Bluestalking

Sunday Salon: March 11, 2012 Edition

 

Not reading quite the heavy volume I usually do lately, which you'll have noticed if you're still coming by to check my pulse regularly. Life events - in this case a terminal illness within the family, in case you haven't read my earlier posts - have turned daily routines on their heads, to a certain extent. My husband being gone so often, not to mention his general exhaustion paired with grief, forces me into a more active role at home. And with more going on within the household finding time to read has certainly suffered.

I'm being forced to read on the fly these days, or while the TV is on or the kids in motion and anything but quiet. I need heavy concentration to read. I'm not one of the lucky souls who could read in the middle of a war zone, if necessary. The days when shutting out the world was possible are over for me. I blame it on having children, becoming accustomed to having one ear on alert against the possibility of sudden choking or impending electrical shock, or any of the millions of life-threatening situations children are so well-equipped to get into. No matter their age, there's obviously some lever in the brain that trips with the increase in hormones involved in their development. Until and unless I can locate and reset that lever I'm doomed to a permanent state of fight or flight.

 

 

 

 

What I have been reading won't take me all that long to discuss, it's just that pathetic. For my Classics Group I've been attempting to re-read Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, failing miserably I'll admit. I first read this in high school - for my own pleasure, not for assignment - and my memories of it are glowing. This time through it's a plodding bore. It starts with a loooong section of padding, boring me nearly to tears. I'm reading it on my Kindle, so I don't know exactly what page of the actual book I'm on, but I should be well into something resembling plot by now. Instead, a few character names I vaguely recognize are just now being bandied about without so much as a hint of what I recall as the main plot. I feel quite irritated with myself for feeling this way, too, which drives another nail into the coffin. I'd been looking forward to this re-read for one of the most romantic plots in any novel I've ever read, yet I may have to abandon it, unfinished.

 

 

 

Next up, and much more to my liking, is Frank Delaney's latest The Last Storyteller. You may recall I earlier decided Delaney's video series on Ulysses will be the backbone of my read of the novel starting this Bloomsday. Well, the same man who's a broadcaster, speaker extraordinaire and scholar is also the author of several books set in - get ready for it - Ireland!

And this is a lovely one, for reasons that make it unique. It's written in such an unusual and pleasing framework - Irish legendary tales mixed with modern day re-tellings mixed with the beginnings of the era of the IRA - but it took a while to get into. In fact, I failed in my first start and had to go back to the beginning all over again.

Shades of Hunchback, I thought at first, but coming back into The Last Storyteller I realized attempting to start it while activity in the household was in full swing was a poor idea. This was not going to be Maeve Binchy's brand of writing, all thatched roofs and emerald green smiles with a heavy dose of broken hearts. This was much heavier, in the guise of a piece of fiction relying on Irish fiddle music and mischievous tales told by sage keepers of tradition.

It's all that, too, but woven in with much more substance and darkness. Like Ireland itself, you could say, with nearly unbearable beauty mixed with equal sadness. It isn't quite Sebastian Barry's Ireland - not so dark, or anywhere near as poetic and handsome heartrending - but more more like than Binchy's, let's admit it, fluff. Fluff I enjoyed as a youngster celebrating my Irish-American heritage, left behind with other childish things.

Frank Delaney's publicist sent me a finished copy of The Last Storyteller for review, telling me I could send him interview questions if I like. SEND FRANK DELANEY INTERVIEW QUESTIONS?! Slap me silly and call me Shamrock if that isn't a staggering offer. Have I mentioned he's referred to as THE MOST ELOQUENT MAN IN THE WORLD by NPR? Likewise, have you gathered I'm a blithering idiot, myself? Coming up with anything aside from stuttering foolishness will be a miracle.

Try asking such an author a question he hasn't been asked one million times. Okay, I've accomplished it before but not without a lot of brain-wracking and actual research in sources I won't tell as I'm greedy that way. It's nearly as tough a challenge as being asked to hug Sebastian Barry and then let go. Or finally visit Ireland, then return home to the States. Not sure I'm capable of doing either.

But yes, I will interview Frank Delaney. Posthaste, as it's nearly St. Patrick's Day and I have nothing at all prepared for that save the phrase I'd like to coach all non-Irish speakers to employ in addressing Irishmen on the holiday. A phrase sure to make an impression. We'll talk about that later.

