A bit of an escape

Finished reading Scruples by Judith Krantz.

In a fit of nostalgia, I decided to buy a copy of this book and Princess Daisy, also by Judith Kranz. I had enjoyed both books when I was in college, and I wanted to see how well they stood up to the years. Better than I did, I have to admit. They are still pure fantasy, wish fulfillment, and happy endings rolled up into one. They remind me of the glitzy, glamorous movies that were popular during the depression. Sometimes I need something to transport me out of my mundane existence into the realm of rich, powerful, beautiful people for a few hours. These books definitely fill the bill. Escapist? You bet, and of the very best vintage. Am I tempted to read any more? Not so much, but the fluff was fun while it lasted.

In Defense of Procrastination

I've been thinking about procrastination lately. I am a chronic procrastinator and have read many articles on how to stop procrastinating, but I've never read anything about why procrastination is a bad thing. Everyone tacitly assumes that we must do everything we can to stamp out this bad habit from our lives.

Well, I'm here today to defend procrastination, at least as I experience it in my own life.

I almost always put off doing something until the last minute. I started looking at my life and habits to see what the payoff is for procrastination and have come to two conclusions.

1. Procrastination is a form of delayed gratification.



We all know the joy of completing a task or making a decision that has been put off. The longer the task remains undone, the bigger the payoff in pleasure. Taking care of something immediately means minor pleasure, and then another task immediately moves in to take the place. It's like being stoned to death with popcorn. I prefer the giant relief that a long-postponed task has finally been finished, take a deep sigh of relief, decide whether a morning or afternoon nap is the best next move and wait for the pressure of the next deferred task to build up to the required pressure to move it to the top of the pile.

2. Putting off acting allows my conscious and unconscious mind to work on the situation until a decision is reached. Then I can act.


 




 99% of the time, I've already made the decision and am stalling for time for clarity and insight into how to implement the decision in a way that is most beneficial to all concerned.

Immediate action is not always the best way for me. I'm impulsive enough by nature to know that the first inclination is not always the best. I'm working hard on thinking before I act, and procrastination is my friend.

Who said that?

Ivy Compton-Burnett has one of the most intriguing and baffling styles of writing that I have ever encountered. Written almost entirely in dialogue minus tags or attributions, the book challenges the reader to follow along.

Trying to sort out the dialogue of nine (!) children, their parents, grandparents, family friends (I think) and assorted nannies, nurses, and staff, including one child who refers to himself by name in the third person, dares the reader to follow the thread. If you didn't like Wolf Hall, you will hate Parents and Children. If you had no trouble realizing that every time Mantel wrote 'he,' she meant Cromwell, you might be able to wend your way through the thickets of dialogue and find the treasure at the center of this labyrinth of dialogue.

The effort is worth it, though, and the payoff is huge. I was amused that Compton-Burnett is one of the writers offered to Queen Elizabeth in Alan Bennett's novella The Uncommon Reader. I hope Her Majesty enjoyed Compton-Burnett as much as I do.

When I finished the book, I immediately started reading again, and when I finish this time, I will be going back to the well for another book to savor.

 

Ivy Compton-Burnett DBE 1884-1969

Nature or nurture?

$9.99 is my top limit for Kindle books, unless they are books by Margaret Atwood, Hilary Mantel, or GRR Martin. Not that I worry too much about overspending on that last one. I'll probably die before his next Game of Thrones book comes out. In the world to come, the books are free, and you have all the time you need to whittle your TBR stack down to size. 

I exceeded this self-imposed limit to buy We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. I have a library copy, but I would have to race through it, putting aside all other reading, to finish it before my renewals are used up. I’m willing to do that for quick reads, cozy mysteries by favorite writers, and lighter material, but not with this book. This is not a story to race through. The protagonist/narrator is so astringent, and the writing so masterful, I want to savor it slowly  in small doses, spread over time. Shriver is magnificent.

The book started so slowly that I almost returned it unfinished, but then something happened to me while I was reading, and I was hooked. This is a book I will read more than once. It is dark, dark, dark. So is the best chocolate. The book was written in response to the school shootings that shock us out of our complacency and belief that we know our children. The childless Shriver dares to address the question of whether a child can be born evil (Bad Seed) or becomes that way because of inadequate parenting, mostly on the part of the mother. Nature or nurture? Neither? Both? Shriver doesn't try to answer the questions she raises. That task is left for the reader. I’m toying with the idea of bringing this novel to my book club, but I’m afraid it might end in a shouting match between the mothers and the childless members.

