Heat and Patrick White

There is something about the heat today that doesn't like me. Usually I'm OK until it hits 35 degrees and it is only 30 right now. So I am in my bedroom with my really old evaporative air conditioner on, sitting on my bed, with my computer, my knitting, my book and my dogs - they are not on the bed but beside it. We are all happy and lazy and snoozy. It is the first day of the new year and I am happy to see it in right - reading.

The Aunt's Story is such a treat. It is intellegent and seductive. Im on page 76 and I have alread gathered a crop of words and lines to feed me. I just read the most delightful passage:

"Because he had to make some motion to hold up the darkness that was pressing down. It was too big. When Frank Parrott was on the road, droving, or for some reason overtaken by darkness, he could not scrape together a few sticks quickly enought, to make a little fire, to sit against.
'You forget,' he said. 'It's so long between dances you forget to buy a new pair of shoes. I remember at Singleton, in the autumn, there was a ball, an' these damn shoes pinched so bad I took them off after supper and danced on my feet.'
Frank Parrott laughted. He laughed a tthe vision of himself. He had lit his little fire."

That, to me, is brilliance. And Patrick White has littered these little gems throughout the story. I don't even need to be on my toes to catch them. They are right there for the taking. Where else in this world of ours can you find diamonds and pearls without digging or diving? In books!

I'm not going to get ahead of myself (never do that, ahem) but I think this may be my Patrick White year.

My own personal Summer Challenge

Oh - that's just silly calling it a Challenge - with a capital C no less. In fact, it's silly to give my reading life any sort of title at all and summer is 1/3 over anyway. And since when do I have to challenge myself to read anything? OK - changing the title of this post to 'What should I read next' - way more comfortable with that!

To make a short story long, I was speaking to a friend of mine who lives in Melbourne and she and her husband were going to start reading Ulysses by James Joyce again for the third time. They read it aloud to each other in the evenings because telly is 'so boring this time of year". My friend is an artist so she has a decent attention span and her husband just likes to sit still and be calm. She is no super intellectual (she is smart though), nor his he (he's smart too), but if they can read it - so can I.

This is the 2nd time I have picked up this novel and had a go. Last time I didn't hate it but I can remember saying to myself that Joyce just made things up, like words and phrases, and pops them into the conversation as if everyone knows what he means. He waves his hand, turns his head and ptoshes us if we challenge (there's that word again) him. Joyce is so uber-confident in his writting. I dug into the bookshelf and found my copy - it is huge. I thumbed thru it and found that of the 950-odd pages almost 250 of them are notes, appendices, introductions (there are two!) and various other explanatory thingys. I can manage a 700 page novel no worries. I'm now on page 11 and already more than a little confused but determined.

I picked up the Monthly Summer Reading Special the other day and there is a wee little story about Manoly Lascaris, the partner of Patrick White. It was a sad little piece and it led me to youtube to watch Patrick White sitting on his front porch doing an interview for his Nobel Prize win. He said that one of his two favourite of his own novels was The Aunt's Story. Hey, I have that book too. I've never read Patrick White which I consider a great downfall of mine. I bought The Aunt's Story when I was going to read it for a little book group I was in but we never did - can't remember what happened. So another dig into the bookshelf uncovered a pristine, never read copy. AND less than 300 pages.

Now, the number of pages in a book mean absolutely nothing to me usually. But I have a bit more than two weeks before I have to go back to work and a bit more than four weeks before the next university term starts so I don't want to put myself into the position of having to choose between university and literature! Literature usually wins to the downfall of my grades!

I am 31 pages into The Aunt's Story and it has got me, so Patrick White is my book of choice for "What should I read next?" after the dishes are done and the grass is mown. I'm excited.

Double Shadow by Sally Gardner

Nope, sorry, didn't work. And believe me I am sorry. I love Sally Gardner's other books - I, Coriander, Red Necklace and Silver Blade and would recommend them without hesitation to anyone interested in Young Adult period novels. They are clever, engaging, and intellegent well-researched stories set in 17th century London and 18th century France. They have interesting characters and intriguing plots.

Double Shadow had none of this. Sorry - the character of Ezra was easy to connect to and like and his family was equally likeable. But the other characters were lifeless and bland. The plot was convoluted and the settings were vague and uninviting. I'm not going to tell you about the story because any telling on my part would ruin the little bit of tension that is there if you do decide to read it. I listened to Sally Gardner say that she had to dive deep to bring out this book. I wish she hadn't gone so far and had kept things just a little simpler. I love action and curiosity in middle reader's fiction but this is just plain confusing and 'hmm - so what!'

Please read her earlier novels and you will love Sally as much as I do. I will forgive her this one because her first three were really great. I hope she gets back on track with her next. Sorry!

Maphead by Ken Jennings

I get recommendations for books to read from the Elliott Bay Book Company, which is a fabulous book store in Seattle. It has been my favourite book store for years. I have blogged about it many times and have sent lots of blog friends there. It has moved from its original location in Seattle's Pioneer Square to Capital Hill but it still has its original charm (good lesson for people who want to move their business and still keep their original customers - keep the ambiance the same!). Anyway, the shop recommended a book called Maphead: Charting the Wide, Weird World of Geography Wonks by a Seattle author named Ken Jennings.

Ken Jennings is a famous Jeopardy champion. He was on for a long time and won a lot of money (over 2 mil). My mom can remember watching him and she said that he annoyed her quite a lot. But he has written an anything-but annoying book. Maphead is gorgeous. Maphead is funny and full of trivia-type facts. Maphead is indulgent and clever. Maphead is for map lovers. Duh!

Do you love perusing maps and dreaming of far off places? Does your atlas have pride of place in your book case or on your table? Do you look up every place you have ever heard of on Google Maps? Do you have maps hanging on your walls (ours are on the walls of the loo)? Are you a maphead? Well, even if you are not you will like this book. It is a comprehensive and easy to read book about maps and geography.

In this book Jennings talks about geography illiteracy in the US - school students don't know where their own states are on a map and don't know that France is a country. He talks about the cool maps that are kept in the Library of Congress that no one knows about. He talks about how maps shape governments, cultures and social systems. He talks about map collecting and geography bees (like spelling bees only held by the National Geographic Society), he talks about people who draw fantasy maps and Geocaching and many more interesting aspects of map love. It is kindof nerdy but so clever and funny. It's personable and written with a subdued enthusiasm. Jennings is obviously obsessed but he reins it in for the writing of this book - I bet he doesn't in real life. I bet he goes on and on and there is a lot of eye rolling and searching for ways to get away from the crazy map man!!

I loved it and have sent it to my brother and a couple of friends. As it says on the inside blurb in the book "If you're an inveterate map lover yourself - or even if you're among the cartographically clueless who can get lost in a supermarket (I am both of those things - are they exclusive?) - let Ken Jennings be your guide to the strange world of mapheads". Do yourself the favour of reading this book. You will laugh and I bet it won't take long till you are either telling someone else they should read it or telling someone some map trivia you learned from Ken Jennings.

The Fifth Day of Christmas

I'm sitting here alone, in my living room, Christmas tree lights blinking and stormy clouds outside my window. I miss my family, some of whom are in the states right now. I look forward to having Christmas with them in the coming years here, where it's warm and lovely on the day. My son, right now, is wrapped up in a winter coat and hat when all he wants is to grab his surfboard and head out for some waves after present opening on Christmas Day. My grandson knows who Santa Claus is for the first time and doesn't especially like him. He has a 'Gaga' (that's his name for me and now it's stuck) who lives in the computer. I long to give him a cuddle and hold him on my lap while I read the Night Before Christmas to him.

I don't really care about Christmas. I like it enough but it's awfully forced for too much liking. To me it is a day to spend with my sons - only one this year but he'll do - and eat good food, special food, that we wouldn't have the rest of the year. It is a time to talk to family and old friends. It is some time away from work and school to reflect on life and get some of those 'Isn't it a Shame' (I didn't have more time) things done. It's my time to go to galleries and exhibitions, movies and out for lunches.

I am sentimental over old Christmas years. I miss my Dad and other good friends and family memebers who have passed away - Dad loved Christmas for the same reasons as I like it - food and family. But as lonely as I feel, as sad as I am that I only get to Skype with my family, I also feel incredibly lucky in my life. I have health, safety, love, freedom, hot water and a toilet, hope, money, food, my eyes, the internet, quiet, independence, books, a creative mind, music, and an open mind. Lucky. I will not take any of these things for granted in the future. I will revel in the fact that I can have a shower every day, go for a walk with no fear, drink clean water, read Salmon Rushdie and speak my mind. I will pay attention and be merry. I will drink a glass of eggnog and toast my good fortune.

Places to Read Of Human Bondage

W Somerset Maugham. That is a great name. I would like to be named Somerset. It instantly recalls summer afternoons lazing on the lawns of some great old mansion, drinking Gin with ice cubes clinking against glasses, and a lazy game of badminton or lawn tennis happening vaguely over there (dimissive languid wave of my hand in a far off direction). Of Human Bondage has none of that scene in it. It's a classic so I'm sure most people have read it or at least heard of it. I read it when I was quite young - the title was enticing. But I didn't remember any of it, really. It came on my Kobo as a free download so I read it again. It took me months to finish it - not because it isn't great - it is - but because other 'things' kept popping up like university classes, work, and other books. Finally, it is done. And now I miss it.