 

In addition I'm reading a memoir written by Churchill's youngest child for review in Library Journal. Ron Rash's The Cove for review at BookBrowse.com and a slew of others for the Independent Publisher award. Then, there's the Charles Todd mystery I picked up for 99 cents for one of the Amazon Daily Deals and am finding more lifeless than I'd expected considering the lovely, compelling covers of his books.

Yes, I do judge them by their covers.

 

That will wrap up today's Salon, in which I wrote much more than I thought I would. Sorry about that. I just feel so discombobulated and a general mess. Then again, when don't I. But there you have it, a bit of what I'm working on lately, having finished so little and making slow progress on everything else.

Do have a lovely week.

Bleak House, Various and sundry.

My hands were itching to talk books with you all week but my wishes were thwarted due to a Typepad glitch. Seems the goodly blogging platform had quite a taste for all things Bluestalking. Not only would it not let me save new posts, it ate the last two I wrote as well and of course I hadn't backed them up because nothing like this has happened in forever. And I hope it had galloping indigestion to match my level of irritation.

Appealing to them via Twitter did me no good, a tactic that's served me well in the resolution of other consumer complaints, most recently in the replacement of a brand new sofa with a mangled underside. If there's one thing you never want it's a mangled underside and I was certainly having no part of that, especially when it's literally just been brought through the door. The store refused to replace it, offering instead to "fix" it. Unacceptable. Telling over a thousand followers of my woes got immediate attention. The store tweeted me within minutes and I had a phone call to schedule a re-delivery/switch the next business day. Now that is customer service, even if I had to lean on them to get it. Let them push me around? I think not.

That explains, in more detail than you needed, my relative internet silence over the past few days. But today I'm having another go, cautiously optimistic my computer won't blow up or my underside become mangled. If it does, I'm relying on all of you to Tweet it to the world.

 

In Progress:

Bleak House by Charles Dickens

Yes, yes I was supposed to have finished it for last Wednesday's book discussion but that didn't happen. It was nearly impossible reading Dickens at the galumphing pace required, but luck was with me and no one else save our brave facilitator had finished, either. In fact, I'd gotten the furthest of us all, save the one person who finished but was unable to attend. Victory! Well, of sorts.

Consensus was the book was very, very long. A wise conclusion considering how much paper is between the covers. As to the story itself, opinion was a bit more mixed. Keeping all gazillion characters and plotlines straight proved a difficulty not worth the effort for some, roughly half I would say. One gentleman, after reading only the first few pages, saw fit to pick up the Cliff Notes instead, eschewing the original for the shortcut. What's discouraging is he seemed to have as good a grip on things as I did, having finished roughly 85%. Then again, he wasn't obliged to read the vast quantity of words with which I grappled. So there.

 

We spent an awful lot of time asking each other, "What was the name of the _____ family's friend's servant?" and trying to untangle everyone with a similar name to another character. Partly because of this, if you haven't read Bleak House (or have but still aren't sure exactly what was happening) it's almost impossible spoiling the plot for you. The question would be, which plot are you even talking about, since there are so many. Of course they all funnel into the main plot regarding Esther Summerson (and cousins Richard and Ada), Lady Dedlock and the ongoing court case Jarndyce v. Jarndyce, in one way or other. It's always baffling how Dickens will manage to bring it all together by the end, yet always he does, minus a few characters who wander off but in some ways that's for the best, for the sanity of the reader.

 

So, what does BH say about Dickens and the Victorians? Jarndyce v. Jarndyce illustrates opinion about lawyers and court cases hasn't changed at all since the Victorians. Lawyers are generally nasty, self-serving creatures and court cases convoluted and dull. Shock horror!

As for the innocents, they so often suffer, sometimes losing their lives in unjust and unnecessary circumstances. Innocents include those with mental disabilities, children and those from the lower social order in general. BH is particularly sharp in the anger it directs at do-gooders, Mrs. Jellyby being a prime example, the woman so concerned with a village in Africa she doesn't notice anything happening in her own home. And I do mean anything. And Mr. Jellyby! If there's a better example of deep clinical depression in all of Victorian fiction I haven't read it.

Poor Mr. Jellyby, forever sitting with his head against a wall.

So, what of charity, to Dickens? Certainly not much of merit, extending past temporarily alleviating the suffering of those at hand. But even in that case, using Jo and his illness as an example, charity can backfire, leaving the best-intentioned permanently blemished. Going out of your way to help take care of your fellow wo/man doesn't fare well at all in BH.

