The Song of Achilles and the Orange Prize

It wasn't an easy decision.  The two books lay on the rug, side by side and poles apart.  Our wine glasses were empty, and we were down to the crumbs at the bottom of the crisp bowl. Which book would we choose?

Book group last night was an especially convivial event, enhanced no doubt by the balmy weather and a bottle of sparkling rosé.  Opinions on  Gatsby were divided.  The more we talked, the more I warmed to my theme. Gatsby boring? Never! It's funny, you can know people for years and then one day they let you down. Still, no-one's perfect. Far better a spirited discussion, than nodding sagely into our cups of tea and saying 'it was lovely'.

And then it came to decision time.  We're all too polite to push our suggestions too hard, or to say that we'd rather stick pins in our eyes than read a particular book.  Nor do we have a voting system.  So there they lay, The Song of Achilles and The Red House by Mark Haddon.  Trumpet by Jackie Kay was also mooted, but without a hard copy to peruse the odds were always against it. J. was worried that The Song of Achilles seemed like a 'man's book', but then, think of the cost of the other still in hardback.  After much prevarication we plumped for Achilles, only to discover this morning that it has won the Orange Prize.  It's not like us Lancashire Ladies to be so of the moment.

Madeline Miller collecting her 'Bessie'

And did we make a good choice?  Well, we've read several Orange Prize winners and not been disappointed yet.  We shall have to wait and see.

The Great Gatsby

The Roaring Twenties, Long Island, New York.

The cover of the first edition,
with the face of Daisy Buchanan.

For the wealthy few it's a time of decadence and parties, but one man's parties are more lavish than all the rest. His name is Gatsby.  No-one knows where he's come from, but some say that he killed a man.

I have the Lancashire Ladies to thank for revisiting The Great Gatsby, this month's book group choice.  I'd forgotten how much I like this book.  From the very first paragraph I knew I was in for a good time.

The excesses of the age are described with great flair, the characters are shown to be very human and very flawed.  I can imagine the parties, the fine surroundings, the jazz music and the crassness of Gatsby's guests.  I can imagine the hideous afternoon when Nick meets Tom's mistress.

There's something special about Gatsby and I must confess to be being a little in love with him. He had 'one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced - or seemed to face - the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on YOU with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.' I can't help thinking that the narrator, Nick Carraway, was a little in love with him too.

I don't want to give the plot away, suffice to say it's a story of love and the failure of the American dream.  Whatever Gatsby may be, he is so much better than the people around him.

I notice that Baz Luhrmann's film of The Great Gatsby due for release in Jan 2013. I can't say I'm tempted.  Although it's shot in 3D, with Leonardo di Caprio as Gatsby, I much prefer to apply my own vivid imagination to a story well told.

A bit of fun

Inspired by Cornflower's books and gardens meme:

The Awakening is sudden, as if Dracula is running his finger down my spine. I step out into the garden, seduced by The Beautiful Indifference of the night. This is How it All Began. I stand silently and listen, The Woman in White in the Heart of Darkness. I imagine meeting my lover, The Great Gatsby, by the garden shed. But I am no Madame Bovary and this is The Coward's Tale. I return to bed and wait for The Sense of an Ending or The Shipping News.

Alas, I'm more of a dreamer than a gardener!

Heart of Darkness

He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath—"The horror! The horror!"

The Roi des Belges, the steamboat
commanded by Conrad on the Congo in 1889

Twenty six years ago I began my A Level English Literature studies with Heart of Darkness.  As soon as I'd finished the book I turned back to the start and read it all over again.

Now it's the final text of my English Literature degree. I've reread it several times over the years since, as a novella, it's just the right length for a Sunday afternoon indulgence. Each time I read it, I find more to admire.

Marlow, the narrator for most of the book, recounts his journey as the captain of a steamboat down the Congo into the 'heart of darkness' in search of the infamous Mr Kurtz.  Conrad's vivid descriptions are based on his own experiences of the Congo and I'm never sure what is most terrifying, the oppressive jungle or the assortment of macabre colonists he meets on the way.  From the old women knitting ominously in the company office, to the immaculate Accountant or the horror of Kurtz himself, we see that the darkness is spiritual just as much as physical.  These are the 'hollow men' that inspired T.S. Eliot's poem.

The Nigerian author Chinua Achebe attacked the book as racist. Whilst Conrad is critical of European colonialism, Africans in the book are dehumanized and, at best, described as noble savages.

