& Vita Sackville-West ~ Sarah Gristwood
Too Many Pages
Monday, 1 January 2024
The TO READ/RECOMMENDED List:
& Vita Sackville-West ~ Sarah Gristwood
Sunday, 31 December 2023
My Year In Books: 2023
Ghosts: The Button House Archives - Them There
How to Buy a House - Kirstie Allsopp & Phil Spencer
* The Relentless Elimination of Hurry - John Mark Comer
I Dreamed I Met Vermeer - Carol Hill Marks
The Grinny Granny Donkey - Richard Curtis
Four Weddings & a Funeral: The Screenplay - Craig Smith & Katz Cowley
Go Set A Watchman - Harper Lee
A Thousand Mornings - Mary Oliver
Mr Peacock’s Possessions - Lydia Syson
The Art Of The Tea Towel - Marnie Fogg
Breadsong: How Baking Changed Our Lives - Al Tait & Kitty Tait
The Same But Different Too - Karl Newson
Attachments - Rainbow Rowell
Song From Faraway - Simon Stephens
My Name Is Lucy Barton - Elizabeth Strout
The Philosophy of Beer - Jane Peyton
Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist - David Levithan & Rachel Cohn
Saturday, 20 May 2023
Spring Extracts.
May —
Attachments | Rainbow Rowell
from the 'Annie Spence Recommends' list.
I liked it; it grew on me. And, importantly, the one-sided origin of the attachment was addressed outright, otherwise the snooping would've felt even more awkward.
Lincoln still thought about Beth. All the time, at first.
He subscribed to the newspaper so that he could read her reviews at breakfast and again at lunch. He tried to figure out how she was doing through her writing. Did she seem happy? Was she being too hard on romantic comedies? Or too generous?
Reading her reviews kept his memory of her alive in a way he probably shouldn’t want. Like a pilot light inside of him. It made him make sometimes, when she was being especially funny or insightful, or when he could read past her words to something true that he knew about her. But the aching faded, too. Things get better — hurt less — over time. If you let them. [339]
Rowell, Rainbow. Attachments.
Orion Books: London, 2012
_____________
February —
My Name Is Lucy Barton| Elizabeth Strout
This, I read after talk of a staging so I thought I'd best acquaint myself with the text.
It was ... okay.
In a nutshell, the quote below encapsulates the shifting narrator that put me in mind of Ishiguro. Strout's fragmentary style and narration meant I didn't warm to the childlike Lucy.
I am still not sure it’s a true memory, except I do know it, I think.
I mean: It is true. Ask anyone who knew us. [119]
I began to feel like the novel had hit its stride in the plot around the workshop with Sarah Payne. A shift came in the storytelling with the directive: 'go to the page' being followed through & a declaration now of 'abuse', putting a wholly different slant on the childhood detailed thus far [120 / 135].
Other elements recalled Plath's Esther Greenwood:
the clinical recovery setting post-breakdown; talk of trash & awards [112].
______
... as though they were silently saying You are not one of us, as though I had betrayed them by leaving them. I suppose I had. [162]
Strout, Elizabeth. My Name Is Lucy Barton
Penguin | Random House: London, 2016.
Thursday, 5 January 2023
Winter Stack
Nick stands up and offers his hand to me. I have no idea what he wants, but what the hell, I take his hand anyway, and he pulls me up on my feet then presses against me for a slow dance and it's like we're in a dream where he's Christopher Plummer and I'm Julie Andrews and we're dancing on the marble floor of an Austrian terrace garden. Somehow my head presses Nick's T-shirt and in this moment I am forgetting about time and Tal because maybe my life isn't over. Maybe it's only beginning.
Cohn, Rachel & David Levithan. Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist.
Electric Monkey: Great Britain, 2014.
Her own shelves held a lot of poetry, in volume and pamphlet form: Eliot, Auden, MacNiece. There were Left Book Club editions of Orwell and Koestler, some calf-bound nineteenth-century novels, a couple of childhood Arthur Rackhams, and her comfort book, I Capture the Castle. I didn’t for a moment doubt that she had read them all or that they were the right books to own. [24]
At the same time, it made sense that Veronica didn’t give me a simple answer, didn’t do or say what I hoped or expected. In this she was at least consistent with my memory of her. Of course, at times, I’d been tempted to set her down as a woman a mystery, as opposed to the woman of clarity I married in Margaret. True, I hadn’t known where I was with her, couldn’t read her heart or her mind or her motivation. But an enigma is a puzzle you want to solve. I didn’t want to solve Veronica, certainly not at this late date. She been a bloody difficult young woman, 40 years ago, and – on the evidence of this two-word two-finger response – didn’t seem to have mellowed with age. [82]
… There was a moment in my late twenties, when I admitted that my adventurousness had long since petered out. I would never do those things adolescence had dreamt about. Instead, I mowed my lawn, I took holidays, I had my life.
