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.
February 2, 2007
At the end of the words
Courage utterly opposes the bold hope that this is such fine stuff the work needs it, or the world. Courage, exhausted, stands on bare reality: this writing weakens the work. You must demolish this work and start over. You can save some of the sentences, like bricks. It will be a miracle if you can save some of the paragraphs, no matter how excellent in themselves or hard-won. You can waste a year worrying about it, or you can get it over with now. (Are you a woman or a mouse?) – Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
February 1, 2007
Shot to hell
My resolution to read slower has been all shot to hell. I finished Youth this morning, and really enjoyed it. The only book by Coetzee I’d read was Elizabeth Costello, which I enjoyed but I don’t believe it was very demonstrative of his work so far. I’m finishing the last short story in The Portable Chekhov this evening (“In the Ravine”) and I’ve definitely enjoyed my January Classic. I’ve got a head start on February, however, and Huckleberry Finn is wonderful so far.
One thing I’ve noticed is that reading challenges make life appear to go by very quickly.
February 1, 2007
Sites to see
The big news is that echolocation issue six is online and it’s beautiful. The launch is tomorrow night, Thursday, February 1st, 2007 8pm and thereafter at Labspace Studio, 276 Carlaw Ave., Suite 202. www.labspacestudio.com.
Also online, I’ve just found Jennica Harper’s website, where you can find out more about this fabulous poet/screenwriter/comedian/teacher/etc/etc.
And finally, we bring you every book Art Garfunkel has read since June 1968 (via 50 Books). The world has beeen waiting too long.
January 29, 2007
Books Mapped
Stuart has kindly pointed my attention toward books mapped at Google Books Search. Only a few books are mapped at the mo, but the maps are fascinating– in particular those which offer some concretization to fictional worlds.
January 29, 2007
Woolf at Pratt
The EJ Pratt Library at Victoria College, University of Toronto (the library I like to call my own) is home to the renowned Bloomsbury & Hogarth Press Collection, which comprises (in part) The Virginia Woolf Collection. In honour of the 125th anniversary of Virginia Woolf’s birth, the library is currently featuring a mini-exhibition of some materials from the Woolf collection, from first editions to finger puppets, and there is some really great stuff to see if you’re in the neighbourhood.
January 29, 2007
Cell One
Speaking of Half of a Yellow Sun, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s short story “Cell One” is in the New Yorker this week and you can read it here. It’s wonderful.
January 29, 2007
Show and tell
Last week The Robber Bride TV movie was slagged off in the Globe, and I must voice my disagreement. The adaptation wasn’t flawless by any means, and I do wonder how the story was different for a man having joined the triumvirate which told so much about women’s relationships. Nevertheless. For two hours last Sunday night my husband and I sat together and thoroughly enjoyed a made-for-CBC movie and I consider this an unusual mark of great achievement.
Speaking of Ms. Atwood, her fine and illuminating piece in Saturday’s paper is here, regarding the federal government axing the promotion of Canadian arts abroad. Mix-Tape mania at The Observer. Today’s feature on violence in Nottingham (which was my home for a while) turns bookish in its reference to the 1958 novel Saturday Night and Sunday Morning by Alan Sillitoe, and I’ve decided to read it soon. Q&A with the marvelous Sue Townsend. Canadians write great songs— Joni Mitchell in particular. Katrina Onstad concurs.
Why why why instead of actually governing has our government launched an idiotic attack upon its opposition? Please please please let’s not retaliate. Give Canadians some credit for intelligence, let this crap slide, and win favour with integrity and dignity.
Things Fall Apart was as powerful as they said. Oh my goodness the last chapter. And this book enlightened quite a few bits of the brilliant Half of a Yellow Sun.
Though the amazon link for this book is such a lesson in idiot reviewing. Can you imagine prefacing your review of a book like this with “As a writer myself…”? Some nerve. Virginia Woolf never even did that in her criticism, and unless you are Virginia Woolf, you probably shouldn’t either. (I googled said reviewer, and found a link to some of his “work” which was unsurprisingly a pile of crap.) Further, knocking Achebe for his failure to show instead of tell? Oh go puke on yourself. Really.
I’m beginning to sound irate. However it’s January, which is excuse enough, and I will be nicer tomorrow. Now I am going to read Rosemary’s Baby for a good dose of satnic action. Though if it tells instead of shows, I’m totally asking the public library for a refund.
January 28, 2007
Glimpses
There had to be something more than this, Gail knew. All around her, she was permitted glimpses of the most marvelous things— the tops of blooming gardens behind tall walls, a sudden pagoda in the midst of a residential block, orange fish swimming far below a layer of ice in the castle moat. A tall blue building the next street over, windowless and featureless, except for its shimmering neon sign. It was a pachinko parlour, Joe said, which was a gambling game, and if Gail ever walked by when someone was going in or out, she got a sense of the overwhelming light and sound inside until the doors shut again and that whole universe disappeared.
