Susan Hill's Landing

I have just finished reading Susan Hill's Howard's End is on the Landing.  This was another of those reads when other books are set aside in order to concentrate on this one.  Writer Susan Hill

went to the shelves on the landing to look for a book I knew was there.  It was not.  But plenty of others were and among them I noticed at least a dozen I realised I had never read

What follows is a guided tour of her bookshelves with each short chapter providing a window in to some aspect of books, literature, publishing and the lives of various authors.  Every now and again a particular book sparks off a memory and we have a glimpse into a brief episode in Susan Hill's life or a comment or thought on a related subject.

As with all good reads, one book leads to another and the last pages contain Susan Hill's 'Final Forty' choices as the books she could not do without.  Earlier in the book she writes about the books she could well do without and the books she knows she will never read for one reason or another.

There is a word of warning for us readers too

The internet can also have a pernicious influence on reading because it is full of book-related gossip and chatter on which it is fatally easy to waste time that should be spent actually paying close, careful attention to the books themselves, whether writing them or reading them.  Rationing it strictly gave me back more than time.  Within a few days, my attention span increased again, my butterfly-brain settled down and I was able to spend longer periods concentrating on single topics, difficult long books, subjects requiring my full focus.  It was like diving into a deep, cool ocean after flitting about in the shallows, Slow Reading as against Gobbling-up

I found this a fascinating read, highly recommended for any book lover and for anyone up for a challenge the 'Final Forty' provides the perfect reading list.

www.susan-hill.com

Meeting R S Thomas at 4.00 am

It was that awful 4.00 am feeling.  Restless and unable to sleep, with a mind churning and chewing over every single thing, I got up and made a cup of tea (what else?!)  Often during sleepless nights I read or try to pray.  But most times prayer doesn't seem to 'work', or bring the longed for peace when there are enough words tripping through my mind already.  Reading doesn't always seem right either.  The wordiness of the novel, unputdownable by day, is too much and non-fiction prose too taxing during the dark hours.  So last night I reached instead for this book which had arrived a few days earlier.

Flicking through, I came across a poem by R S Thomas.  I had heard his name before but could not say any more than that about this poet. I liked the title though - The Moor.  And reading it proved to be one of those moments when you are just so glad that someone else has felt what you feel and has been able to express it for you.

'The Moor

... was like a church to me....

What God was there made himself felt,

Not listened to ...

There were no prayers said.  But stillness

Of the heart's passions - that was praise

Enough; and the mind's cession 

Of its kingdom'

Having come from a church background where everything about God was conveyed through words, and there have been times in recent years when I have felt overloaded by words and have found no words for certain experiences, what a relief to find this poet who feels rather than hears God.  And what a joy that this  happens not in a church building, but out on a moor.  No words are necessary.  Prayer simply arises and the heart and the mind find peace.

And so I have met R S Thomas at last.  Sometimes when you discover an author properly for the first time, you wonder how on earth you had not found them before. I am now intrigued by the brief biographical details of this Welsh nationalist Anglican priest who spent his life ministering in rural Wales and who wrote a poem that so speaks to my own experiences, even if I have to get up in the middle of the night to meet him.

***

for lovers of god everywhere; poems of the Christian Mystics - Roger Housden, www.rogerhousden.com

www.poetry-chaikhana.com for spiritual poetry from all traditions

Bitter Greens

Bitter Greens by Kate Forsyth has on the front cover the words.. So you think you know the story of Rapunzel...

This is the version of Rapunzel that I grew up with.  It is the Grimm's version where Rapunzel, locked in the tower, gives herself away to the witch by asking her why the  prince is heavier when climbing up the golden rope of her hair.  In the earlier versions, the first by Giambattista Basile, published in 1634, and the re-telling 64 year later by Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force, the witch realises that Rapunzel is pregnant and so discovers her secret.  The innocent and naive Rapunzel (called Petrosinella and Persinette in these versions) simply assumes that she has put on weight due to the food which the prince supplies to supplement the meagre rations left by the witch.

Bitter Greens takes the story to a different level and indeed works on many levels through the interweaving of the stories of three women; Charlotte-Rose de la Force, Margherita and Selena Leonelli.  By weaving together the women's stories Kate Forsyth introduces us to their worlds.  Charlotte-Rose was raised in a Hugenot family and then introduced to the court of Louis XIV where the greater part of her story takes place.  As well as the roles and restrictions placed on women at the time we are given a glimpse in to the religious views of the day and the tensions between the Catholic and Protestant strands of Christianity.  It is ultimately a world where the King is the absolute ruler and no one escapes the law of his word.

Selena Leonelli and Margherita's stories are told against the backdrop of Renaissance Venice but both theirs and Charlotte-Rose's lives are full of contrasts; poverty and great wealth, the court and the convent and the freedom and opportunities afforded to men as opposed to the constricted and diminished lives of the women.

