status symbol for Achebe’s Obi, and yet Sillitoe’s Arthur dismisses an ancient one as a step below a car.
It’s a brilliant book. I wanted to read it slow and well, just to see how the words worked. And I have been making an effort to read more books written by men, as I’ve been far too discriminatory in the past. I’ve enjoyed this broadening of my horizons. It was also nice to see that Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was one of the 1001 books I must read before I die. That list is a bit man-heavy, really, and lately I’ve been wracking up a score.
February 7, 2007
Voluble
“A literary portrait of marriage”, so says this profile of Calvin Trillin of About Alice (which I read in December). A different perspective on those streamlined classics. Margaret Atwood once again on arts funding cuts.
Just finishing No Longer at Ease.
My friend Sk8 proposed to her lovely boyfriend in the company of bison on Sunday, and he said yes. Hooray!
And finally, Sunday night I saw a penguin being eaten by a seal on David Attenborough, and I’ve been traumatized ever since.
February 6, 2007
From YA to Feldman
My favourite bookish link of the week is Lois Lowry’s blog. She has a website too. I loved her Anastasia books when I was young, and I am going to be rereading the first one in the near future. It occured to me yesterday that my first references to Freud, Gertrude Stein and Billie Holiday were courtesy of her. I’m glad she’s made a such a fine place for herself online. Another YA author I enjoyed who has done so is Marilyn Sachs, and looking through her bibliography brought back quite a few memories.
Speaking of ghosts of books past, I found Stump the Bookseller recently while searching for the book Me and Fat Glenda. My google query was “burgers” and “inez” (marvelous thing seach engines) and evidently someone had had a similar question because this book had appeared at Stump the Bookseller. Readers write in with bits they can remember of long-lost books, their queries are available for perusal, and you can fill in other readers’ gaps, or check out the “solved” section to bring back memories of your own. It’s quite cool.
Along the lines of YA, I’ve been inspired to read The Unreluctant Years: A Critical Approach to Children’s Literature by the most famous Toronto librarian of all, Lillian H. Smith. Recommended by the booklet “100 Memorable Books” which I picked at my local branch of the Toronto Public last week. And you should get one of those if you’re able. It’s a list of books recommended by TPL librarians as not necessarily the best or most important books, but books which have had an impact on their own lives. It’s a lovely booklet with great commentary and best of all, it’s free. Thank the TPL. I always do.
Further in Toronto things, check out Write Around Town, a new column by Ragdoll whose blog I enjoy. February is bursting with bookish business.
And finally, I think I’m starting a new feature here at Pickle Me This. This past month I’ve been banned from the internet Wednesday to Friday between 8:30 and 5:30. I’ve made my husband take the internet cable to work with him because I have the most incredible talent of whiling my time away on internet inanities. Last week’s was my high school’s ‘where are they now’ page, which provided an afternoon of fun to my BFs Britt and Jennie when I sent it their way. “This is a goldmine” quoth Britt. Oh Britt, it gets better. This week’s time-sucker was the best site on all the net, Corey Feldman’s homepage. This site is essential. If it weren’t for this site, we couldn’t have had this conversation tonight at dinner:
S- (talking about something I can’t remember) is very zen.
K- Corey Feldman’s son is called Zen.
S- Who’s Corey Feldman?
It seems they didn’t have him in England. But really folks, if it weren’t for Corey Feldman’s homepage, I could never have segued into the most important conversation my husband and I have ever had.
February 6, 2007
Bookishly (sort of)
I want to address two books, not of the literary sort.
The first is Vegetarian Classics by Jeanne Lemlin, which I mention because Ms. Calhoun was talking about cooking the other day. I credit this cookbook with teaching Stu and I how to cook. Our credo that a Jeanne Lemlin recipe has never failed us remains ever-true, and we often wish we could be adopted into her family so she would cook for us. Failing that, we cook her stuff ourselves. Vegetable Tagine, Greek Pasta Casserole, Sweet Potato and Black Bean Quesidillas, Veggie Pot Pie, Garlicky Squash Penne, and the pizza dough are now some of our favourites. A variety of salads that saw us through a summer too hot for the oven. She has also provided me with two of my very best cakes: lemon almond and carmelized apple upside-down. And the thing is that we aren’t even vegetarian, but last year when we were ninks (no income, no kids) meat was just too precious. And we rarely eat meat now. Thanks to Jeanne, we don’t really have to. So yes, a cookbook recommendation to other burgeoning cooks.
The second is very loosely considered a book– my passport, expired-just after five good years. And what a time it’s been. I applied for it in my final semester of my undergraduate studies, as I was all set to go continental come graduation. Previous to that, I’d hardly been anywhere. But this little passport saw me in and out of a variety of European countries by air and plane, on a two year working holiday to the UK, on a visa to work in Japan for a year (with one extension), in and out of Thailand, and my favourite visa of all: my UK entry clearance as a “Marriage Visitor”, issued by the British consulate in Tokyo. For the last year and a half, my passport has been rather unoccupied (see “ninks” reference in above paragraph), but we’re off to England (hurrah!) in June. And I do look forward to seeing where my new passport takes me, because these things, of course, one can never predict.
February 4, 2007
Welcome back to Capeside
We’ve been a regular Angst Central over here at Pickle Me This during the past week. Existential, creative, ancestral, you name it. Every day an early episode of Dawson’s Creek, or a page from a Norma Klein book. And now it’s -28 degrees outside, and just as cold in our uninsulated bedroom and so we’re confined to the kitchen with no intention to go out of doors. Luckily I am reading a Kate Atkinson book, Emotionally Weird and so the world is a good place no matter what else. And Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was legend. I didn’t even see it coming. And we’ve had a nice weekend anyway, with dinner at Erin’s on Thursday, the lovely Erica G for supper Friday (and the spicy squash risotto was a success), and then brunch in Kensington occasioned by the marvelous luck of Kate in town, but all the company was wonderful and we both had an excellent time.
February 4, 2007
The End of the Alphabet by CS Richardson
I write my name in all my books, in pencil these days because sometimes ownership is temporary, but it must be asserted all the same. I don’t know why. But I do, write my name, and the date. I used to write my address and telephone number, but that was many years ago (at least five or six) and now I’m usually always in the same place anyway and so it’s unnecessary.
In my new copy of The End of the Alphabet by CS Richardson, I’ve been provided a place to write my name, which I think is brilliant. Inside the front cover, “If lost, please return to ________ “. Which made me vow to never lose this book ever. But I can’t bring myself to write my name, because this book is so absolutely lovely I shant mar it. The only other book that has ever struck such a chord with me is my Snowbooks Edition of Virginia Woolf’s The London Scene. It’s mine, but you’d never know it to look at it. Some books are so absolutely perfect unto themselves that a tiny name in pencil (even mine) would be sacrilege. Even if the space for it comes ready-provided.
CS Richardson is a book designer, and this becomes obvious. But he has also written a beautiful little novel that I read tonight in the bathtub, and small as it is, he’s crammed a whole world inside. I wanted to read it again as soon I was finished. The End of the Alphabet is a lesson in subtlety, love and language. An A to Z in a variety of respects. And I could tell you more, but I think this book deserves reading instead of a summary.
February 4, 2007
Art
Look up there on the shelf, on either side of Hello Kitty in a Kimono (an essential household item). The framed photos, of Blythe and the TTC by Erin Smith and the floating Harajuko girls by Natalie Bay.
I could paper my house with brilliant friends, and actually I intend to– all in good time. This is just the wonderful start.