Of Human Bondage has been discussed enough times that I don't need to critique it in any way. It is the story of Philip Carey - a man with a whopper of a tale of woe. As he limps his way through life he paints in Paris, he attends medical school in London, he falls obsessively in love with Mildred (a thoroughly despicable character) and also falls in and out of all kinds of fortune. It is a completely readable novel written in 1915 and I would recommend it to anyone who is interested in reading classics. Maugham's language is impeccable and his descriptions of landscape and personality is divine.

This novel took me quite a while to read (and I want to make this clear again - it was great and would be easy to read in a couple of sittings if life hadn't made me get up so often) and also, as I said, it is on my e-book reader which I tend to take with me when I am off on an adventure instead of carrying a big book, (long sentence - take a breath now) I read it in several places. I read it in bed, in my garden on the porch swing which isn't on the porch, at the kitchen table and in the living room. I read it at the bus stop, in coffee shops, in the movie theatre lounge, in the library and a little bit at work (only in my breaks, ahem!). I read it in Hyde Park in Sydney, at the Circular Quay, in the Botanical Gardens and at the NSW Art Gallery. I read it at the YWCA and at a posh hotel in the Southern Highlands.
There wasn't one place where this novel wasn't suitable for a little read. I think because the novel itself is set in so many interesting places it lends itself to be read in so many interesting places. And, yes, even I can make romance out of sitting on a wooden bus stop bench.

I love all kinds of books but classics make me feel connected. I love the fact that thousands of people, in many countries, in almost a hundred years have read this books. I love that we are all connected by a common experience and that I would have something to talk about with every one of them. I could go back to 1920 and have a lively discussion with someone about Maugham's style. And I hope that in 50 years I could sit down in my old porch swing and have that same lively debate.

Profundity

If you tick the box that says 'reading' when you fill out a survey about your pastimes then you probably love characters - fictional or historical. I love a good character. I love to fall in love with, hate, or mistrust a cleverly designed protagonist.

Some readers love certain characters so much that they re-read books to re-live their lives with them. Many can't wait for Elizabeth Bennet to say to Darcy 'From the first moment I met you, your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others made me realize that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry' over and over again.

I love to follow the adventures of certain characters - one of whom is Stephanie Plum. I just read Smokin' Seventeen. I started reading these Janet Evanovich books with One for the Money in 1994 - so that's what - 15 years ago. These are fast paced, sexy, hilarious books - light but great fun. I've just seen that someone is finally making these into a movie - I'll wait and see.

I have also just finished another book called Women of Letters. This is a nice book. It would be a great present. These are short, little letters. These are clever letters. These are silly letters. These are indulgent letters. This is a nice book.

Last week I read Outlaw Album by Daniel Woodrell. I really loved loved loved Winter's Bone. Outlaw Album is a book of short stories. They are dark and bleak stories. Woodrell seems to tap into the lower socio-economical culture and find little nuggets of treasures there. The stories are not all easy to read - a couple of them are quite hard to understand. The one that stands out most for me is about a woman who works in Rehab at a prison who visits the parents of one of her clients who is in prison for murder (I think). He has written a book of poetry about his criminal life which is very good and selling well. The prison board will let him out if his parents will take him back into their house but they refuse. I can't quote this book because I don't have it anymore but his father says something like 'tell him he has got all the poetry off of us that he is going to get' as he closes the door against the counselor. Woodrell is very good at spinning a tale and his economy of words is wonderful. There is nothing in these stories that doesn't absolutely need to be there. But they are depressing and sad.

So I am ready for something profound now. Something with great thought, deep, and full of insight. I am ready for another novel that takes concentration and commitment. I have time over the Christmas break to sink my literary teeth into a meaty book that I can consume and will sustain me. I need to find this novel so if anyone has any suggestions let me know. I have a couple of books sitting on my night stand that have no profundity but will keep my mind occupied until the great novel of my Christmas reading presents itself to me.

Something strange happened

I have had a really hard three weeks. Some terrible things happened and amidst it all I had to write a critique paper for my poetry class. I didn't do very well. I got some nice comments from my very academic professor but the substance just wasn't there. Needless to say my head wasn't in the game and my batting average took a dive. I got a Credit for the class - my first one! Up till now I have been getting Ds and HDs. Don't get me wrong - I deserved a C (well, he gave me a C+ but the plus sign falls off on my transcript). And to tell you the truth, I'm happy with the C (+) for the paper I wrote.

The problem is - I now really love poetry. Cripes! I'm one of those people now. I picked up the Nobel Prize for Literature 2011 book just now - The Deleted World by Tomas Transtromer (by the way there should be a .. above the 'o' in Transtromer but I don't know how to do that on my computer (and it's fun to say his name with a Swedish accent!)). Tomas is an highly acclaimed Swedish poet who looks like a poet. He's oldish, craggy, serious and grey haired. He looks like the kind of man who would reluctantly invite you in for a cup of tea that his wife would make and sit and stare at you for the minutes until the tea was served. He would sip his tea while you and his wife made small talk about how beautiful their house was until he stopped you mid sentence to ask you what you wanted. When you told him you admired him and wanted to talk about his poetry he would shake his head and retreat into it. But finally once he learned you were a budding poet and serious about it he would say he had nothing to teach you that life couldn't do a better job of and just to write for 7 hours a day. I can just hear him - "poetry is hard work, it's a struggle, it has to be done with discipline and concentration."

And Heart! His poetry speaks of deep feelings in few words. His poetry is grey and cold on the outside and fiery and direct under all the coverings. His poetry catches your breath like a blast of artic wind. His poetry is written on the snow only to be read when the spring thaws arrive.

Through those dismal months my life was only sparked alight
when I made love to you.
As the firefly ignites and fades, ignites and fades, we follow the flashes
of its flight in the dark among the olive trees.

Throughout those dismal months, my soul sat slumped and lifeless
but my body walked to yours.
The night sky was lowing.
We milked the cosmos secretly, and survived.

Is it possible that 8 lines can take a person from the most depressed state to one of love and survival? Simple words. Words we all understand. Words that paint a picture without oils or pastels. Words that sculpt a story without bronze or marble. Words that, even in translation, will last in my English thinking mind for a very long time. Is poetry the highest form of art? I don't think there are platforms that artists sit on when being judged - like at the Olympics - the Bronze medal goes to Sculpture, the Silver to Painting and the Gold to Poetry!

Transtromer weaves magic into his words. He writes words that get in at a cellular level. And now I am one of those people who walk around with poetry in my cells, and I feel better for it.

Engage

This afternoon I went to my local public library to return overdue books (bad borrower) and pick up some books that I had placed on reserve. I read a lot of book reviews and often reserve any that might interest me if my library has them. I have about 30 books on reserve right now and today I checked out 10 of them. I pulled them off the shelf and sat down at a table that was nearby and occupied by a man who looked to be in his late 60s. He made a comment about how I was going to read all those books in the three weeks that the library let me have them for. I said it was a problem that I really didn't have a solution for except that I would take them home and do my best.

Normally, I would have left the conversation there and tottered off to the check-out line. But I have decided that I am starting early with my 2012 New Years Resolution to engage more. This man had a kind face and was obviously up for a chat as he had started it so I looked at him openly. He said 'what are all these books?"

So I took them, one by one, from my pile and told him what they were. The first was a book called Maphead. This book was recommended by a book store in Seattle called Elliott Bay Book Company which is my favourite book store in the world. They have a book review section on their website which is written by the staff of the book store and this one was highly recommended, written by a Seattle Author who was a famous winner of Jeopardy - Ken Jennings. I love maps and will read any book about map making. The gentleman nodded his head and said he approved of this book.

I guess I should tell you that this man was from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. We talked a little about how it was hard to be away from our countries of birth but that both of us were more than happy to have that hardship. We talked about politics and he was very smart. He said something very interesting about Australian politics that I had never heard before - he said it doesn't matter one little bit who is our Prime Minister - that Australia is a rich country, a lucky country and whoever is running it will not screw that up too badly. He said that he thought Malcolm Turnbull would be a good PM but would not be liked because he was a millionaire and Australian's like a battler as their leader. Interesting.

Anyway, the next book off the pile was one about Annie Leibovitz. He shook his head and said she was not an important photographer, that she only got a name because she took photos of celebrities. I said I was interested in her life not her photography, so much. I said that Ansel Adams was my favourite photographer and a look came over his face as he nodded. "For art to be good it has to speak to you and Ansel Adams sings great arias", he said. I felt my throat close a little as he sighed and looked towards my pile.

The next was a book called Women of Letters curated (I love that) by Marieke Hardy and Michaela McGuire. He approved when I explained this was a book about writing letters to and about women. The next two books were knitting pattern books and they were passed over as little interest to him although I explained I was very excited to take them home and dream of things I could make. He smiled indulgently.

The next was a beginers Ukulele book. I just bought a good ukulele and need to learn some basic playing skills. I got a little nod for that one but clearly he didn't care. The next was the new book by Daniel Woodrell of Winter's Bone fame. I am really looking forward to that book.

Finally came The Best Australian Poems 2011. Well, he lit up like Christmas tree lights. "Poetry is the highest form of Art" he said. "You can learn almost all you need to know about how to be a good human being from poetry and history". I told him that I had just finished a university poetry class and I found out that I really enjoyed reading poetry and that earned a big smile.

We talked a little more about life and love. He told me about his life in Asia and about his studies as a young man in history and his many years of teaching history at university. He was a truly lovely man and I feel enriched and inspired by my half hour conversation.

