Thor's backlog

Having been recently reprimanded by my fellow blogger, I hereby list what is left to be read. This excludes the sorry pile of (5) books I'm currently struggling with for various reasons. The most glorious of the five is Dubliners, which I actually quite enjoyed, but have not touched for three years and counting. The most notorious is Firmin, which has a great premise in line with Ratatouille, but requires advanced knowledge of English literature, making it less appropriate for someone who stuck to Tolkien in high school.

The pile pictured, however, is equally promising and depressing. I do not intend to open The Interpretation of Murder again, having found the first two pages needlessly graphic. Mind you, I managed to sit through the whole of Spartacus: Blood and Sand, so am not squeamish to the obsessive extent, I merely found the opening of this book sensationalist of the Daily Mail extent.

Both The Covenant and The Grass is Singing were bought with intent of mood-setting for a holiday in South Africa. Both come with good credentials and some promise - I even started the Grass, but cannot remember much of it to warrant addition to the sorry pile.

The Alchemist came upon recommendation of a former flame, with calls of soul mates emanating from it, but warnings from a closer friend, who in my mind found it too wishy-washy and perfumed in good intentions. It still sounds like a cheap version of the Unbearable Lightness of Being, which still leaves me with the intention to read it. On a beach, slowly working with the sun to increase entropy.

The remainder of the pile, save from Tess, were acquired in a long-lost time of hausse, in 3-for-2 offers and lack of self-control. Engleby is the only one that appeals, although I do not recall any poor reviews of any of the others. Still, the world may be a better place if I offer them to Oxfam rather than waste the few hours I do spend reading on something unwanted.

The David Mitchell is the most promising, not merely because of its stunning cover (which happens to match my flat's interior colour scheme), but with the promise of Dutch seafaring adventure. The sole reason for its grouping with this pile, is to save it from ending up on the sorry pile. I want to give it the full attention it (potentially) deserves. Starting in 2011!

It was on Christmas Eve

After I arrived into Reading, I walked straight to Waterstones to pick up a copy of Keith Richards' Life for my dad.
Worryingly, they had run out, so I took the ace from under my sleeve and asked them to look for my order, as I had asked for this book to be delivered into the store, but had never been given a delivery notice.
Waiting for the elves to find me my book, I was approached by Stephen Benatar, who was there to promote one of his books - he was particularly keen for me to read his book there and then, but I was simply a missile, not about to be distracted or re-directed by other potential Christmas gifts.
I did apologise, even saying "Sir", as he seemed particularly distraught by the lack of Christmas spirit.
The store however rewarded me with my own ordered copy of Life, as well as a book on Orchids I'd ordered that I didn't expect to see this year still.
Now that I'm at my desk, I looked up the sociable writer, and realise it wasn't a (platonic) meet-cute, but simply his (rather admirable and successful) way of self-promotion.
I really ought to get myself a hat, so that I could take it off for him.

Happy 235th Birthday, Jane! :)

" 'Symmetries"

It was, of course, a good choice. 

I'm reading every evening before falling asleep until I recognise I'm no longer taking in the words from the page & draw to a close. 

I'm reading every morning after my alarm goes off; just another page or two before I get up & face the world. 

I don't do that often: it's usually a snatched moment or away from the demands of the day in some enclosed vacuum of time, on a bus or a train journey when it's possible to do very little else. 

But Winterson invites the luxury of the moment, the prioritising of that particular time spent on that activity as opposed to any other. She draws in her reader, establishes an intimate confidence and in doing so, maintains their interest in plot development. 

 It took me a good chapter or so to find my stride & settle into the story. I recognised some of the conscious rhetoric also deployed in The Passion & wasn't sure if I would take to it. 

    The Passion is deemed so unique and elevated amongst her works that I didn't want to risk a repeat encounter; I wanted something new. It's Winterson's lyricism & metaphor which I love. The post-modernism and meta-narrative is fun & can be cleverly deployed but in terms of defining character, it now belongs in my head to Villanelle who assumes it like a second skin. 

  In the chapter of The Fool, I was struggling to establish which voice out of the two women, Stella & Alice, was speaking. But once into The Tower & the finding of the affair and from then onwards into the three chapters of childhood, the novel just flowed. Beautiful words and fully eloquent passages. 

   I've been passing them across the ocean, borrowing from their nuances & metaphor to lend weight to other words. To try & articulate emotional experiences, which would otherwise be struggling into sense or remain mute, entirely wordless.

 ___

Walk with me ... Walk the seen and the unseen. What can be rendered visible and what cannot.

The wind up at dusk and the leaves in squalls and the birds flying into the wind-backed leaves so that in the lost light I could not say where the leaves stopped and the birds began. I try to distinguish but at crucial moments the space between carefully separated objects collapses and I too am whirled up against my will into the dervish of matter. The difficulty is that every firm step I win out of chaos is a firm step towards . . . more chaos. I throw a rope bridge, haul myself across the gap, and huddled on a little outcrop, safe for now, observe the view. What is the view? Another gap, another stretch of water. (102)

___

.. The riverrun is maverick, there is a high chance of cross-current, a snag of time that returns us without warning to a place we thought we had sailed through long since. 