Because I haven’t finished the book or seen the movie, I’m not sure whether Eva is reliable or unreliable as the narrator. She appears to be honest, but how honest can a mother be when her child has committed such horrific acts? Surely there must be some self-serving elements in her account of the events leading up to that Thursday.

I have the film from Netflix sitting on my desk. Tilda Swinton makes me swoon, but I was going to put off watching it until I’d read the book. I changed my mind. Now I’m going to watch it before finishing the book. Inconsiderate reviewers have already ruined any element of surprise by not labeling their spoiler reviews. Shriver’s writing doesn’t depend on shocking actions but craft and careful character building to achieve the effect she wants. It’s not what happens, but how the story is told that makes this book important.

If you like The Almost Moon by Sebold, I think you will like Kevin, although Moon was a comedy and Kevin  is pure horror. They both challenge the reader to go beyond the initial reaction and search out what the writer is attempting to accomplish and ponder your own reaction. The number of reviews that hate both these books would indicate limited success on the authors’ parts, but I love them both.

Happy Birthday, A. S. Byatt

Happy Birthday, A. S. Byatt. Your book Possession is one of my favorite reads. I actually buy used copies of the paperback edition to give to people because I want to share the joy.



I believe that the underlying theme of the book, as indicated in the title, is the question "Who 'owns' the poet?" There are several who have claims to ownership. One claimant is the scholar who has devoted time and research to unraveling the mystery of a previously unknown relationship. This could be the making of him as a scholar. Fame in his small corner of the literary world, maybe even tenure could be possible if he is able to publish conclusive findings, original research about a poet that was previously considered researched out.

Another claimant is a wealthy American devoted to the poet and his works. He wants to acquire any object related to the poet and add it to his collection. The English museums and colleges/universities are opposed to having 'their' poet being stolen away and taken out of the country.

The final claimant is the homeowner who owns the house where a vitally important cache of letters is discovered. The letters contain a great deal of information that sheds light on the relationship of the two Victorian poets. The possibility of selling the letters lures them into refusing to give up the physical possession of the letters into the hands of the scholar until they decide what is in their own best interests.

Ultimately, we, the readers, own the poets in the sense that we are the only ones who have the knowledge of their true relationship, as this is revealed in passages that parallel the investigation of the scholars piecing together their history. They get some of it right, and some of it wrong, but only we know which is which.

A wonderful read, truly worthy of the Booker Prize it won in 1990.

I also love Iris Murdoch, and was reminded of her when reading Byatt's works. I was not surprised to learn that Byatt and Murdoch were friends and colleagues and that Byatt wrote critical works about Murdoch's life and oeuvre.  These two women would sit next to each other on my bookshelf, if I had a bookshelf. Instead they share space on my Kindle, and I value them both.

I'm currently reading The Children's Book, Byatt's 2009 novel loosely based on the life of E. Nesbit.  In the books, she mixes the lives of fictional and historical characters into a story of a peaceful world before the first World War. Perhaps the last period of our history where hope and innocence had an opportunity to live and thrive before it was replaced by cynicism and irony. It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, but was beaten by Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. I'm glad I wasn't a judge trying to decide between these two wonderfully written masterpieces.

Today I finished reading Sparta by Roxana Robinson. It's one of the best books I've read in a long time. In fact, it's so good it made me angry. Angry at lesser books, written by authors who don't care enough about their book to make it better because that would be work.

I know it is unfair to become angry with sloppy writers just because there are books like this. Books that the author spent an enormous amount of time and energy to get just right. How is it possible for a woman to enter into a man's mind and body and understand? Perhaps it takes a woman to be able to understand the mystery. This book had me in tears by page 39, and it ended with tears. Tears of pain and tears of hope for the main character, Conrad. Tears of anger and grief at what we ask of our young people and how little we give in return for their service.

Before I retired, I worked as a nurse at a VA hospital. I believe that had Conrad been one of our patients, he would have had a much better experience than what happened to him in the book. I thanked every patient I had for his or her service. I meant it, and so did my coworkers. Our patients were treated with attention and respect. Were our services perfect? No, but our patients told us over and over again how grateful they were that we were there for them. We cared, and it showed.