So for 2012 (but starting now) my aim is to engage with people, art, music and poetry. I have a tendency to tuck myself up in my home and shut out the world. I go to work, classes, see friends occasionally and talk to family overseas weekly. But most of my time is spent in solitude and I have grown to like this. This won't change but when I do meet someone like this lovely man from Pakistan I will endevour to engage in conversation and learn.

I will post about all these books in the next few weeks. I am really looking forward to reading them all now that my studies have finished for the summer. I like to tell people how I find books that I have read but mostly people are not as interested as I am, but I can engage on this blog with anyone interested to read my thoughts. I love writing about books and life. And I am fortunate that I have an outlet to do it. Lucky me.

The Scream

I finally 'get' The Scream - that silent painting by Munch. I have a secret I can't tell. It's a bad secret I wish I didn't know. I can't do a thing about it and it's making me hurt like I've only known a few times. I walk around my house saying things like 'I can't stand it anymore' and 'I don't know what to do'. The whole thing is far out of my hands but it is still hurting me deeply. And I am afraid. I am afraid that something worse will happen and I didn't tell. It is a bad position to be in.

Why do we tell deep and dark secrets to others? It makes us feel better to share. If a situation is out of control and we keep it inside it is sure to explode and spread our dirty little secret like body parts blown up by a hand grenade. So when we share the pressure valve releases. But the person who is now our secret keeper is in a dire place. They are a passive holder of information over which they have no power. They are the carer of information that can no longer fit in any container. They have to carry it around draped on their own back like a shawl made from iron chains.

I feel heavy and scared. I am trying to cope with a knowing that, now, I cannot share. I am screaming at the top of my lungs with no air to push it out. Secret Keeper is not romantic as in the fairytales of old. It is a lonely place, a dark cave, a frustration, a shame. It is a Silent Scream.

Cookies and Rolls

My kitchen smells like chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon rolls.

Yesterday was hot. It was 30 degrees centigrade so I made yeast rolls. They rise so beautifully in the heat that it is worth turning on the oven for a while to bake them. I use an ancient recipe for these rolls and though my mother tells me that a bit of custard powder in the cinnamon mixture is really good I won't change my ways. I have been making these rolls for years. I mix hot milk, butter and eggs with flour, sugar and yeast and magic happens. After rising I punch the dough down and spread it out to receive the cinnamon, butter and sugar before rolling. But here is where I change things up if I feel like it. Yesterday I cut up some fresh pecan nuts and dusted them with a wee bit of chilli. They were rolled into the dough with the cinnamon mixture and the surprise was waiting to be sprung. I drizzled them with powdered sugar and milk when they were still hot. Sometimes it is a bad idea to wait until things cool down to put on the icing. Like love and heat - they mix so well together sometimes to make indescribable pleasure. Just like my rolls. I shared them and they were oohed and aahed and yummed over. My pleasure in sharing was immense. They linger in smell and memory.

Tonight was cold. Chocolate chip cookies felt right tonight. I put on my oldest, fondest apron over my pajamas and stirred the mixture with my 40 year old wooden spoon. I try new recipes for chocolate chip cookies all the time. I know the right proportions of butter and sugar and flour for these cookies so I know I will not fail. When a recipe says to use less butter than I know is right I do not try it. But the addition of a different sort of chocolate or something like peanut butter is worth a try. Some have worked well and will be baked again and some not as good - all have been eaten. I adore the feeling of rolling the cookies in my hands, patting them down a little with my fingers and using my granny's hand crochet pot holders to slip the cookie tray into the oven. The smell of cooking cookies is divine. The chocolate and vanilla combine to make me weak at the knees. When I was a girl I used to put a little pure vanilla extract behind my ear before I went to school and I was often followed around by boys, smelling the scent of the comfort of their own mother's kitchens, or imagining me as a wife who would bake them wonderful deserts after they married me. I was told this exact thing several times so I am not imagining it.

Now as I lay myself down to sleep, only a few meters from my kitchen, I can still smell the lingering wonderfulness and I am sure it will offer up sweet dreams in my sleep tonight. Tomorrow I will delight my friends with tasty bits of love. I may need to bake a cheesecake soon. Or make a chocolate torte. No special occasion better than the fact that it will be Thursday.

Light

Even the smallest light can be seen in the darkness.

The sky leans on me and it is heavy. I long for the night so I can spread the mass of dark across my prone body. I lie down and sleep under my weighty blanket – my light covered and snuffed.

I’m happy to be alive but the burden of carrying the air, moving the air, supporting the clouds is a severe responsibility. I am serious about it and never think about other things like fun and laughter, both of which jiggle and whorl my world and tilt it sideways.

Eyes down. Feet firm for balance. No spilling allowed. Cry over spilt atmosphere. The sky can’t go back into the cup once out.

The night’s receiving blanket torn to shreds with the dawn. No longer able to hold the baby of innocence.

Poetry and a left-over story

I've been reading poetry. I'm taking a poetry class at uni this term and I've been reading mostly Australian poets and some English. At first I was flummoxed. Poetry is too hard and I didn't really care. But as I've progressed I've learned the posture of reading it. It is almost physical - well, not even almost - it is physical.

To read poetry:

You have to sit down. There is no lying in bed for reading poetry or lying on the beach. You must sit in a straight-backed comfortable chair.

You must have good lighting and your reading glasses. I don't know about you but if I don't have my reading glasses on I tend to rely on recognition of words rather than reading the words. Poetry is not natural writing. The word that follows this one is not often the word you think it is going to be. That sentence will make sense to some people. I can see some of you nodding your head.

You must be prepared to move your lips while reading - or read out loud. There is a rhythm to reading poetry that is almost impossible to duplicate in your head alone. There is a theatrical quality that needs an audience - even if it is just the dogs or the dust balls under the couch. Your mouth needs to read it along with your eyes.

You must give yourself time to read slowly and carefully. There is great pleasure in slowing down long enough to let good poetry sink in and mean something to you.

And I also think it is important to dress for poetry. I think winter is the time to read most poetry. Something warm on your feet, a big sweater or blanket around your shoulders, a hot cup of tea on the table next to you. But this is just me!

I've been reading Peter Reading and Frances Webb. Auden and Les Murray. I have also been reading Immanuel Kant and Edward Said for the same class. Deep stuff.

And the light bulb moment has finally happened. I get it. Well, I get it a little. There are still poets that I think are pretentious and snobby. But there are some, now, that I admire greatly. I will, from now on be a bit of a poetry reader. It feels like an indulgence that I will partake in when the mood hits me. I hope it hits me often.

I have also been writing a little - not poetry - stories. I am enjoying it more than I can put into words right now. What I would like to share on this blog is my left-over stories. These are little 'things' that I write around my bigger stories. When I sit down to fix a story I need to get into the mood so I start writting just anything to get the juices flowing - like warm ups. These are just little thoughts and silly things but I am going to leave some of them here, with you - but only the ones I really like.

The first one comes from some valuable feedback I got recently, that there was an abundance of the word 'she' in one of my stories. She did this and then she did that - that sort of thing. Before I went in to see if I could re-word these lines I wrote this:

She

I wonder where to put the 'she'? There are too many of them and every time I take one out I don't know where to put her. I have taken to writing 'she'on post-it notes and sticking them on the wall next to my desk, but I don't think it does her justice. She is a complex character, full of life and vitality, wierdness and wonder. A post-it note will not do for a grave marker, especially a yellow one! So, I'm think of ways to express my gratitude for this little bit of her life which I have created on paper. I don't know if she existed before I wrote her down but I suppose, if I'm going to get all psyco-analytic, that she is part of me. If someone, a doctor, took part of me out, I would put it in a glass jar of formaldahyde. I wouldn't do the same for a part of my best friend though, so I don't think it is appropriate for her either. I could write all the 'she' lines in my journal to memorialize them. I could just let the 'shes' float off into the ether with no recognition. But, after careful thought, I'm going to write each 'she' I remove from my story on a purple post-it and at the end of my piece, when I feel safe that it is finished, I will cremate the 'shes' and scatter the ashes under the Chinese Elm. She will be a little bit of fertilizer for the elegant tree once I water her in.

The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt

The Sisters Brothers. If the Coen Brothers don't make a movie out of this they are crazy. I know they love westerns - kooky western that is. And I have a cast - well, most of the cast, already picked out from their past films and favourite actors.

Hermann Kermit Warm, a gold prospector in California, is being sought by a couple of assasins - the Sisters Brothers - because he has made a discovery that could change the face of gold panning in the 1850s - William H. Macy. It's a really good scientific discovery and you will love it.

Charlie Sisters - Ryan Robbins (Henry on Sanctuary) loves to drink and loves to kill. He is a psychopath who wants to be in charge of his life, his brother's life, and every life that he is hired to kill and every one who gets in his way. He is hyperactive and unpredictable.

Eli Sisters - Josh Brolin - is the big, lumpy, softhearted, but still a killer, younger brother who is having an identity crisis and really just wants to lose weight and settle down with a woman.

There are a bunch of other memorable characters - least of whom would be Frances McDormand as the fatal mother.

Did I say this is a western? Who writes westerns? deWitt is a Canadian and kind of geeky looking. And boy can he write. Call this Cowboy noir, or true west tour de force, or just call it good, dirty fun. It's violent in a surreal sort of way. It's one of those that you cheer for the bad guy and don't really care when the good guys go down in a swamp of purple poison. Put this on your Christmas reading list only if you love Coen films - and if you do you are in for a good, ass-kicking, LMAS fun time.