I can't disagree with Achebe's criticism, but as a work of immense power and a vivid account of the effects of colonialism, I can't think of a better read.

Attention deficit

I'm in the final editing stages of my final essay for my degree in English Literature.  The arguments are made and referenced, the threads pulled as tight as I can manage.  There's just a little tweaking for an extra mark or two to send me over the edge.  But then, like a bursting bubble, the clarity's gone and I stare blankly at the alphabet soup on the screen.

Time for a run round the block, I think, or some vigorous housework, in the hope the fog will clear.

Just one more hour and then press 'send'.

Edit to say: it's sent now.  What a relief!

2401 Objects

In 1953 Henry Molaison had part of his brain removed in an attempt to cure his epilepsy.  After the surgery he was unable to remember the last two years of his life, or form any new memories. He lived for another fifty five years.

In 2009 his brain was dissected live on the internet with an audience of 400,000, Henry having become one of the world's most important neurological case studies.

Henry's story was retold in '2401 Objects', an award winning play performed at the Dukes, Lancaster, last night.

It reminded me of everything I like about theatre: a good script, talented actors and innovative stage management.  A story told with insight and compassion, it moved me and made me think.

Austerity measures

I am filled with longing.  Longing for Hilary Mantel's new book, and Mark Haddon's too.

I do not need either of them.  If my 'to-be-reads' would form an orderly queue it'd begin with The Great Gatsby (for book group) and The Song of Achilles, closely followed by the latest Granta, assorted short story collections and numerous Kindle downloads.  If they queued politely (they seldom do) then they'd stretch from my bedroom to the gates of Williamson Park.  Instead, they're scattered around the house in a less accusatory fashion, although they do occasionally whisper in corners.

So you can see there's no earthly need for me to buy another book, but like a child who's tasted one cola bottle from her tub of pick and mix, I'm finding it hard to resist.  I've loitered with intent in Waterstones (no apostrophe if you please) for the last two days, but I don't think I can last much longer.

Guilty pleasures

Thirty years ago you might have found me reading under the covers.  Nothing too shameful - Orwell perhaps, Dickens or Mills and Boon historical.  I don't have to hide under the covers any more, but the sense of indulging guilty pleasures still persists. This is with good reason since I should be finishing my essay on Victorian deathbed scenes but hey, everyone deserves a break now and then.

The first of this week's indulgences was How It All Began.  I have a fellow blogger - dovegreyreader I think - to thank for introducing me to Penelope Lively.
Charlotte's mugging sets off a train of potentially life-changing events for those around her.  I was surprised to discover that this is such a recent book since, to me, it has a distinctly old-fashioned feel. There's plenty of telling rather than showing, but the character sketches are entertaining and all in all it is a very enjoyable read.

The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey had been on my wishlist for some time and I was not disappointed. An impulse buy meant I read it on my Kindle, rather than having the pleasure of the beautiful paper edition, hard backed with a silvery design like the book of Russian folk tales featured in the story. My loss, I think. An aging childless couple, battling the elements to settle in Alaska, build a child out of snow.  The snow child becomes a beautiful girl, but is she real?  I certainly wanted to believe.  Whereas The Shipping News gave us the bitter cold of small town Newfoundland, The Snow Child evokes the rhythm of the seasons and the natural world.  A lovely book.

Next on my list will be my unexpected prize from Litlove,  The Song of Achilles, a retelling of the Illiad.   The last time I won anything I was a ten year-old Bo Peep, so this was an excellent surprise.

These recent reads have certainly rekindled my interest in non-course reading.  Just five more weeks of academic study and then I can read to my heart's content.  I'm counting the days.

'The Gun' by Mark Haddon

'Sean raises the gun at the end of his straightened arm and rotates slowly so that the barrel is pointing directly into Daniel's face. Bang, he says, softly. Bang.'

Short stories in the bath again. This time, from Granta 119 Britain, 'The Gun' by Mark Haddon.  Two boys - from quite different backgrounds - and a gun, stolen from an older brother.  The boys sense an adventure and the reader senses trouble.  The outcome is both better and, at the same time, worse than we could have imagined.  Certainly the writing was so vivid that I felt as though I was there all the time with the boys, racing to reach the story's strange conclusion.

My Granta subscription has just expired and, given the growing 'to be read' pile by my bed, I had decided not to renew.  For stories like this, I may have to rethink.