I was lucky. I retired before the flood of the young ones coming in from the Middle East began, but I had enough contact to see that it was very bad. I hope services continue to improve, and I hope we as a country stop feeling the need to ask them to keep sacrificing their lives for no good reason. Afghanistan is full of lithium we need for our batteries, and we are afraid China will move in? That's no reason for the loss of one young life. War is necessary at times to stop great evil or for self-defense. War is for a real enemy, not an amorphous ghostly figment of our imagination, and our government must tell us the truth about why we are risking the lives of our military.

I don't get excited about politics very often, but I swear that if the government reinstates the draft to fill the numbers they need to fight these ghost wars, I will take to the streets and demonstrate. I will work to prevent any cutbacks in services to our vets and their families. They have earned everything they receive and more besides. They have earned our attention and respect and support.

Happy Birthday, Papa

Happy birthday, Ernest Hemingway. You've gone a bit out of fashion right now, what with your rampant huntin', shootin', drinkin' masculinity. When I put all that aside, though, and just read what you wrote, you never fail to engage and amaze me. Lucid is the first word that comes to mind. No extra words, every piece polished until it shines.

A couple of months ago I bought a collection of your complete short stories for my Kindle. It was only $2.99, and if there was only one story worth reading, it would be worth it. It's been much more than worth it.

I tend to associate Hemingway with high-school reading assignments. I don't know whether he is still used in schools today. In my time, I suppose it was because he was considered and 'easy' read. His sentences are short; he doesn't strain the vocabulary of a high-school student; and the plots are easy to follow.

Coming back as an adult, I wonder why anyone would think that an adolescent would understand what is going on between the lines. So much is implied rather than openly stated that it takes an adult understanding of the tensions of life and relationships to pick up on the subtleties of what is actually happening.

There's a contemporary writer who reminds me of you. Not in his lifestyle or image, but in his writing. Stewart O'Nan has that same lucidity. When I read his work I imagine him revising and rewriting, examining every word and demanding that it justify its inclusion in the work. His Last Night at the Lobster would sit on my bookshelf cheek by jowl with Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea and feel right at home.  Nothing extra, no padding, just polished, glowing words that communicate so much more than what is read.

I'm sorry your life had so many sad parts, particularly the ending, but I thank you, Papa, for what you left us in your writing.

Salute to a Pioneer

Happy birthday, Elizabeth Kubler Ross. Your pioneering work with the dying paved the way for the hospice movement in the United States. When I was an ICU nurse, I heard one of my colleagues say "I come to work every day and torture old people to death." Thanks to you and the hospice movement, that is no longer true. People are allowed to die a natural death, with dignity, and as much comfort as we can give them. I had hospice services for three of my family members, so I have first-hand knowledge of the benefit of their services. Losing a family member to death is never easy, and it's always too early, but hospice can help ease the way.

I love this photo of her, which I obtained from this web site:

Finished rereading My Lady Judge by Cora Harrison, first in the series about Lady Mara, a Brehon judge in 16th-century Ireland. 

This is just as good the second time around, if not even better than the first reading. Lady Mara's good sense, her budding romance with the not-too-bright, but manly king, her dealings and insight into the character of her students make this series one of the best I've ever read. I love learning about Brehon law, too. Compared to English law of the time, it was humane and just. Unfortunately, it works best in a close-knit community of people with strong clan ties. In a large city full of individuals with no ties to a community, accountable to no one outside themselves, it breaks down. If you liked Sister Fidelma, you will love Judge Mara even more. For one thing, her hair is not rebellious.

The books are set in a part of Ireland called The Burren, which is very rocky. Most of the words I learned from this book had to do with geology:

clints and grykes are fissures in limestone. Lady Mara plants her rock garden in the fissures and grykes around her home. She likes to plant herbs and flowers with strong scents, so the sweet smell is released when people walk on the sturdy plants.

hoggets are young sheep, betw 1-2 years, too old to be lambs, but not old enough to be called sheep yet.

Another plant she likes is sweet cicely. I only know Cicely as a girl's name, never knew it was a flower. It's very closely related to anise.

Sometimes they picnic in the garden and carry the food out in willow pottles, small basket made just for this use.