This is Patrick deWitt's picture on his website bio!!




Hmm - maybe Quentin Taratino would be better at making this film? At any rate - someone will, I hope.

Snakes and Earrings by Hitomi Kanehara

I don't know much about Japanese culture – especially the youth culture – but what I have read in other novels like Murikami and conversations I have had with people who have lived there. None of these prepared me for Snakes and Earrings. This is a novella written by Hitomi Kanehara in 2003 and it won the Akutagawa Prize, the Japanese literary prize, in that year. It was translated by David Karahima a few years ago and has since been made into a movie – I've watched some of it on You Tube.

It is hard to write about this book. As I said I don't know much about the Japanese lifestyle. We all know about geisha and Japanese food, bowing and tea ceremonies. But I think it is a very oppressive culture in many ways. There is an honourable way to act and a facade to put on in most situations. A friend told me that the Japanese don't teach their children history at school. The fact that teenagers rebel in such bizarre ways doesn't surprise me much. I have seen pictures of Japanese kids who dress up as a lifestyle – Barbie Girls and Gothic Lolitas. So, maybe, although this book is fiction it is based in real life. I don't think the sex and violence in this book is gratuitous – I think is is just indicative of a real problem that is happening in this small country which is losing its traditions to drugs, alcohol and violence. Sound familiar?

As for the writing – well, it is immature at times but so what. Maybe it loses something in the translation, as they say. But it definitely paints a picture that will stay with me for a long time. The story hits a chord and packs a punch. There is something special in the way the Hitomi takes the focus off of the alcoholism of the main protagonist until it is almost too late for her. All of the self mutilations, the tattoos and the violent sex are just a diversion from the fact that this little girl's life is falling apart and she has no where to go but into deeper trouble or into death.

This isn't a masterpiece by any sense of the word. This is a book that tells us a story about culture and loss of identity. It makes me want to know more about these characters. It isn't for everyone and most people I know will be put off by the incidentals. I don't mean that as a lessening of the horror of killing and violent sex, but that is not what this story is about. Like I said, it is a deeper portrayal of the huge cracks in a society and how it is the youth of that society that are falling into them.

The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

I imagine myself being approached in a dark alley by people holding objects. As I get closer to them I ask "What's that?" They hold up the books I have read lately and say "These? These are books." I stare at them and smile just a little. "Those aren't books..." and I pull The Sense of an Ending from my back pocket I sneer - "This is a book!"

Every word, every word, every word makes sense and sings a little tune. This is a wonderful book. I love it. Julian Barnes has written some delightful books but this one is a masterpiece. It's only 150 pages so easily read in one sitting but one needs to take it slow to appreciate every nuance of his writing.

I can't stand it - I have to quote.

"I remember, in no particular order:
- a shiny inner wrist;
- steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is laughingly tossed into it;
- gouts of sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length of a tall house;
- a river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by half a dozen chasing torchbeams;
- another river, broad and grey, the direction of its flow diguised by a stiff wind exciting the surface;
- bathwater long gone cold behind a locked door.
This last isn't something I actually saw, but what you end up remembering isn't alwasy the same as what you have witnessed."

These are the first lines of this wonderful story. It's about a life, a life of Tony and all the people he knew in his past and present. I said a couple of books back, that there are books in which the plot doesn't matter - it is the words that matter, the elegance of the writing, the honesty of the construction - This is one of those. But, we get to have an engaging story as well. Often I say I wanted more from a short book but this was exactly the right length for this story. Nothing was extraneous, nothing was left out.

The Sense of an Ending is about Tony but its also about memory, recollection and how we treat those memories in our lives. There is poignancy and humour. At one point early in the book, Tony talks about his sexual exploits, or lack of them, in his youth - that there was still a reluctance to 'go all the way' amongst the girls who were experts in 'feelings'. "You may say, But wasn't this the Sixties? Yes, but only for some people, only in certain parts of the country."

Barnes is brilliant and eloquent. I guess you can tell that I loved this book. I want to sleep with it under my pillow for a few more nights even though it is finished. Reading a book like this makes me feel more enlightened and smarter. I guess that is as good an endorsement as any I could give.

Before I Go To Sleep by SJ Watson

I write this blog for myself, mostly. I know there are a couple of people that read it but mostly it is just a way for me to express myself about the books that I read. This isn't scholarly critique or anything that I would hand in to my university professor. But I truly enjoy writing these entries. I can just let go and say whatever I feel with focus. So, I love this blog whether anyone else reads it or not - this is me.

Now, about Before I Go To Sleep. Well, em, I'll just say up front - it's not my cup of tea, or my bit of chocolate, or my walk in the park. It's a psychological thriller that's really only thrilling at the end. There is a long first part that sets the scene. The poor woman in this story has forgotten her whole life every morning when she wakes up in a strange house, with a strange man next to her in bed. That's enough of a freak out. But soon the reader realizes that there is something else wrong. I'll give SJ some props here - she picked a really difficult premise to set a mystery around because to the protagonist everything is a mystery. She does a pretty good job too. It's just a little to contrived for me.

I would suggest this book for book groups - it would be great to discuss the mechanics of the writing. I have several friends that would really like this book. It's different and interesting. So please, if you liked Room by Emma Donoghue then you will like this book. They are the same speed and have the same feeling. I just prefer something with a bit more guts. Julian Barnes - here I come.

Oh, and you must go to the link I put in for the book - there is a great little promo video.

Game of Thrones by George R R Martin

This is why I like to read the book before I see the movie. Well, I don't really like to see the movie much, after I've read the book because I am more than often disappointed. But, back to the point... I loved this mini-series. It was beautifully filmed, wonderfully cast, the story line moved along at a good pace, and it is a good story. It is a medievil fantasy and for someone who has never read fantasy, I have been doing a good job of reading it this year. Go figure. Anyway, this book is full of adventure, intrigue and treachery. The characters are well rounded and easy to picture and identify with. There are old people and young people, there are good people and evil people. There are bad guys to boo at and one little girl who will steal your heart.

But, as I was saying, I saw the mini series first and it spoiled the book. I struggled through the 750 pages, not because it was bad writing - it is not, it is good writing. I struggled because I knew what was going to happen and the writting isn't the kind that..... let's see how I can put this. There is a kind of book where the story isn't the most important thing. There is a kind of writing that is so lovely that the author could be writing anything and it would enthrall the reader whether they were interested in the story or not. Murakami comes to mind. That guy has written some wild, out there stuff but the emotions he captures in his excellent writting makes every odd story a pleasure to read. Martin doesn't do that. It's good fun to read and it's a compliment when I say that the writing doesn't get in the way of the story, but I won't read it again. And I think the thrill of reading this kind of book is to see what happens to these characters that you have grown fond of over the last few hundred pages.

So as I put down this first in a series of five books (I think) I do want to know what happens to them. I think the mini series was such a success that they will make the next book too. Now, I have a little dilemma. Do I read ANOTHER fantasy book before it comes out on TV or do I just wait and enjoy the show without knowing the story? I'm going to read a couple of real books now and see how I feel later. If the books call to me in a few weeks, well, I have the second book here on the shelf. If I can let it go then I won't worry about it and just watch it on TV. B won't be happy if I don't read them all first, but who said I have to make my friends happy by reading books that they love. Hmm - I do that! I think the books I love will make others happy so what am I saying?

Here's my plan - first: Before I Go To Sleep by SJ Watson, second: The Absolutist by John Boyne, then we'll see. I have some poetry and short stories to read in there too. Can I leave Winterfell, Daenerys and Arya to their own fates, for too much longer, without knowing what happens? I'm not sure.

Jamrach’s Menagerie by Carol Birch

I almost never read book reviews, either before or after I read a book, if I know I am going to read the book anyway. Take the Man Booker short list, for instance. Every year I try to read as many of them as I can and always the winner. I don’t care what anyone else thinks of these books. I don’t care what the book sellers think of the books (although they always say nice things so they can sell them). I don’t care what the NY Times thinks of these books. I’m going to read them anyway, so why spoil a wondrous adventure by reading what someone else thinks before I even get there. Now, this may seem a bit of a contradictory attitude from someone who writes a book view blog – and it is. I’m happy to tell you all what I think about a book, and I’m happy to hear what you think after I have read the book, but I just don’t usually ask for advice from strangers. I don’t think you should either so... let’s be friends.

Carol Birch has written an interesting book. I love the premise which is taken from a couple of real life situations. She did some homework and added some inspiration and made a story worth telling. Did I say this is a 2011 Man Booker short list book? It is! I opened it with excitement in my heart. I read about a little boy in the mid 1800s who is full of life. I read about a time that was hard and dirty in England. I read about a man who had a menagerie of wonder. It was all good and I was loving it.
Then I read about a ship that sailed to exotic places seen through the eyes of an innocent. I read about a friendship that felt real and people who were full of conundrums. I read about the wonders of being at sea and landing on foreign places, also full of wonder. I read about a hunt for a dragon.

Then I read – oops, not going to tell you this part. I’ll just say that the next part was hard going. It made me feel insane. I wanted it to end. I didn’t like it. I got scared and tired. It spun me around but it wasn’t spitting me out, it was holding me in there for too long. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was tied down and it wasn’t pleasant. OK, enough! I’m not sure whether this was genius or crap and it will take me a while to make up my mind. Thank God I don’t have to do it right now. Birch writes with authority and conviction and that won points with me. It all feels authentic and I appreciate that. I’m just not sure.

