New arrivals

I'm excited about the new arrivals on my doormat this week.  First to arrive was The Carhullan Army by Sarah Hall. Here's a bit of the blurb:

Jackie and a group of fellow rebel women have escaped the Authority's repressive regime, forming a militia in the far north of Cumbria. Sister, brought to breaking point by the restrictions imposed on her own life, decides to join them. Though her journey is frightening and dangerous, she believes her struggle will soon be over.  But Jackie's single-minded vision for the army means that Sister must decided all over again what freedom is, and whether she is willing to fight for it.

I was inspired by James Naughtie's discussion with Sarah Hall in Radio 4's Bookclub archive. Sarah Hall's collection of short stories The Beautiful Indifference impressed me with its descriptive prose, so I think this will be a good read.

Next through the letter box was the collection of essays Stop What You're Doing and Read This. I missed this on Radio 4's Book of the Week back in January. I'm looking forward to dipping in to the essays by Mark Haddon, Jeanette Winterson and others.

Still to arrive are Peter Ackroyd's book London Under and Italian Neighbours by Tim Parks.  The latter is an attempt to rekindle interest in my Italian course which is being sadly neglected with all this reading.

I'm off now to finish Before I Go To Sleep. The housework and Italian verb conjugations will just have to wait a little bit longer.

Every Day Poets

I'm making shameless plug today for my Open University friend Larraine Nicholls. I've always admired the originality and power of her writing. You can find her poem, 'Stripped Yet Dancing' featured today on Every Day Poets.

The Red House by Mark Haddon

A brother and sister, with their spouses and children, spend a week in a cottage in Wales. This is the starting point of The Red House by Mark Haddon, the author of the prize-winning The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. This is a simple idea, but one which belies the complicated worlds of the different characters. Although related by blood or marriage, they are very much individuals, bringing with them their own histories and crises. Occasionally their worlds touch, in moments of brief understanding, before drifting apart once more.

Angela still mourns her stillborn child, who would have celebrated her eighteenth birthday that week. Richard, a hospital consultant, is worried about a potential lawsuit. Dominic wonders whether to end his affair. The teenagers, Melissa and Daisy, form a brief but dangerous alliance.

The story is told, day by day, in the third person, with a constantly changing viewpoint. This disorientates the reader, making it hard to follow at first. The style is impressionistic, almost a stream of consciousness at times. It made me think too of Middlemarch and the 'equivalent centres of self'. So some concentration is required, but I think it is a book that well rewards the effort.

One person looks around and sees a universe created by a god who watches over its long unfurling, marking the fall of sparrows and listening to the prayers of its finest creation. Another person believes that life, in all its baroque complexity, is a chemical aberration that will briefly decorate the surface of a ball of rock spinning somewhere among a billion galaxies. And the two of them could talk for hours and find no great difference between one another, for neither set of beliefs makes us kinder or wiser.

A spot of background googling brought to light Mark Haddon's essay 'The Right Words in the Right Order' about the power of the novel to portray our inner experiences. The essay can be found in Stop What You're Doing And Read This, authors' reflections on the transformative power of reading. Contributors include Blake Morrison, Zadie Smith and Jeanette Winterson. Another one to add to my list perhaps?

The Olympic Torch reaches Lancaster

Since I woke this morning, the rain has poured - a deluge that would even have Noah worried. As I write, my son is standing in the rain with his school waiting for a glimpse of the torch. Or rather the freebies he has been promised as the only possible inducement for being there.

Meanwhile, down the road in Garstang, my daughter is waiting to see her friend Laura carry the torch through the town. I can only hope she packed a coat.

And me?  I'm snug in my office waiting for the live video coverage. I can't help thinking I've got the better deal.

In praise of Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;

I wonder if all book lovers have a moment of epiphany, when something moves or excites them to say 'yes, this is why I read!'  I've had a few such moments over the years, where something I've read has spoken to me about what it means to be human.

I'm not a poetry buff, but one of my first such moments was reading T.S. Eliot's poem 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'. I was seventeen at the time, studying English Literature in a rather uninspiring comprehensive school in a very ordinary northern town. Certainly as a teenager I could identify with the frustration, angst and excruciating self-consciousness of poor Prufrock. Haven't we all, at some point, experienced 'The eyes that fix you  in a formulated phrase', leaving you 'pinned and wriggling on the wall'?