Sometimes she plants avens, sturdy little flowers that do well in rocky soil. Here's a picture: 

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Dryas_octopetala_a4.jpg

The Real Jo Marsh

I just finished reading Louisa May Alcott: A Personal Biography by Susan Cheever. I knew that Little Women was a fictionalized and romanticized story of Alcott's life, and I wanted to know more about the real woman behind Jo Marsh. I knew that her life was not as happy as the books would have us think, but I had no idea just how difficult and rich it was. Her father invented himself, including a name change, to present himself to the world as an intellectual philosopher. The great literary names of the time: Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Henry James, Hawthorne, Peabody, Horace Mann were close family friends, some lending housing and financial support to the idealistic, unworldly Alcott and his starving family.

LMA wrote to survive and support her family and felt the financial pressure of having people depending on her throughout her life. Her most honest writing was contained in her memoir of her time as a nurse in a Union Hospital, where she was treated with mercury. This "cure" damaged her health, and she never recovered the robust health of her youth. Her family avoided doctors, which accounts for their generally healthy and long lives. Medical treatment of the time was as likely to kill as cure.

The book is a good overall general introduction to the real woman behind Little Women without going into so much scholarly detail that the reader becomes lost in the thicket. There are references to other, more specialized studies and biographies for the curious reader.

For me, this fit the bill admirably. It told me just what I wanted to know without being overwhelming.  Cheever's personal experience and insight into the writer's mind and the writing process brings a depth of understanding to bear on a person whose entire life revolved around the creative process and the life events that supported or thwarted this impulse.

Highly recommended.

Goodbye to Maeve Binchy

I was sorry to read of Maeve Binchy's death at age 76. She was one of my favorite authors. I admired her ability to create a sense of place without heavy use of dialect. A word here and there, a particular choice of word order, now and then an eejit accusation leveled against a character was all it took to let us know that we were in Ireland. Her books have given me hours of pleasure over the years. It is some consolation to learn that she had just turned in a manuscript to her editor that is slated for publication in October. We will have one more Maeve Binchy book, this one called A Week in Winter, to warm us inside an out during the cold weather. I plan to brew a cup of my favorite tea, toast some soda bread, and snuggle up and relax one last time with one of the great ones.

Happy birthday, Maeve Binchy. I suppose it's not fashionable to admit reading your stories with their happily-ever-after endings. Not edgy enough, I suppose. But I do love your storytelling ability, and your characters seem so real. You make me believe that if I ever visit Dublin that I could have a meal at Quintons, and find my own circle of friends, or study Italian at night school. Your people are so sensible, even when they make wrong choices or hurt one another. Your readers care about them and what happens to them. We learn about life, love and happiness. And this is no small thing.

Catherine the Great v. Marie Antoinette

Catherine the Great and Marie Antoinette were nearly exact contemporaries. Both were obscure princesses moved about on the political chessboard that was 18th-century Europe. Both left their homes at a very young to live in a land where they were considered to be foreigners, auslanders, outsiders, to be married to men who weren't particularly interested in getting down to the responsibility assigned to them: produce an heir to the throne. The people, food, and language were strange. They were surrounded by intrigue and untrustworthy "friends." They both had rather overbearing mothers who couldn't seem to understand that they couldn't continue to pull the strings and make their daughters dance. Such different results, though. One becomes a great success, one of the greatest leaders Russia has ever known, and the other . . . well, not so much. Why?

I have read several bios of Marie Antoinette; my favorite is by Antonia Fraser. I just finished reading a biography of Catherine by Simon Dixon while I'm waiting for my name to float to the top of the wait list for Robert K. Massie's new bio. I realized while reading Dixon's book that Catherine and Marie Antoinette were not unusual in their circumstances. A princess is only as good as her marriage, and princesses were moved all over Europe like chess pieces. What makes the difference between Catherine and Marie Antoinette is not the circumstances but the personalities. Catherine grasps the reality of her situation immediately and settles down to spend eighteen years studying how best to please her mother-in-law, her husband, and the Russian people. Two out of three isn't a bad score, and she becomes a great leader. Marie Antoinette is the poster girl for the song "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Liberated from the strict oversight of her Austrian mother and turned loose in the French court, she didn't know where to stop while enjoying herself. Tragedy ensues.

After reading the books, I realize that pure situational intelligence, shrewdness, and survival skills were gifts that Catherine brought to the game, while all Marie Antoinette had to depend on was a pretty face a gentle nature, and trust that men meant what they said. Not enough. A princess needed a bit of ruthlessness to survive then, and now as well, I suspect.

There once was a man . . .

There once was a fellow named Lear

Who brought lots of laughter and cheer

With poems full of cheese

And bad rhymes like these

And to us he became rather dear.