But time . . . how time first grounds and then confounds us. We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe. We imagined we were being responsible but were only being cowardly. What we called realism turned out to be a way of avoiding things rather than facing them. Time . . . give us enough time and our best-supported decisions will seem wobbly, our certainties whimsical. [93]
Barnes, Julian. The Sense of an Ending. Vintage: London, 2012.
Saturday, 31 December 2022
My Year In Books: 2022
The Art of Sourdough Scoring - Brittany Wood
Friday, 16 December 2022
Autumn Round-Up.
October —
Hamnet | Maggie O' Farrell
It's been talked about for years in my friendship circle, it seems. I was always going to get around to it at some point & then a friend left her copy at work so I loaned her one from the library; once returned, she later lent me hers to read. Circuitous but we got there.
I'd heard that it was hugely moving, potentially a tearjerker of an ending.
- Is the best book to read, when recently bereaved one, given a key theme is bereavement? Mm. Is there a place, a moment in time where the language & lived experience connect & bring comfort? Perhaps.
- O'Farrell's understated style.
Yes. All the way.
The repetitive nature of pronouns used lending rhythm to speech.
- That Shakespeare, our most famous playwright, goes unnamed; referred to only through nouns: the father, the son, the Latin master, the brother, the husband.
- His first sighting of, then subsequent meeting with Agnes & the hawk.
- Their partnership; her gifts and their recognition of each other; cleaved unto.
Love, sacrifice and compromise; Shakespeare & Agnes' reconciliation [311-321].
- Force of will.
She knows she is meant to have only two children but she will not accept this. She tells herself this .. She will not let it happen; not tonight, not tomorrow, not any day. She will find that door & slam it shut. [239]
- The journey of the plague from foreign shores to Stratford; a masterpiece [166-180].
- The journey of Agnes & Bartholomew to London, to the playhouse.
Hamnet, the boy.
It takes a while to arrive at the volta, the crux but it's not want of waiting impatiently for the story to begin. There's already plenty underway by then in learning and knowing how the different family members interact, what their characteristics are.
Death & its accompaniment in that ... they were there, they were just there; only moments, minutes, days prior. A phone call away. (A line from a recent Guardian article --
I thought I had more time. We always think we have more time.
Everywhere he looks: Hamnet. Aged two, gripping the edges of the window ledge ... As a baby, tucked with Judith ... Pushing open the front door ... Catching a ball in its hoop ... Lifting his face from his schoolwork to his father to ask about a tense in Greek ... The sound of his voice, calling ... [280]
He will never come again. She would like to spin the wheel backwards, unmake the skein of Hamnet's death, his boyhood, his infancy, his birth, right back until the moment she and her husband cleaved together ... She would like to unspool it all, render it all back down to raw fleece, to find her way back, to that moment, and she would stand up, she would turn her face to the stars, to the heaven, to the moon, and appeal to them...
There will be no going back. No undoing of what was laid out for them. The boy has gone and the husband will leave and she will stay and the pigs will need to be fed.. and time runs only one way. [287]
Autumn, when it comes, is terrible too. The sharpness on the air, early in the morning. The mist gathering in the yard. The hens fussing and murmuring in their pen.. The leaves crisping at their edges. Here is a season Hamnet has not known or touched. Here is a world moving forward without him. [291]
- Grief, claustrophobia & the theatre:
It is intolerable. All of it. He feels as though he is caught in a web of absence, its strings & tendrils ready to stick and cling to him, whichever way he turns. Here he is, back in this town, in this house, and all of it makes him fearful that he might never get away; this grief, this loss, might keep him here, might destroy all he has made for himself in London. His company will descend into chaos & disorder without him; they will lose all of their money & disband; they might find another to take his place [...] He might lose his hold on all that he has built there. It is so tenuous, so fragile, the life of the playhouses. He often thinks that, more than anything, it is like the embroidery on his father's gloves: only the beautiful shows, only the smallest part, while underneath is a cross-hatching of labour and skill and frustration and sweat. [281-2]
... he must hold himself separate in order to survive. [305]
__________________________
November —
Two Across | Jeff Bartsch
Open River | Caleb Azumah Nelson
Two Across, courtesy of Annie Spence's suggestion list.
- A coming-of-age tale involving crossword puzzles. Words were going to play a key part in this one. Sign me up!
I liked it. I was rooting for the two leads, Stanley & Vera through all their wrong turns & misadventures; moments where they'd connect & yet somehow awkwardly still misalign.