In a telling passage when Louis visits the de la Force family home, the young Charlotte-Rose overhears the conversation at the evening banquet,

Maman continued eagerly, 'And though I miss my husband greatly, I hold my estates and titles in my own right, and it was always my responsibility to run them wisely.  My husband had his own affairs to manage.  The Chateau de Cazeneuve is mine, and it shall be my daughter's after me.'
Anne-Marie-Louise was gazing at her with bright curious eyes.  'So madame, you think it possible for a woman to have her own little corner of the world and be mistress of it?'
'Of course,' my mother answered her.  'Women have been saints and soldiers and mothers.  They are more than capable of managing their own affairs.'  They shared a warm complicit smile.
'Do you not know that women are defective and misbegotten, a male gone awry?' Cardinal Mazarin said with scathing contempt.  'St Clement spoke truly when he said that all women should be overwhelmed with shame at the very thought that she is a woman.'
The women all looked down at their plates.  The Duc D'Orleans smirked at his friend. I was angry.  Why didn't Maman speak up?  Why didn't she say to him, as she said to her daughters, 'Why did God give us a brain if he didn't want us to use it?'  I looked at her doubtfully.  Her back was straight, her face was flushed and there was a deep line between her brows.  She was angry, but she did not speak.

I loved many things about this book - the magic, the mystery, the historical detail and the religious tensions.  I loved the fairy tale aspects, the witchcraft and the presence throughout the story of the motif of the garden.  But most of all I loved the question of whether it is possible for a woman to have her own little corner of the world and be mistress of it, particularly when her world is within the confines of the court or the convent or when her days are ruled by poverty.  The answer comes in part through the telling of stories.  Not only do we come to understand the characters through the telling of their stories, one of the most moving being the story of how Selena Leonelli came to be a witch, but in having a voice and being able to tell their own stories, the characters are able to find their own corner of the world and with it a measure of redemption,

Bells began to ring out.  Soeur Seraphina smiled.  'Come, my dear.  It's time for matins.  There's plenty of time for me to tell you my story.  I'll tell you while we work in the garden.'
I nodded and felt a sudden sunburst of joy at the idea.

There is so much to reflect upon in these women's stories and I know when a book has touched me deeply for I have to 'sit' with it for a few days afterwards and not rush to pick up the next one.  This is one such book which now has a place among my favourites, but the final words go to Charlotte-Rose..

It was by telling stories that I would save myself

(Note: for a very good and more comprehensive discussion of the plot of Bitter Greens see Iris' review at www.irisonbooks.com and for background information on the Rapunzel story see Terri Windling's article 'Rapunzel' at www.windling.typepad.com/blog.  Kate Forsyth credits this article as part of the inspiration for Bitter Greens)

Once upon a time...

Thanks to the post from Bride of the Book God I have just come across the Once Upon a Time VII reading challenge at Carl's blog Stainless Steel Droppings.  What a perfect excuse (as if I needed one) for reading more myths and fairytales.  Here is what Carl writes about the challenge..

“Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

~William Butler Yeats

The calendar in the Northern Hemisphere may officially designate March 20th as Spring, but the forecast of rain, sleet and snow beginning Thursday and carrying through the weekend makes that difficult to believe. Over the voice of wind and cold I can still here that voice telling us that it is indeed time to once more “come away”.

It is that voice that beckons us to Middle-earth and Newford, that calls out from the gap in the village of Wall and from the world of London Below. It is the voice that packs so much promise into four little words…

“Once upon a time…”

Perhaps you too have heard that voice whispering on the spring wind, or perhaps Old Man Winter continues to drown out the sound; either way that time has come: Once Upon a Time is here!

Thursday, March 21st begins the seventh annual Once Upon a Time Challenge. This is a reading and viewing event that encompasses four broad categories: Fairy Tale, Folklore, Fantasy and Mythology, including the seemingly countless sub-genres and blending of genres that fall within this spectrum. The challenge continues through Friday, June 21st and allows for very minor (1 book only) participation as well as more immersion depending on your reading/viewing whims.

Don’t like the word “challenge”? We have something special just for you.

Come away, and I’ll tell you more…

I have decided on Quest the Second which is to read at least one book from each of the four categories.  A few weeks ago I read a review of Bitter Greens by Kate Forsyth, a re-telling of Rapunzel, so this is my choice for the Fairytale category.  I have also been meaning to read Ursula le Guin and have found her novel Lavinia as the book for the Mythology read.

As for the other two categories I have no idea what to choose for Fantasy, but it has to be something written by George RR Martin since I borrowed a quotation from him for the title of this blog.  So a trip to the library is needed for that one.  And for the Folklore I have had Folktales of the British Isles on my bookshelf for a while now (another purchase from Graham York in Honiton), so this seems a perfect choice.

 The other joy of finding Once upon a time is that it has led to the discovery of some more wonderful blogs: the Story Girl,  a Bookish Way of Life and Terri Windling's site with its wonderful art and extensive archives.

So thank you to Carl for the reading challenge and, like so many others who have already commented, I am excited about getting started.