The best limerick I remember was written by a friend, John Woolley. From memory, it goes something like this:

A pretentious young poet named Tennyson

Called every blessing a benison.

A lake was a mere;

When dry it is was sere;

He referred to his wife as "my venison."

What are your favorite clever limericks?

Happy Birthday, Marge Piercy

You are an amazing writer: novelist, poet, memoirist, essayist. Your works shine with a brilliant light. I wish I had time to sit and read everything you ever wrote. I'm working my way through your works and dread the day I run out of your material. I'm reading slowly to make them last.

Whose work do you read slowly?

Summer blockbuster

Last fall I saw a trailer for a movie coming out this summer. Remember the game called Battleship? My father taught me how to play when I was about eight years old. It involves pencils and graph paper. You draw ships in the little squares and call out coordinates to find your opponents ships and destroy them. Nothing could be simpler. No moving pieces to lose, no strategy, just search and destroy. Great game for a kid. Two pencils, two pieces of paper, two players, and you're in business.

Well, Hollywood has taken this simple concept and turned it into a special effects extravaganza due to be released this summer, and my heart rejoices.

Is it because of the fond memories I have of playing with my father? No.

Is it because Hollywood has turned it into a thing of beauty and a joy forever, fleshing out the simple game with memorable, three-dimensional characters? No.

Is it because of the quality of the casting? No.

The reason?

When it's been 100+ degrees for two months, and the heat rash is attacking me, and I can't touch any of the metal parts of my car for fear of second-degree burns . . . then it is I desire to sit in an air-conditioned movie theater and watch things blow up. I particularly enjoy watching things come out of the ocean to be blown up, although watching things blow up and then sink into the ocean is also good. I couldn't care less who is the the movie so long as lots of things blow up and/or sink. I saw a trailer for this movie last fall and felt the thrill of the promise of the perfect summer movie.

Pillars of the Earth

Finished reading Ken Follett's epic novel that centers on the building of a cathedral and the people whose lives are bound up with it.  I have been plagued lately by the memory of a scene in a book but couldn't remember title or author. I wish I had kept a book log all my life instead of just the past five years. I have bits and pieces of books floating around in my memory, and matching them up with titles and authors is sometimes impossible. As I'm reading POTE, I realize that I had read it before and forgotten everything except the one scene I've been trying to remember. No chance of losing it this time. I put it in my book log.

I like to read all my books simultaneously on my Kindle. I read a chapter, then move on to the next book. Coming around to the start is like meeting old friends again. Sort of like watching a miniseries on television, it's a way of making a book last longer. This didn't work with POTE. I was so engaged from the very beginning that I had to read it straight through, and I put all my other reading aside to do it. It was worth it, but I was exhausted by the end of the marathon read.

Now I'm reading the sequel, World Without End, and I'm back to my old method - read a chapter then move on to the next book.

What was the last book that gripped you so much you couldn't put it down?

Happy birthday, Christopher Guest

You are responsible for many of the laughs I have enjoyed. From This is Spinal Tap to Best in Show, your wit and humor light up my life.

Crispin photos

I love the work of Jon Crispin so much that I asked him for permission to use the image at the head of my blog and for a print I could frame. I also loved this image:

The serene monochrome colors of the beach photo are going into my bedroom for relaxation. The image of the wound up energy and power of the swimmer, just waiting to be released, is going by my door. It will be the last thing I see as I leave to release my own energy onto the world. If you would like to see more of Jon's work, here's a link to his blog:

http://joncrispin.files.wordpress.com

The swimmer's story is in the October 2010 archive.

Thanks, Jon.

I don't do New Year's resolutions. I don't like setting myself up for failure that way. I have enough disappointments without going out looking for them. I am doing something a little different this year. I'm participating in an online challenge. This one is a snap for me. It's the Victorian Challenge. The idea is to read works by or about an individual Victorian writer for each month. Here's a link:

http://lauragerold.blogspot.com/2011/12/victorian-challenge-2012-sign-up.html

I downloaded a free copy of Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte. I've never read anything by Anne, loathe Wuthering Heights and adore Jane Eyre. I'll find out this month where Anne falls on the continuum between her two sisters.

I get double points in September because I plan to read Gaskell's bio of Charlotte Bronte.

Do you make resolutions? Why or why not.

Either way, happy reading in 2012