Now that he had found her, the urgency and crippling emptiness of his time alone in Boston had eased away [...] he was carried along by inertia, doped up with the sedative effect of happiness. So he let the months slip by, the grand gesture not coming in the winter, not coming in the spring, comfortably living a non-life with her, a life without substance, written in ink that fades away. [212]
Spring was cooked away by the increasingly oppressive afternoons of the impending summer, and then summer itself ripened and rotted and was gently laid to rest. From his place on the bench... he observed these changes while the better part of his mind tried to tell itself that he was living an extraordinary life. [178]
Would it have been the same novel if Vera had been up front from the start? Probably not. By stretching the story across a good few decades, both characters could grow the heck up, attempt relationships elsewhere & work out where their priorities lay. The cast of supporting characters also integrated well with their goals as parents and/or career women; their changing habits & alliances with each other.
The storyline retained my interest from the faked wedding, throughout additional scandals; pushed onwards by Vera's propensity to bolt whenever things became overwhelming.
Vera was done with Stanley. Done. That’s what she told herself and that’s what she believed. She made light of it. [...] She made peace with her own mind and finally found a way to tuck him into one of the pockets where all of the accidental characters we encounter throughout our lives eventually take their places, waiting for the archivist of memory, to come poking around again, coming across one here and another one there, and saying, "Ah, there’s Arnold Grant, the funny red-faced boy from first grade" [...] Stanley’s pocket was a very prominent one, but Vera convinced herself that one day it would become as inconsequential and as seldom touched upon as poor Arnold Grant's. [198]
It was funny too. Firstly, for seeing how far these booksmart people had to go to learn a life lesson as well as their shrewd method of communicating across the country, of signalling intent. But secondly, a witty read just in itself. (Pity the humble, practical butter knife!)
He was as useful and reliable as a butter knife, and just as dull. [271]
There was no avoiding the fact that she missed his body. She was flesh and blood after all. But she wouldn’t say his name, or even let it whisper through her mind. If she felt the "S" coming, she would bend it in to quickly bend it into something else. Sss-standard. Sss-starlight. [...] Sss-spaghetti. [228]
My favourite line,
She was convinced she could spend the rest of her life without a man. Instead, perhaps she would buy one of those nice Japanese teapots. [226]
Bartsch, Jeff. Two Across. Grand Central Publishing: NY, 2016.
_________
Open River.
Let's start with the good.
- A friendly recommendation from an actor shared backstage. A book that would've otherwise escaped me, most probably or I may not have loaned at all.
- Poetic in style.
- Highly lauded... That's a neither nor here there though. ("Sally Rooney meets Michaela Coel", NYT -- oh, can we not? Can we not just say what it's like rather than having to fall into lazy mash-up territory?)
- Is it a book for me though? ('what it means to move through the world whilst Black' - Bolu Babalola.) Maybe. Maybe I'd identify with aspects of it; find commonality or find myself challenged.
There were elements recognisable, certainly in the love story's dynamics:
'It's easier to do this, to open a box & close it quick, seal it with sharp quips. It's easier to let your bodies do the same...' [45]
'Honestly,' you said. 'I don't know.'
Except you did know. To give desire a voice is to give it a body through which to breathe & live. [...] It was easier to remain silent & hold the desire to yourself. [65]
- the injustices of Stop & Search; the fatigue [59],
The sirens grow closer. All those present grow more fearful in the presence of the siren because when they, the police, are close, you lose your names & you have all done wrong. [117]
And there were elements which also left me feeling othered. I didn't know many of the Black names that were filtered into the writing but I did like how readily they were included, as part & parcel of the whole.
There were times when the poetry grasped the moment.
Love as a form of meditation; reaching towards a more honest expression of self. [110]
And there were times when the language felt ... much more languorous. I took a break from it for a few weeks & I wasn't exactly rushing to return.
Being a tale of two lovers in their early twenties, I found that it navel gazes somewhat. It's about the young man and his experience & understanding of how he fits in his community & within the wider world. Yet as much as he's writing & talking about her, the love interest - it's all about him, and all about him & being Just Friends again & again until ... I started to find that rather cloying.
To strike out here entirely & draw a line back across my reading past, I think - if I wanted to read poetic prose again - I think I'd return to Jon McGregor. I'm glad to have read it but ... unless his next one were to shake things up, I don't think I'd be rushing to encounter another.
Nelson, Caleb Azumah. Open River. Penguin: UK, 2022.
Friday, 30 September 2022
Summer ~ September Stack.
... If not the mother, then necessity is probably the rather wrinkled & stingy maiden aunt of the Bad Beekeeper's sense of invention. [120]
[a] bee has five eyes. And thanks to what’s called ‘flicker fusion potential’, it can see at the equivalent of three hundred frames a second. If bees went to the cinema, the film would appear to them as a long sequence of still pictures. In other words they could see your hand moving like it’s a slow-motion action replay. [8]
&
CIVILISATION — What's the smoker for? [...]