Anyone to whom this happens clings faithfully to the clock; the hour will pass, we will certainly move on. Then we find the clock is neither raft nor lifebelt. The horological illusion of progress sinks. The past comes with us, like a drag-net of fishes. We tow it down river, people and things, emotion, time's inhabitants, not left on shore way back, but still swimming close by. .. The unconscious, it seems, will not let go of its hoard. The past comes with us and occassionally kidnaps the present, so that the distinctions we depend on for safety, for sanity, disappear. Past. Present. Future. When this happens we are no longer sure who we are, or perhaps we can no longer pretend to be sure who we are. If time is a river then we shall all meet death by water. (104-5)

____

Walk with me. Walk the broken past, named and not. Walk the splintered planks, chaos on both sides, walk the discovered and what cannot be discovered. Walk the uneasy peace we share. Walk with me, through the night, the night air, the breathing particles of other lives. Breathe in, breathe out, steady now, not too fast on gassed lungs. I did not mean my words to poison you. Walk with me, walk it off, the excess fat of misery and fear. Too much to carry around the heart. Walk free. (117-8)

____

I want to feel but with feeling comes pain. I could advise myself to keep out complications and I won't pretend that I have no choice in any of this. I have noticed that the choices seem to be made in advance of what is chosen. The time gap in between the determining will and the determined event is a handy excuse to deny causality. In space-time there is always a lag between prediction and response.., sometimes of seconds, sometimes of years, but we programme events far more than we like to think. (120)

____

'Do you fall in love often?'

Yes often. With a view, with a book, with a dog, a cat, with numbers, with friends, with complete strangers, with nothing at all.

'I'm not in love with you.'

What would it be to love? Would it be the field under rain, the vivid green the grass takes? .. Would it be natural at all? Would it be lucky find or magic trick? Buried treasure of sleight of hand? Would I be the conjuror or the conjured? Would it be a spell or the song I sing? If I am a wound would love be my salve? If I am speechless would love be a mouth? I do not want to declare love on you as of midnight yesterday. I do not want to be captured nor to hold a honeyed gun at your head. I do not want to spend the rest of my life as a volunteer member of the FBI. Where did you go, who did you see, what did you do today dear? I would love you as a bird loves flight, as meat loves salt, as a dog loves chase, as water finds its own level. (126-7)

Winterson, Jeanette. Gut Symmetries. Granta Books: London, 1997

Meanwhile,

the bedside table stack grows ever taller... The Eyre Affair was presented to me last weekend by a friend with the command of "you must read this"; 'Jane Austen Adventures' was a birthday present :) But with it being creative has the requirement of pen & paper to mark a score so I shall need my wits about be for that one if I am to marry Fitzwilliam by the end. The Woolf was an entirely new & exciting find from last weekend. Stylist ran this wee advert for it (left) as published by Virago (Vintage Classics) & thus I went straight forth to Amazon & ordered it. I'd never known of its existence until now. Thankfully it is referred to as a forgotten classic so I might just be forgiven. .... Ah, I do love Virago's cover art. The Wiersbe study is an ongoing journey, shared with a friend. A blooming well-written study too. We thought we'd get through 14 questions a week & be done by Christmas. Hm. Not so fast. My Patten collection would normally inhabit a place on my bookshelf but at the moment, is living in an arm's reach from my bed. I'm needing his words and all of their gritty poetic realistic punch right now. That's to say nothing of the Other pile, the not-quite-ready-for but not-wholly-forgotten: Agnes Grey came to me from London for my birthday, as did Fanny Hill (apparently it's where all the best M&Bs originated from). Quite glad to have a new Bronte passed my way. I was thinking only recently as a friend sang its praises that I should go back & revisit Tenant. The next three are also gifts-in-waiting (soon, Zusak, soon!) Brideshead (DVD) was swapped with a friend: I lent her my novel; she provided me with Jeremy Irons. I read the novel in '08 as the new film adaptation hit the screens but - as ever - I can't see the film until I read the book and it's only right that once I've read the book that I should first pay homage to the tv series before becoming seduced by the film... :) Also on loan is the second of Niffenegger's novels. I admit to being slightly scared of starting that one. I've read the blurb on occassion, read the reviews, am fully armed with the knowledge that it is not & so will not be another TTTW and yet.... Please don't diminish the dream! TTTW first held me captive way back in '05 whilst I re-emerging from the dusty tomes of degree. Reading! For pleasure?! Send me to a desert island by all means, just be sure to pack that, Jane Eyre, Oranges, The Hours, The Visitation, my Bible & at least a few volumes of Duffy & Patten. (See my problem? Pedestals. Elevated. Dangerous - especially when following on from a debut novel.)

Reading from 'Symmetries...

... But for now, the missing link will have to wait. I needed a Winterson fix badly last night. Gut Symmetries (1997) filled the want perfectly. I only got a chapter in; already I was reaching for paper & pen as she so aptly & succinctly hit the nail right bang on the head again. Myth. Oh my goodness, yes.

an end in itself | Atonement

So I cheated. 

I started reading Atonement & got almost to the end but it became late & one of those situations in which you know you'll still be reading to see who makes it by 5am. I skipped through a good chunk of Briony's nursing career, only to slow down once her encounter with Cecilia began & from then, finished it. 

So now I need to go back & re-cap. 

Brilliant though. 

 A friend said recently she found McEwan too wordy, too descriptive. I think for me, that's part of the power of his writing & the allure: how he can create suspense & keep the reader guessing, waiting to see & wanting to know how the resolution will be reached. And even with Atonement, he undercuts the more comfortable ending as it all gets a bit meta & rather tragic.