When that part did finally release me, melancholy stepped in. Living with the past isn’t always an easy thing to do, and this was my favourite part of the book. It’s tender and sweet (mostly) and I have an enormous amount of empathy with the last 50 pages or so of this novel. And these characters will stay with me for quite a while. As I said, the main character in this novel is based on a real boy’s account of his traumas. Poor lad! Birch brings him back to life in the character of Jaffy in a way that is commendable. I won’t read this again (I hardly ever do re-read a book even though I often say I would) and I won’t recommend it without reservations. I’ll be interested to see how it does in the Man and I will read her next book as well. Carol Birch has just gone on my reading list.

Caribou Island by David Vann

I don't know if I was influenced by my first David Vann novel Legend of a Suicide but I waited to start Caribou Island until I had a whole day to devote to this book. I remembered having to put down Legend at one point and feeling like I was walking around with a chain wrapped around my leg dragging something heavy behind me. I knew that book was waiting for me at home and I knew I had been foolish to ignore it for more than a few minutes. Legend rewarded me greatly for not leaving it lying fallow for long.

Caribou Island started out with a silent scream. There was a tension like a wire vibrating in the wind, not stopping any part of the world but distracting, there in the background. And, again, I didn't know if I was predetermining a disaster or if Vann was just this clever. There was a great little story happening in Alaska, a place I am familiar with. I spent some time there so I know the colours, the cold, the wet, the moss, the wood. I fit into his fictional world very well. But still there was that damned humming coming from somewhere, not distracting me enough away from the story but always there.

This is a story of ordinary people. They are flawed like all of us. But they are living in a dramatic landscape that serves the purpose of overwhelming their petty foibles – snow that locks them into inaction, storms that keep them still and inactive, summer mosquitoes that distract them from their thoughts of leaving. So they settle for less than they are worthy of. They live lives of incompleteness and dissatisfaction. David Vann is an expressionist in the best way. He describes the landscape, the inhospitable north, and the ordinary, everyday crap better than most. I'm not going to tell you what happens in this book and I don't want to spoil the wonder of reading it for the first time but I have to share a few lines that, I hope, will tempt you.

“She always imagined the opposite: her mother in a fit of passion, distraught at losing her husband to another woman, unable to imagine her life without him. But what if she simply hadn't felt anything anymore, after losing everything? That was a new possibility, something Irene couldn't have guessed. And it felt dangerous. You could end up there without having noticed the transition at all.”

“Without her footsteps, no sound. No wind, no moving water, no bird, no other human. This bright world. The sound of her heart, the sound of her own breath, the sound of her own blood in her temples, those were all she would hear. If she could make those stop, she could hear the whole world.”

I guess I have a Kantian-like hubris because I want everyone to love what I love. I often don't take personal preferences into consideration when it comes to literature. I argue (often alone, in my head) with people who don't enjoy the books that I think are essential to being a human being. So, for this book view I will leave it at this – I loved this book.

The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan

Simile – noun – a figure of speech in which two unlike things are explicitly compared, as in “she is a rose”.

Lots and lots of similes – nouns – distracting and annoying, as in “similes are like mosquitoes because they buzz around you and you want them to go away”.

OK – there is my stubborn opinion and prejudice again. I can't help it. When something annoys me, well, it just annoys me. It just makes me crazy. The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan was a little, no, a lot like that – too many similes amongst other things.

I know, I watch the ABC's First Tuesday Book Club too, and most of them enjoyed it and found it intellectually stimulating. I agreed with them for the first few pages. Interesting character in Jacob Marlowe and great name for a sophisticated, intelligent werewolf. I assumed he was handsome, well dressed, well read and clever. He has an offsider who is willing to go to vast lengths to make sure he survives, a vampire clan after him, a man who has enlisted an army to kill all occult phenomena especially werewolves, and a Lone Rangerette who wants to save him for her own villainous reasons. There is someone else who enters late in the piece but we'll keep that a secret just in case you want to give this one a go. Whatever else I am, I am not a spoiler of surprises – I know how to keep my mouth shut.

As I was saying, in the beginning I thought this was going to be a great read. Full of Kant-like philosophies on the meaning and meaninglessness of life right alongside bodice ripping sex scenes and descriptions of wolf-eating-human scenes. Not for the squeamish. But pretty soon I felt like I didn't know what I was reading. Is this a dime-store paperback werewolf story or a treatise on the value of life? The dichotomy was too much for this supernatural loving reader. Nope, didn't cut it.

Now, I have been happy with Sookie Stackhouse silly vamp stories (Charlaine Harris needs to give it up though because now they are just getting stupid) or the deeper Sergei Lukyanenko vampire novels. I have also loved some philosophical novels – Rand, Orwell, Woolf (no pun intended), Tolstoy – but Duncan gets the two confused and by mid book you can feel it. Which is it going to be? Unfortunately neither ends up working very well. The flow is not there. One minute you are in the adventure, sex and murder and the next you are reading a diatribe (with lots of similes) on the longing and disappointment and the regrets of a life long lived.

Werewolves live two lives – one as a savage beast and one as an ordinary walking-around person. Duncan writes as if he has two persona as well but I didn't know which one to believe and unfortunately neither came across as very authentic. This book was written to be a movie script right from the start. In fact there was even some music written to read the novel by - http://www.antiquebeat.co.uk/thelastwerewolf/ - and it's been done before so many times. The unhappy outsider who...no, I have to stop there or I'll give it away. Just think Blade meets Kate Beckinsale. Even the last chapter feels like a Sarah Connor voice over.

The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht

There are few books that I have loved from page one all the way to the end. David Mitchell is one that comes to mind immediately. I absolutely know that as soon as I open one of his novels I will be in an altered state for as long as the book lasts. Jane Eyre is another. Annie Proulx. Alice Munro.

The Tiger's Wife is one of those that took me by the hand immediately and led me into a world that was sumptuous and ripe with story telling and adventure. I would have loved to have been sitting around the fire at night, knitting with my sisters, listening to someone like Juliet Stevenson reading this story to me. Maybe with Stephen Fry reading the Grandfather bits. This is an amazing first novel (somehow I had to say that even though this girl could have been writing for years and just has not had anything else published! I don't want to jinx her or put that second-novel curse on her!) Tea Obreht is a young woman with an amazing talent for holding a rapt audience with words written on a page. The Tiger's Wife won the 2011 Orange Prize and is well deserved.

There are three stories in this novel all centring around the narrator's grandfather. The setting is in the Balkans from seventy-odd years ago to today. One story is about the Grandfather and the copy of Kipling's Jungle Book that he carries around in his coat pocket. It is a wonderful book full of awe and if you haven't read it, I recommend that you do. The second story is about a man who cannot die and has seemingly chance meetings with the Grandfather at different points in his life. The third is about the tiger's wife who is a deaf girl forced to live in unhappy circumstances in the village where the grandfather grew up in. Each story stands on its own and each is intertwined with the others.

I think I could wax on emotionally about this novel for quite a few more paragraphs but I won't. I am taking a 'writing short narratives' course at university this semester and I am learning how to say less more effectively. So...

Read this book, please. You will thank me later and I will write you a very long 'your welcome' letter and we can spend months emailing back and forth on the merits and joys of The Tiger's Wife. For now, just do yourself a great favour and read this book.

Vampires and Weres and Telepaths Ho Hum

In a few weeks I will be deconstructing poetry and deciphering narrative so I wanted to fill myself with as much silly and fun reading as I can right now. Like filling up on junk food before going to the health spa. So my light and fluffy choice for holiday reading involved vampires and lycans. I read both Laurell K Hamilton's new Anita Blake book Hit List and Charlaine Harris's new Sookie Stackhouse book Dead Reckoning. Neither was very satisfying.

Hamilton had backed herself into a corner with the uber-evil dead coming after Anita so she spent the whole book with the lesser interesting characters killing them off. Ho Hum. And Harris has lost the fun - it was all blood and murder and very little sex and romp. Ho Hum. Someone new needs to start up with that innocent good fun of first love.

And I need to read something with a little more substance, I guess. I could finish Maugham's Of Human Bondage which I was loving reading (don't know why that got put down?) or I could start my first Patrick White book, or I could finish Game of Thrones or start Truth by Peter Temple. I have over 100 books in my library that I haven't read yet. I don't really know which to pick next I just know it won't be another Ho Hum vampire story.

The Wreckage by Michael Robotham

Usually when I write a review of a book I try to be a bit cheeky, a bit funny, a bit clever. I think a book report is not a very interesting way to talk about a piece of art. Sometimes the books are high art and sometimes kids drawings on the fridge, but art all the same. I like to spice things up with witty words and clever repartees.

This review will not be silly or smart. I'm not going to search for the right words or try to make you laugh. I approached Michael Robotham's new book The Wreckage with a reading experience in mind. I loved his last book Bleed for Me and wrote a little review of it a few months ago. It was a great adventure full of delicious suspense and an all around rollicking good mystery. The Wreckage started out the same way. The flawed but loveable and probably redeemable protagonist – an ex-detective in London, Vincent Ruiz, has an exchange with a small young thief which turns out to be the beginning of a roller coaster of a ride involving corruption at it's highest level. At the same time Luca Terracini, a Pulitzer prized winning journalist in Baghdad, falls upon a story which becomes an obsession and extremely dangerous. These two stories follow their own paths until they intersect later in the book and work together to uncover a world-effecting diabolical plot.