Attend the Tale

Last Friday I went to see Clyst Vale Community College's production of Sweeney Todd at the Barnfield Theatre in Exeter.  The College's reputation for putting on an excellent show is growing and well deserved.  The amount of work involved and the risk of a school taking over a professional performance space is a real tribute to the dedication of the staff. I am thankful that my daughter was able to take part this year by being in the stage crew.  The crew was so slick that I could barely see them.  I certainly could not pick out individuals which must mean that they all played their part very well indeed.

As the curtain rises the audience is in no doubt that this is a dark and sinister story of poverty, captivity and a blinding obsession with revenge. We were treated to the full works even in this, the school edition; atmospheric mist, hollow eyed Londoners and copious amounts of blood spurting from slit throats.  From the opening to the closing scene the chorus repeats its warning to "Attend the tale.  Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd".  It is a tale which ends in the almost complete destruction of the main characters.  The only two to escape are Todd's daughter Johanna and her lover Anthony, but whether they will escape the past is a question which haunts long after the curtain has come down.

For me though the most poignant and truly haunting moment comes not in the slitting of throats or the grinding of bodies to fill Mrs Lovett's pies, but in the first encounter between Johanna and Anthony.  He catches sight of her singing at her window and he is entranced.  Wanting to give her a gift, Anthony buys a songbird.  In answer to his question as to why the songbird flaps its wings so frantically, the bird seller replies "We blinds em sir".  She explains that the caged and blinded birds sing continuously as they no longer know whether it is day or night.

Attend the tale.....

Connections

In honour of Irish Short Story Month on The Reading Life blog I have been trying to track down a copy of any of William Trevor's short stories, so far without success.

I stopped by one of my favourite secondhand bookshops, Graham York Rare Books in Honiton and I scoured the shelves of the Killerton secondhand book barn, but both visits yielded nothing.

The reason I want to read one of Mr Trevor's stories in particular is very simple. William Trevor lives in Devon and has agreed to be one of the patrons of the Crediton Community Bookshop.  This wonderful project came about when one of the few remaining independent bookshops in Devon was due to be sold.  A local group is raising money through a share offer in order to keep the shop open for and hopefully soon to be owned by the community.  Reader, author and storytelling events are planned and it is proposed to showcase local writers as well as guidebooks to the area. Having purchased a couple of shares in the Community Bookshop I am waiting to see whether the full amount needed will be raised.  I sincerely hope so.

www.creditoncommunitybookshop.co.uk

Followers and Endings

Well I am surprised and delighted to find that this blog has its first follower.  Thank you to Mel U at The Reading Life who has the dubious honour of being the first!  As I am very new to this blogging lark, any suggestions for improvements would be most welcome.  And thanks to The Reading Life's post on The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery, I have taken my as yet unopened copy and finally started reading it.  And what an absolute delight.  I love the honest irony and sharp observations from the two narrators Renée, a Parisian concierge and Paloma a twelve year old girl who lives in the same building.  But what really got me reading was the fact that Mel U loved the book but disliked the ending.  So of course, not knowing how it ends, I just had to start and find out....

Here is Renée describing Violette Grelier, the housekeeper for one of the wealthy families who live in the same building,

"All day long she jabbers like a magpie, busily rushing here and there, acting important, reprimanding her menial subalterns as if this were Versailles in better days, and exhausting Manuela with pontificating speeches about the love of a job well done and the decline of good manners.
'She hasn't read Marx,' said Manuela to me one day.  The pertinence of this remark uttered by a Portuguese woman who is in no way well versed in the study of philosophy is striking.  No, Violette Grelier has certainly not read any Marx, for the simple reason that he does not appear on any lists of cleaning products for rich people's silverware."

This is going to be a good read.

Another book I have enjoyed recently, again for its irony, this time both very funny and very sad, is John Green's The Fault in Our Stars.  This is the story of Hazel and Augustus, both teenagers, both with cancer and both falling in love.  Not an obvious subject for a hugely enjoyable read, but the writing is so compelling that I could not put the book down.

At the start of the book, Hazel and Augustus meet at the cancer support group,

"So here's how it went in God's heart: The six or seven or ten of us walked/wheeled in, gazed at a decrepit selection of cookies and lemonade, sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to Patrick recount for the thousandth time his depressingly miserable life story - how he had cancer in his balls and they thought he was going to die but he didn't die and now here he is, a full-grown adult in a church basement in the 137th nicest city in America, divorced, addicted to video games, mostly friendless, eking out a meager living by exploiting his cancertastic past, slowly working his way towards a master's degree that will not improve his career prospects, waiting, as we all do, for the sword of Damocles to give him the relief that he escaped those many years ago when cancer took both of his nuts but spared what only the most generous soul would call his life.  AND YOU TOO MIGHT BE SO LUCKY!"

I laughed and cried reading this book.  I also hated the ending, not because it felt wrong within the world of the story, but because I so wish it could have been different.

But where else can you go from being a fifty-four year old Parisian concierge to an American teenage cancer patient other than in the pages of a book?  And between the two I joined Harold Fry as he walked the length of England in The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, but more of that later.