Dickens has been called out before re: his depiction of women as either saints or whores. BH is filled with examples of saints - the "angels" in the house - with only one true "whore" in Lady Dedlock. She pays the price of her transgressions, in cruel ways. To be fair, so does the man who was the other half of that relationship, but he's largely shrouded in mystery. We know how he dies - destitute and alone - and there's a suggestion it was intentional, but Dickens shows us every bit of Lady Dedlock's agony.

 

The saint above all saints in BH is Esther Summerson, a character who may - I'm warning you - drive you barking mad by mid-book. She's exaggeratedly kind (and I really don't think it's intented ironically). Her interaction with Ada made me feel vaguely nauseous. There's friendship, then there's over the top and saccharine. But even the saints don't escape some very steep trials.

 

 

Did Dickens hate women? Oh, I don't know. There's lots written about it. I can tell you he treated his wife with callous indifference and almost surely had an affair with a beautiful actress. He also had a sort of crush on his dead sister-in-law, practically throwing himself in her grave when she died. Not sure what all that proves, if anything.

Ask me more later in the year. I'll know better by then.

Gillian Anderson as Lady Dedlock, BBC - 2005

 

Dickens at 200

Serendipitous Bleak House was the January read in our classics book group, considering the Inimitable's 200th birthday is coming up February 7th.

Martin Chuzzlewit is next up for me, in my personal celebration of all things Dickens. MC and the recent Claire Tomalin bio. This will be my first foray into MC and I know nothing about it - one reason I'm looking forward to the experience.

After MC I honestly can't say I'll have the luxury to fit in another Dickens novel in 2012, since I am attacking Ulysses starting Bloomsday this year (June 6). I'm allowing the rest of the year to read that one properly, relying heavily on true Irishman Frank Delaney and his podcasts on Ulysses to minimize my inevitable confusion.

To celebrate properly I'd need to take a trip to Dublin. I'm cheating myself by not doing so and I think I'll put that on my official Bucket List. There's a pub out there, somewhere, that has a stool with my name on it, and a few barrels of Guinness to get together a good drinking game to go along with a public reading of the book. One swallow for every swear should have me under the table in less than two hours. Change that to every sentence longer than a page and I'll be out in half that time. Of course it's likely I'd wake up with a shamrock - or worse - drawn on my forehead and my hair matted in who knows what.

Yes, onto the Bucket List it goes.

 

 

From an article in The Guardian

 

 

A Long Long Way by Sebastian Barry

Heartrendingly gorgeous and I'm in no hurry to finish, as Sebastian Barry hasn't written all that many novels. I do so love his writing and this in no way involves a massive crush of an adolescent nature, mixed with a great appreciation of his lyricism and unfailingly gorgeous writing.

I'm further along but reluctantly so. It's difficult reading about the horrors of war and I've grown so fond of Willie Dunne it's hard seeing inhumane events through his eyes. Right now I'm just past the point at which he realizes his last letter offended his father, though he's not positive why. And as for the lovely Gretta... I just don't trust that one. Great looking or not, I have a feeling Willie could have chosen better than herself with the green eyes.

 

 

Author Sam Savage

 

Glass by Sam Savage - Currently reading for review.

I have loved Sam Savage's writing since his first novel, Firmin:

"Savage's sentimental debut concerns the coming-of-age of a well-read rat in 1960s Boston. In the basement of Pembroke Books, a bookstore on Scollay Square, Firmin is the runt of the litter born to Mama Flo, who makes confetti of Moby-Dick and Don Quixote for her offspring's cradle."

- Publishers Weekly

I interviewed him following the publication of that novel, now that I think of it. Such a dear man.

Glass is about a widow asked to write a new introduction for the re-issue of her late husband's book but actually more about her life, memories and adjustment to being alone. What's sweetly poignant is there's a rat in this novel, as well, though the standard mammal who isn't able to read and express himself in words. Loads more than this is poignant but it was the rat that really got to me.

Between Firmin and Glass there was The Cry of the  Sloth:

"Living on a diet of fried Spam, vodka, sardines, cupcakes, and Southern Comfort, Andrew Whittaker is slowly being sucked into the morass of middle age. A negligent landlord, small-time literary journal editor, and aspiring novelist, he is—quite literally— authoring his own downfall. From his letters, diary entries, and fragments of fiction, to grocery lists and posted signs, this novel is a collection of everything Whittaker commits to paper over the course of four critical months."