The story is a serious lesson about the financial state of the world and the people who manipulate money and lives without any thought for future consequences. It is a true story. Well, it's fiction, but it is based on truth. The world is a screwed up place in some respects and the arse-holes who have contributed to that state need to be found out and corrected, severely.

The twists and turns, the characters, the story line, the descriptions – all of it is top notch in this book. Robotham doesn't put a pen-stroke wrong here. He has captured the feel of the heat in Iraq and the drizzle in London. He has made me love some of his characters and, without over-dramatising, abjectly fear others. I was cheering for the grit and determination of some and hoping for the downfall of others.

Robotham has written a book, which is a suspense-filled, attention-grabbing, tightly written crime novel, AGAIN! I loved reading it. It kept me glued – another sleepless night (thanks Michael, at my age it is getting harder to catch up on missed sleep) - and totally enthralled. I didn't see any of it coming. I have said before that this isn't my favourite genre to read but that I would read anything Robotham writes. Well, that promise still holds after finishing this book. It is a winner with a message. Wake up and smell the money laundering. It is affecting us little folk too.

I so recommend this book – no jokes, no puns, no kidding around. This is one of those serious moments when I think the rest of the naive world should read this story and discover just one of the dirty little secrets of the upper echelon of society – bankers, investors, politicians and war-mongers. But I don't want to tell you too much more – I don't want to Wreck the ending. (Sorry – couldn't resist!)

Books are my Constant

What is it that witches call their cats? Familiars - that's it. Books are my familiars. I am a bit of a restless soul. One month all I want to do is knit socks – I'll knit four pairs and post them off before the thirty days are up. Next month I'll be in a sewing frenzy – sewing aprons for all my friends. Next I will be completely besotted by chocolate and I will cook 15 chocolate desserts and all of the people who usually just put up with me are, suddenly, my best friends. I'm exaggerating just a little but I do switch crafting and cooking loyalties at the drop of a calendar.

Books are the one thing that I never give up – that I never want to change. I do change genres and moods but I always have at least one book to read.

I have all my books in my bedroom. I don't necessarily want them in there but that's where they live. I can't kick them out. They are comfortable there. They wink at me as I walk by. I fondle them on a daily basis. They are the last thing I see as I close my eyes at night. They aren't my friends – they are my refuge.

When I feel that wanderlust creeping up on me, I pick up a book. When I get the urge to start looking in the rentals in Maui, I pick up a book. When I think I can't stand it all one more minute, I find a book to help me. I hardly ever get bored. I have books to read.

I have a restless mind too. I need to learn something every day. If I have had a routine day at work I need to come home and learn something. Usually from a book. I have books about maps, which fascinate me. I have geographic atlases and historical atlases. (Is that how you spell the plural of atlas?) I love planning trips down rivers in Europe or on trains through Russia.

I have cookbooks, craft books – mostly knitting but I am building up my quilting collection – which I never tire of. I have architecture books that can keep me entertained for hours. I have gardening books which I hardly ever look at but when I do, I love planning what I will do with my backyard. I have a collection of Vogue Entertaining, Rachel Ray and Cooks Illustrated magazines that I wander through often.

If I am not watching TV or a movie, if I am not cooking or sleeping, if I am not performing my nightly dance - I am reading something. I know I have said this before but I am not myself if I don't have a book. Even if I probably won't be reading it in the next couple hours I still carry one with me. What if I have to sit still for a few minutes? What if my friend is running late? What if I find myself in a park on a bench in the sun? I have had quiet un-reading moments, but not many.

Books are my familiars and I am sure that when I die - I will be able to take my favourites with me.

Ten Talents by Frank and Rosalie Hurd

I have moved around a lot in my life. For the first 16 years of my sons' lives we lived in 20 different houses in a few different countries. For those 16 years (and, for me, several years before I had children) we were strict vegetarians. No meat, no eggs, no alcohol. I know the alcohol part has nothing to do with vegetarianism but I was very strict with what went into my body. Needless to say, I have been rebelling somewhat since I gave up being a vego, but occasionally I will have a few months of clean eating and then Ten Talents comes off the cookbook shelf and becomes my cooking bible.

Oh, I lost my train of thought then, didn't I? As I was saying, I have moved around the world a lot and have packed up many households in the past 30 years. Most things from my first house are lost, destroyed, eaten by mice or living happy lives in someone else's house. There are few things that I always packed first as precious belongings and have carried with me no matter where I have laid my head – my Grandma's wedding ring, my Granny's silver dish that she received as a wedding present in 1901 (she gave it to me when I was 16) and my guitar. Last but not least – my copy of Ten Talents which I bought in 1977.

Ten Talents is a independently published vegetarian cookbook that you can still buy over 40 years of its first printing in 1968. My copy no longer has a cover, is stained, torn and ragged but I still love it. I still cook from it. I still read it. This book taught me about nutrition and how to feed my family and keep them healthy. Ten Talents taught me how to make bread (we especially love the sprouted wheat bread). I made healthy organic baby food for my kids from the recipes in this book. I made 'foreign food' (tofu) and lima bean loaf regularly. I made every Christmas dinner from this book for 20 years. It's big and has lots of recipes so I never get bored cooking from it.

Most of all, Ten Talents taught me to be mindful and grateful around food. It taught me to cook from a place of love. It taught me simplicity is most often the best course. It taught me to expand my own talents, especially in the area of food, with confidence, reverence and respect.

I have strayed from my first cooking principals since the kids left home. Most evening after work I open a can of tuna or turn to cheese on toast. Writing this blog post has inspired me to make a start to get back to those simple, healthy roots and eat more vegetarian meals. Ten Talents is coming off the shelf and returning to active duty.

Pure Chocolate by Fran Bigelow

Tell people, in casual conversation, that 'sweets' are your downfall. 90% of the time you will get either of two responses - 'oh, yes, me too!' or 'not me, cheese is my weakness'. Cheese? What does that mean? You would rather eat cheese than chocolate? I don't think we can be friends. I like cheese too but - over chocolate?

I am telling you about books that have enlightened me, delighted me, encouraged me and led me to choose new paths in life that have not set out to do so - mostly craft and cookbooks. One of my favourite cookbooks of all time is Pure Chocolate by Fran Bigelow.

Maybe 20 years ago Fran Bigelow started making cakes in a small affluent suburb in Seattle. She was an instant success with her homemade chocolate goodies - including fine hand-dipped chocolates. Whenever I would go to Seattle to visit family and friends I would insist on a trip to Frans to buy up big for my home stay. I have always been a chocoholic (and it shows!) even from a young age. I did not have a discerning palate until I discovered Fran's Chocolates. I have to say, now, the thought of a Cadbury's Chocolate Bar doesn't raise my heartbeat. But say 'couveture' and my saliva glands start to work overtime. Fran's chocolates took my tastebuds and desires to a higher level. A few years ago a trip to Fran's chocolate shop proved to be my chocolate baking beginning. Fran wrote a cookbook.

Pure Chocolate is full of tips, recipes, instructions and the most luscious photographs that can almost fulfil my deepest longings. I've made white-chocolate chunk brownies, white-chocolate coconut cream bars, chocolate cabernet tortes and blanc et noirs (you have to taste it to believe it!). Fran taught me to make truffles and ganaches. And the pièce de résistance is the chocolate-stuffed figs - honestly to die for.

I love this book beyond belief. I have a couple more chocolate cookbooks - David Lebovitz and Donna Hay, but Fran's is my go-to.

I just purchased a very exciting new chocolate book - chocolates and confections: formula, theory, and technique for the artisan confectioner by Peter P Greweling, CMB (Certified Master Baker - oooo!), and I am reading my way through it. But it isn't yet spattered with melted chocolate from the mixer or smeared with unsalted butter. There are no crumbs embedded in the folds between the pages. The inside is clean and pristine and the cover isn't torn like my copy of Pure Chocolate. Those cooks who have beloved cookbooks will know that until a cookbook looks like it has been handled by a two year old who has just eaten dinner with his hands, it hasn't been loved. Or cooked from.

More Than a Cookbook - Judith Jones

I love to read fiction. I have said why in several of my posts. Fiction teaches me and lets me escape at the same time. It makes me think in more creative ways. There are a lot of very good reasons for reading someone else's imaginations.

I love a few non-fiction books more. Especially a couple of my cookbooks.

There are a few cookbooks that sit next to my bed most of the time – they comfort me. I know there are plenty of people out there who consider cookbooks among their treasures. They are well thumbed through and fondled daily. I know there are blogs that have concentrated on cooking their way through certain cookbooks – Nigella and, of course, Julia Child. I have friends, including myself, who have replaced old cookbooks with a new copy when the one they have had been loved to death.

But, I'm talking about cookbooks that have fundamentally changed my life. Cookbooks that have rearranged my thinking about my whole world. And, why not? We all know that cooking is a very personal experience that we either share with others to show our love or secretly devour to ultimately pleasure ourselves.

Judith Jones wrote a cookbook called The Pleasures of Cooking for One in 2009. Jones has been in the Cookbook publishing world her long working career at Knopf. She was involved in publishing Julia Child and James Beard. She knows food and cookbooks. She wrote a beautiful book - The Tenth Muse: My Life in Food about her life in publishing. Fifteen years ago her husband died and, with the children all grown up, she had to start cooking just for herself. This book is alive because of her experiences with her own personal situation.