Smoke makes the bees think that there’s a fire nearby and they may have to evacuate the hive. They quickly eat some of the honey to prepare for the journey. When the smoke passes, they realise they won’t have to leave after all. By this time though, they’ve had so much to eat that their mood has improved and so they are more placid.
& Waggle Dance —
First of all they match up and down a bit to indicate the position of the Sun. Then they veer off at an angle to indicate the compass bearing of the flowers they are guiding other bees too. They also shake their bodies at a certain frequency to let the others know just how far they have to go. And here’s the really interesting bit: the other bees can’t see them doing it. They feel the dance through their antennae. It’s outstanding when you think about it. [29]
but lastly, mostly:
FELLOWSHIP — Ultimately, though, it’s all about the union with the bees. Forget about the honey, and the candle making, and the mead and all the other little bits and pieces you can harvest from the hive, like pollen and propolis. The real joy for me is just in keeping the bees, literally. From the moment you lift off the lid on the hive and peer inside, you are entering another world, and leaving your own. [243]
: A borrowed read from some friends I happened to trade books with this summer. I'm not by any measure a straight-up consumer of SFF but there are certain ones which neatly intersect the genre whilst providing something extra elsewhere in keeping with my literary tastes. This particular read does just that, not least from its world inhabited by familiar characters from fiction.
Parry's Acknowledgments calls out a number of names, all bar one I'd knew of, had studied &/or read something by...
... thanks to Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, Mary Shelley, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jane Austen, Margaret Mahy, Roald Dahl, C.S. Lewis, Emily Brontë, and the other authors whose creations grace the pages of this book. You’re wonderful. Your words are wonderful. I’m sorry for what I did to them.
But it's also more than that. There's a real warmth & a care in how Parry's characters are cultivated & developed from their fictional origins; a love of reading; a world very much shaped by literary analysis (or for me, Lit Crit). Having five different Darcys (one sure nod to CF / BBC included) tickled me no end. And whilst I've never cared much for Dickens, I'm familiar enough with the ins & outs of his works to recognise & understand Copperfield, Uriah, Artful, Satis House, Havisham, Fagin & so on... If anything, the large equivalent dosage of Conan Doyle certainly helped — shout-out here for Henry (Hound Mk. 2), the depiction of Holmes as a righter of wrongs & a lovely bit of plot leading via 'the fly in the ointment' directly to:
“Moriarty,” Charlie said. “The Napoleon of crime.” The woman who wasn't Beth smiled. “Yes. And may I say, Dr. Sutherland, but it is a dangerous habit to finger books in the pockets of one’s dressing gown.” [364]
Well played indeed.
I'm not sure I always knew exactly where the storyline was headed. Sometimes there felt to be a lot of signposting around The Coming Of The New World without much development. But there was enough to run with or to keep track of & Parry was meanwhile plugging the gaps of past, present & future. Diary entries neatly breaking up the novel. Helping me thus in turn, as a reader, to better understand how Robert and Charles had been shaped as well as their fraternal relations.
It was the latter part of the book, with the new world's arrival, the showdown which became the most compelling. A particularly TTTW moment such as when the Henrys crossover in time. Yup --
If you have difficulty believing your brother isn’t real, try seeing him dead or dying in two vastly different forms, as two vastly different people, while he’s standing behind you both times as the person you grew up with. And then try to tell yourself it isn’t killing you inside. [390]
Beautiful, beautiful writing & (2) I don't tend to envisage or picture much when I'm reading but this I could see as it took me right back to MIF '19's Atmospheric Memory...
He was David Copperfield, and Sherlock Holmes, and Charles Dickens. He was Dr. Charles Sutherland, author of the world that was crumbling around us. He was words, and thought, and memory. He was a creature of metaphor and simile, of hopes and autobiography and dead people. And he was my brother. [426]
… Buildings folded over like the pages of a book. Liminal space. The space between two worlds. Where the light was strongest, there were no buildings—at least, none of bricks and mortar. They shone through with words. The city at the edges dissolved into block text, and the ground under my feet were shifting with printed sentences. In places the buildings looked like thinly painted watercolor over newsprint. In others there were holes torn through the walls or across the sky itself, and words teemed from those holes—or out of them, I couldn’t tell. Everything was in motion. And noise. There was so much noise. [425]
… I saw the city, Charley’s London, solid and real, made of words and thoughts and ideas and interpretation, sprawling out as far as I could see. It was disappearing: not to nothing, as Moriarty had feared, but into something I couldn’t begin to understand. It was passing into pure language. In another moment, perhaps, I would disappear with it. [427]
— The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry | John Mark Comer (underway)