- from Amazon.com

I love books that rip out my heart, dice it to bits and toss it onto a plate. Even better are those with a wicked dark sense of humor involving books, readers and/or writers. Sam Savage manages to hit my soft spots in every, single book he writes. He's not nearly as well known as he should be.

Read him. Do.

 

Restoring Grace by Katie Fforde - Reading for librarian group.

Nope, I'm not one for conventional romance and my last reading round up covered the reasons I chose this when forced to read outside my genre comfort zone: British, ancient home and single women living together, making a go of it sans men. Oh, and the Irishman, coming to woo the owner of the ancient home...

 Shush.

 

Losing It: In Which An Aging Professor Laments His Shrinking Brain by William Ian Miller

From the good people at Yale U.P. and it's basically about what it says. It makes a good NF read to pick up while the rest of the family's watching t.v.  I can read NF with noise going on around me but not fiction. Not without a rise in blood pressure that's not worth it, I should say.

 

Coming Soon:

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers - next read for classics group.

Love this book, can't wait to re-read, so you know it must be a heart-ripper. Also planning to squeeze in McCullers's unfinished autobiography, an Amazon purchase I allowed myself last week, though my fondness for the Amazon Daily Deal eBook has me well on my way toward addiction. Funny how I managed to side-step making an actual resolution about book buying this year. Or, not so much funny as frightening.

 

Reviews:

In between reads for BookBrowse, LibraryJournal and Booklist. Then there are the various and sundry review books, otherwise known as The Great Horde, including Barry Unsworth's latest The Quality of Mercy.

Also checked out from the library: How it All Began by Penelope Lively and Secrets of the Sea by Nicholas Shakespeare. Re: the latter, right now I can't recall what it's about or why I ordered it. Must have had some good reason. Funny, the ILL books that wind up on my desk are usually of this ilk. I either can't remember requesting them or why.

 

As usual, I'm obviously bereft of great reading material. All my time is wasted on breathing, eating and sleeping until such time as I can find my way back to reading. They say Americans are reading less and less every year, though whether that includes Tweets and McDonald's game pieces I don't know.

I smell another government study that needs funding! Perhaps I'll drop past Twitter and mention it.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

"How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that-for that-I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!"

- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Aside from Lolita, few books leave my hands feeling as grimy as The Picture of Dorian Gray, last month's selection for the Classics Reading Group at my library. If you haven't read it I recommend it, with the caveat you may find it repulsive, a bit ludicrous, or even a little upsetting. In its favor, it has a great gothic feel, what seems a realistic - and fascinating - portrayal of socio/psychopaths, and a plot that, though it sometimes gets bogged down in philosophy, does have an element of suspense I enjoyed the first time I read it. It's just not a very concise book, not one that gets from point A to point B in any real hurry. Though it is short by Victorian standards, if that makes you feel better.

Saying I "like" the book, I decided, is a strange way of putting it. This time around I was much more aware to what extent Wilde brow-beats the reader with the incessant themes of the evil surrounding Faustian deals, vanity and society's view on beauty, and the question of life vs. art. I'm probably missing others, as the book's packed with them, but it's these three I kept encountering over and over and over, while the first time through I was more concerned with making it to the end to find out what happened. And what does happen, in the end, is theatrically/dramatically very appropriate. Supernatural, a little odd, and more than a little predictable, but appropriate.

In our discussion last week we decided the book's far less about plot than the philosophy surrounding the themes. It also has the elements of being a "revenge novel," taking to task a very hypocritical Victorian society so obsessed with propriety anything went, so long as it wasn't mentioned in polite society. Only Oscar Wilde wasn't one to be quiet about anything. Flamboyant and free-spirited, he wasn't inclined to respect the repression of the times. And the price he paid was terrible.

On the upside, there are some brilliant epigrams in the book you know came straight from Wilde's mouth. Always the brilliant cynic, never at a loss for words, Oscar Wilde was a literary celebrity, though more for his plays than his novel. There's no doubt he was the life of many a party, but oh, that rapier wit. You wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of it.

There's so much to Dorian Gray, too much for me to do any justice to it short of writing a dissertation. But it sure makes for a great discussion, and for any student of literature, an important read.