The Pleasures of Cooking for One is a well ordered book. There are chapters on soups, eggs, cheese, rice, veggies and some sweets just for one. Jones gives us recipes for cooking small and cooking larger and creatively using the leftovers. It has all been done before, you say? Sure, but for me, this book has been life changing. (That sounds so dramatic but even the smallest things can alter one's life if they happen at just the right time.)

Judith Jones has taught me that I am worth, not only cooking for myself, but doing it with dignity. I am worth taking the extra step to make myself something to eat that is not only delicious but highest quality and fit for a queen. She asked me to stop buying frozen or fast food meals because she could show me how to make a minced turkey on toast meal that is so sumptuous it could be served in a high class restaurant.

Jones has shown me that taking the time to prepare an elegant meal for myself every night is important to believing that I am worth more than that one beautiful meal. I can go for Life with dignity and style as well. I can set my table with gorgeous linens and I can get a university degree – I'm worth it. I can buy the best Murray River salt and I can sleep under a beautiful hand made quilt by myself – I'm worth it. I can have a cream sauce in the freezer waiting to enhance the leftover ham for tomorrow night's dinner and I can book a ticket for one to a music concert – I'm worth it. I am worth the good things in life and I have to be the one to give them to myself.

I still think the best moments in life are shared with the ones I love, but why should all the in-between hours and days be left to chance. Not for this girl thanks to Judith Jones. I am living those times like I am a Princess and I love myself enough to give myself my own time. You'll understand once you read The Pleasures of Cooking for One.

MM and Michael Scott

My parents moved into a house in Seattle when I was just a few months old and my mother still lives there today. That's 57 years that a little grey house (well, its tan now but because my father put aluminium siding on it a few years ago but it was always grey when I lived there) on a hill has been the family home. My little brother was born in that house and my father died in that house. I don't feel especially attached to the house. I don't feel especially attached to Seattle as a city, and the longer I live outside of it, the less I long for it. I do, however, feel very attached to several people who live there. My son and his family, my brother, my mother and two very special girlfriends that I have had the privileged of knowing and loving for over 40 years. I see them every year or so when I visit Seattle and we exchange emails and skype calls occasionally. As soon as I see them it is like no time has passed between cups of coffee and visits to the New Orleans Bar to hear excellent jazz. I love their children and they love mine. I love their partners, one of whom I have known just as long because they were high school sweethearts. I love their pets and they always ask about mine. I love their homes and I am always welcome in them.

One of these girls – MM – is a very smart professional executive vice president in a financial business. I don't pretend to understand what she does but I know you have to be highly intelligent to do it. She is very interested in politics and knows all the players in the US government. I watched the last State of the Union speech at her house and she knew all the faces and had something to say about each one. Her hobby is keeping an eye on the way the country is run.

She is a great mom and is incredibly generous. She tutored a young girl for years and went miles out her way for her. She looks after her mother-in-law who is not well and shares her life with her family completely. She is very funny and laughs a lot. I bet you want me to introduce you to her now, don't you. She is genuinely everything I have just described.

One of the ways I connect to people is through books and reading. Whenever I talk to a friend I haven't seen for a while I always ask what they are reading. My mom and I often end a conversation with what she has been reading. When I meet someone new and the conversation lags I can always ask if they have read anything interesting lately.

When I visit MM I ask what she has been reading and usually she bring out some books for me to pack in my suitcase to bring home. I like to read the books she reads as it feels like it keeps me in touch with her even though we live far apart. This smart professional VP reads books that I wouldn't pick up on my own in a million years. Well, that may be exaggerating a little. I might pick them up but I would probably just as quickly put them down again.

A few years ago she gave me all of Diana Gabaldon's books. These are big fat historical romances. I have read one – the first one – Outlander and part of the second one – Dragon Fly in Amber but that is as far as I have gotten. I don't hate them at all, I just always find something else a little more interesting to read. I don't like the physical book as it is hard to hold in bed. The cover is soft and the book is big so it flops around a lot. It is a better sitting-up read. MM loves them.

The next year it was all Harry Potter. The year after that she was into the Twilight Series (really!) This past visit she gave me the first three Michael Scott books – The Alchemyst, The Magician and The Soceress. Michael Scott is an Irish Fantasy writer who is into mythology and folk lore in a big and amusing way.

The books are centred around Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel who are immortal. The Flamel characters are based on real life people who lived in the 17th century. They find twins who they think can save humanity (the series all takes place in one week in modern day). There are other immortals that we have all heard of – Joan of Arc, Shakespeare and Billy the Kid. And there are mythological characters such as Prometheus and Gilgamesh. Oh, wait, maybe Gilgamesh was a real person too – I'll have to google him. They all go on some rollicking adventures and get into a lot of trouble with Elders, Shadowlands, monsters and such. These a books written for children, I think. But I know a few adults who have read them and loved them.

I just finished The Necromancer. It's more of the same and if you like these books you'll like this one too. I have been sucked into the story. I have to find out how it all ends. There is at least one more book after this – The Warlock – and I will read that one too.

These aren't books that I would normally read. But these are the type of books MM reads and if she suggests them or gives them to me then I will read them. I love the fact that I have read the same books as her. It makes me feel closer and we are so very far away from each other, geographically anyway. I just realised that I never suggest books for her to read. MM wants books that entertain her but don't tax her. She wants books that are easy to read, easy to put down, easy to pick back up again, and easy to fall asleep to. She wants books that let her forget that she is smart and has an incredible brain. She wants books that take her to another world. She wants a book that will totally carry her off and let her block out everything happening around her at the time. She wants to not think – just to escape for a little while.

You won't learn anything by reading Michael Scott. It won't enrich your life or make you think deep thoughts. He writing won't beguile you and his plot lines won't mystify. (He does know how to leave a plot dangling though.) But you will escape for a while if you read his books and have a little fun doing it.

The Approach

I think that the approach to anything in life is important and worth taking a few minutes to think about before commencing. The approach to a person, task, place, animal or object sets the tone for the entire exchange. It is worth consideration.

Sure, when you approach routine tasks there is little thinking involved. I do always say 'good morning' to my kettle when I turn it on in the morning for my first cup of tea. I always give my doggies a little pat and ask if they slept well. I get on my bike the same way every morning and walk up the same stairs to my office. The approach is not so important.

The approach to certain rituals in life is very important. Holy water blessing and the sign of the cross on the approach to the alter in the Catholic church or the removal of shoes in a Temple. A handshake with a stranger. The national anthem at the start of a baseball game. A glass of wine with friends before dinner. All of these set an atmosphere that hopefully continues throughout the experienc. When there is more than one person involved in the situation we don't often have as much control over the proceedings but we can set the tone by our approach. Am I going to enter the meeting room with a smile, a serious look, talking on my phone, or will I drop my papers to see who helps me or who sneers at me? It is mostly calculated and I think it is a good idea.

I have ritual approaches in my everyday life that are a little more involved than the ones I previously wrote of. I always fix myself a cup of tea, compose my thoughts and say a little, well - prayer - I guess you can call it, before I sit down to write. Before I put on a movie I make sure I have a hot water bottle at my back, a drink, a snack, my knitting and anything else I might need during the movie so I don't have to stop and start again. I approach a new knitting project by reading the pattern slowly from start to finish and picture it all in my mind, then I cast on. I'm not a total control freak. I can wait for things. I am happy to be interrupted. I don't mind leaving one thing to do something else. But I am certain that my theory on The Approach is correct. Take a minute, close your eyes, what do you want to achieve and in your experience what is the best way to start? Do that!

My approach to a book is as important to me as my approach to anything else. There are a couple of ways that books enter my house. I purchase them or I check them out from the public library. Occasionally, a friend will lend me a book as well. If I come home and find a parcel on the front door I bring it inside. I take off my helmet and riding clothes, get into something comfy, make sure the chores are done and dinner is on the stove, make myself a cup of tea, get my hot water bottle (yes, I am addicted to it) and then I open the package. (Sometimes it will be wool that I have ordered and the approach to the package is very similar.) I want to have at least a half an hour to look at my book if it is non-fiction. I look at the cover. I never ever read the inside cover or the back of the book - I do not want someone else's opinion of this book to influence me. I read the dedication - I get a little shiver when someone says they love their mother so much that they had to write a book to thank her - and I read the introduction. I scan thru the first pages and decide if I have time to start to read right then or if I need to wait for bedtime. Honestly, this is one of the nicest parts of my day if my evening begins with an approach to a new book.

If the book is a novel I have several courses of action. Mostly it goes in my to-read pile and, depending on my excitement about receiving it, the book goes on the top of the pile or in its appropriate place in line. When I approach a new novel to read I do the same things I do with a non-fiction but as soon as the dedication is read I usually dive right in with no further preamble.

If I bring books home from the library I take the same approach but because I usually have several books. I wait to look at them properly until I am sure I have time to give each the time they deserve.

Different types of books deserve different types of approaches. Fiction is quick. Non-fiction is a little slower but not much. Coffee table type books deserve a very languid approach. Knitting books - I wait till I am in bed and I always go to bed at least half an hour earlier than normal. Cooking books - I approach them with food - they make me hungry - and I have to put them down to fix something to eat - I don't like that.