I still love the musicality of the poem, the repetition and the imagery.  For me, it begs to be read aloud, like an incantation.  And despite the clever literary illusions, I think it's incredibly accessible.

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

Literary freedom

After six years of joy and anguish, my degree in English Literature is complete.  I've revisited old favourites, learnt to love Middlemarch and developed a hunger for books that will not go away. I've felt the pleasure and pain of creative writing too.  Whilst a well-crafted poem still eludes me, I have some short stories to polish and notebooks brimful of ideas.

Study has become so much a way of life, sandwiched between cricket practices, school runs and my working day, that I'd braced myself for the anti-climactic 'what now?' feeling that often accompanies the end of a major project.  I needn't have worried.  Reading, writing and blogging about books creates a never-ending chain of opportunities.  There are so many new authors to discover and literary conversations to be had.

Now I can indulge my literary whims without a hint of guilt.

Nineteenth century Oscars

With two days to go to my exam, my head is more tightly packed than a teenage girl's suitcase.

So, for a bit of light relief, my nineteenth century Oscar winners are:

1. Best female character: Jane Eyre
2. Best male character: Lydgate in Middlemarch
3. Best scene: tough one this, but I'm going for Jane Eyre's first wedding day
4. Best villain: Count Fosco in The Woman in White
5. Best sense of place: the mine, Le Voreux, in Germinal
6. Best seduction/sex scene: Sergeant Troy's swordplay in Far From the Madding Crowd
7. The book I wish I'd written: Jane Eyre

Feel free to add your own...

The Song of Achilles

Achilles bandaging the injured Patroclus

Madeline Miller's Orange Prize-winning novel retells the story of the Illiad through the eyes of Achilles' close companion Patroclus. Patroclus comes to the court of Achilles' father as a young boy, shamed, unnoticed and unloved, having been exiled from his own kingdom for accidentally killing another boy. He becomes Achilles' companion and then lover, following the handsome demi-god through danger and intrigue to the Trojan Wars.

I began The Song of Achilles with some trepidation. I knew very little about Greek mythology; might it all be too serious, too learned?  I needn't have worried.  It's a very readable book and the author wears her knowledge lightly. The first person fast-paced narrative quickly drew me into the story. The cast of men and gods is well drawn, especially Achilles' mother, the chilling sea goddess Thetis.

Thank you to Cornflower Books for sending me such an entertaining prize.

From Ancient Greece to distant worlds

In a last ditch attempt to regain my sanity and pass next week's exam, I have booked a week off work. And to avoid addling my brain with the finer points of The Nineteenth Century Novel, I've planned a few diversions too.

The Song of Achilles is proving to be extremely diverting, and I may finish the book a little more educated about Ancient Greece than when I started.  More about that in my next post.

The Ridley Scott film, Prometheus, was my daughter's idea. A team from Earth sets off for deepest darkest space, to discover the origins of mankind. Inevitably, they find rather more than they bargained for.  But you really do need the proper trailer, in that very deep film voice...

As sci-fi films go, I do like the Alien series rather more than most.  Prometheus asks questions about our need to know where we came from and who made us.  There's lots of shooting and special effects too, of course.  And as for the aliens themselves, I never know whether to laugh or scream when they leap out at you.  Mainly I peer out from behind my hands and enjoy the thrill of it all.

This morning, it's a brief appointment with Henry James's 'The Art of Fiction', before heading off to Blackpool for an under 11s cricket match.  The sky is a rather uncertain grey, so we will be armed with a flask of coffee, waterproofs and suntan cream, since you can never tell with an English summer.  Watching cricket is a joy, providing you approach it in the right spirit.  A picnic is required, as well as warm clothing and a good book.  I've never quite mastered the Pimms and cucumber sandwich style of cricket spectating, but perhaps I'm just not that kind of girl.

And so the week will go on, with a subtle blend of sport and literature.  I'll finish the week off with Sabbat, a play about the Pendle witches, at the Dukes theatre in Lancaster.

Exam? What exam?