The way I approach a book can determine whether I give the book any importance or not. If I am hasty I often don't get back to the book for quite a while. If I haven't made good preparations for my approach and I get a spark of interest which means I want to spend more time looking at it right then, I have to put it down and compose myself all over again - what a waste of time. If I don't give a cooking or pattern book enough time at the very beginning, I often am left with a hasty opinion that may take quite a while to change (although we all know the fun of re-discovering something we've had for ages and suddenly find we like it much better now).

The opposite may happen too. I may approach a book with respect and open mindedness and find that it lets me down badly. Oh, well. That's why we have book fairs, second hand book stores and friends (hey, just because I don't like something doesn't mean you won't adore it - I like that about people).

Whatever you are approaching - an assignment, your boss, middle age, retirement, the bench, a movie or, especially, a book, do it with forethought and consideration. Start something in the way you would like it to end. We seldom have control over the ending but we can establish the mood for the entire experience if we take two minutes to think things through. Approach a book as if it is going to bring you hours of pleasure and teach you something valuable. Approach it from the beginning as you would an admired teacher and you won't regret those two minutes of deliberation and reflection.

Letter to David Vann

David Vann – I’m a bit mad at you. You sucked me in. You fed me a few chapters of innocently good writing. You told me the worst thing that was going to happen in your novel Legend of a Suicide in the first few pages. You fooled me. You lured me into your story without preparing me. Most authors give clues to what is going to happen if it is big and essential to the story. You waited till I was complacently admiring your writing style to set an incredibly tense scene of a hopeless, useless, self-obsessed man who takes his 13 year old son to live on a primitive remote Alaskan Island alone for a year. I started that central novella, Sukkwan Island, at 10pm at night after eating too much cheesecake. My stomach was already upset. I had to sit up in bed for an hour or so, thinking I would be reading a well written story of a man who commits suicide.

Now, I don’t usually read books like yours. I don’t shy away from tough subjects in my reading material but suicide is a hard one, especially when I know that this story comes from personal experience. I thought it might be a bit raw for me, a bit too real. I saw you on The First Tuesday Book Club on the ABC and I liked your take on Blood Meridian. I love Cormac McCarthy and his honest portrayal of flaws and accountability. I love his acts of, almost, personal responsibility for telling us these stories. I should have deduced that you would have that same attachment to proclaiming the truth whether we want to hear it or not. ‘Cowboy up, reader, this is real life’ I can hear you say.

And you looked so nice on the TV show. So clean cut and all American. I dismissed those niggling suspicions as I listened to you talk about the terrible conflict which was a test to determine who we are, as humans, in Blood Meridian. I didn’t pay attention to your delight in McCarthy’s dark and grim view of mankind. I loved your eloquence and your descriptive insights. I wanted to fix you a cup of tea and discuss The Road and No Country for Old Men. I wanted to see a whole episode dedicated to you.

I ordered Legend of a Suicide. It is my custom to read, at least, the book just prior to the one getting all the reviews, by an author who is of interest to me. I don’t want to get through the first part of a new book and find out that I missed something vital in the previous book. I started Legend of a Suicide the night before last.

Last night you broke my heart and my good sleeping pattern. You didn’t let me lay down and gently read myself off to sleep (I almost think you promised you would in the first few pages of this book). You kept me sitting up, tossing and turning and finally getting up to make a cup of herbal tea to soothe myself. There was tense screeching violin music playing in the background, there were ‘almost’ disasters and there were times I wanted to yell (I think I might have) out loud to one your characters to take a different path, not to give in. Then the ‘thing’ happened and I was shocked. I didn’t see it coming. Then, the chance for redemption, the making of the man, the fail, the loss. David, I was with you every step of the way.

I think that you may be up there with Cormac McCarthy. I will wait until I read your next book to rank your status in my own little literary world. You write with power and clout. You demand attention – there is no fucking around in your book. There is pressure and release. There is measure without guess work. There is value and ferocious honesty. Damn, David Vann, you have made me love you and you have not asked leave to do so. I will be reading Caribou Island and anything else you write, but only during the day just in case.

Secrets

Everyone has secrets. Everyone has shameful secrets that they only reveal after a few gin and tonics and they are sure that everyone loves them enough to forgive them. I’m talking about the secret DVD that is shoved to the back of the cupboard that gets pulled out only when one is alone and sure of no interruptions – no not THAT video – the one that you think everyone will tease you about for years to come. OK – I’ll confess that I have one – While You Were Sleeping with Sandra Bullock. I have watched it once a year or so since it came out in 1995. It is my feel-good movie and it is silly and soppy but the little lonely girl wins in the end and it makes me feel better when I am feeling sorry for myself. Now you know the kind of secret I am talking about.

I’m pretty sure that everyone has a literary secret too. One friend who is an academic reads romance novels – I’m talking cheap, hunky-guy-half-dressed-on-the-cover romance books. I have another friend who reads Proust and Joyce, and reads Harry Potter every year or so. I have another friend, one with whom I have discussed serious literature who finally confessed (apparently this had been weighing on her for quite a while) that she loves the Twilight series. I suspect there are quite a few of you out there. BTW I’m not one of you. I read the first one and thought that child needed counselling and some anti-depressants. Who in their right mind would let a little girl die for a boy even if he did shimmer in the sun and drink blood to stay alive. This is bad popular teenage fiction. Sorry! (I seem to say sorry every post but I guess I just have some strong opinions)

My fiction secret is a little series of mystery who-dun-its by a Seattle based author Mary Daheim. Almost 20 years ago when I was a single mother living on a pension in a small town with a little wee public library, I went to said library and looked up Seattle in the catalogue. I lived the first 24 years of my life in and around Seattle and I must have been feeling a little homesick. Up popped The Alpine Advocate by Mary Daheim. It was a little murder mystery with good enough writing to keep me reading and not too complicated that a very tired me didn’t have to think too hard. The story was set in the evergreen mountains of the Cascades near Seattle in a little fictional town called Alpine. Emma Lord, the main character, was a single mother and new editor of a small town newspaper. She was tough and soft and could solve crimes.

The next year The Alpine Betrayal came out and my circumstances hadn’t changed enough to make me want anything any harder to read so I borrowed that one too. I told my mother about them and she started buying them and sending them off to me after she read them. Through those years I did settle down to some more serious (and occasionally more silly) literature to read. I fell in love with some Australian authors and discovered English literature (all except Dickens, but don’t worry; I have now and love him as much as everyone else does). Over the past 20 years I have joined book groups, studied literature at university, tackled the classics and been a voracious reader. Still, whenever I see a new Alpine book – and they are easy to spy because Daheim has kindly written them in alphabetical order titles – The Alpine Christmas, The Alpine Decoy, The Alpine Escape, etc. I put it reserve at the library and, once in hand, settle in for couple of evenings with Emma and Vida and Sheriff Milo and the Pacific Northwest. I just got The Alpine Vengeance and it is more of the same. Lovely!

I’m not advising anyone to read these books. They are silly and simple. But I know these people now and I have a fondness for them. I like them. I’m sure that everyone has one of these types of books hiding somewhere that they are afraid to tell their serious friends about for fear of those looks and a lesser estimation in their eyes. I know that I am guilty of giving that look. The friend who confessed she loved Stephanie Meyer – I keep trying to introduce her to better vampire books but she stands firm. I half admire her for it, half scoff. But I will try to do better in the future, especially now that you know my secret!

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan

I have loved all the Pulitzer Prize winners in Fiction for years (all except March by Geraldine Brooks – bleh! – sorry) and have happily taken each book, as a given, to read. Last year’s Tinkers was a heartfelt account of a death, Olive Kitteridge was a seriously good read and has a lot in common, well, style-wise to Jennifer Egan’s book, but more on that later. And The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is one of my all time favourites. In fact, just look up the winners and pick one to read – you won’t be disappointed.

A Visit from the Goon Squad (if you click on this link please read/listen to the 12 Great Rock and Roll Pauses even if you don't read the book) deserves its place among these greats of modern literature. The themes of time, technology, music and the small chances or fates that interact with our lives and alter everything are just as essential to the plots of these stories as the people in them.

The stories in the book are all linked together by the people we meet as we go along in this non-linear narrative. This style was also used in Olive Kitteridge (see, I said we would get to this) although in that book the stories were all based around Olive as the central planet. Egan leads us on a jaunt through time and to places which I, for one, was really happy to go. Each chapter was a stand-alone story as well as a cleverly layered tier in the overall larger story.

“Time is a Goon” one of Egan’s character says when he realises that he has run out of it and time hasn’t taken him where he thought he should have gone. Goons are thugs - or very silly, funny people for whom nothing is sacred. All the the people who populate this book have issues with time from Bennie the San Francisco punk rocker kid to Bennie the ageing New York record executive and Sasha the young girl in love with the wrong guy to Sasha the grown up kleptomaniac (but never from a shop!). They are all fascinating. And I wanted more.

One of my favourite bits of this novel is that one of the characters sprinkles gold flakes in his coffee. He also sprays his own armpits with pesticide as a deodorant for very reasons he sees as quite sane. One of the chapters is written in PowerPoint and it doesn’t feel out of place, in fact it works.

Read this book. Get this book from your library or borrow it from a friend. Find it in a second hand shop or ask your sister to buy it for your birthday present. But read this book. I can’t think of anyone that I don’t think would enjoy it on some level be it pure entertainment or serious moral lessons – everyone will get something out of it.