Where to begin?

As I write this I'm sitting in my favourite spot in Caffe Nero with my usual order of diet coke and tuna melt panini. You might be forgiven for thinking I'm taking it easy, with time on my hands. It's an easy mistake to make, I know. Instead, I'm having ONE OF THOSE DAYS. You know the type - those days where no sooner do you start one thing than you remember all the other things you should be doing. I have to remind myself that it's okay to sit here, since writing a blog post is on my list. I've been rather lax of late on the blogging front, but I rather like sitting in a cafe with my notebook, pretending to be one of those writerly types.

So let me tell you about all the things I could and should be doing. At the moment I'm dipping my toe in Shakespeare rather than the full immersion I'd hoped for at the start of the course. My study calendar tells me I should be reading Hamlet - or was that last week? My head's still buzzing from a dynamic youth production at the local Dukes theatre a couple of weeks ago. I have an assignment on Twelfth Night due in a couple of weeks, but I'd rather be reading Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. What's more, there's a Tobacco Factory production of The Two Gentlemen of Verona at the Dukes this week. Twelfth Night is clearly going to have to wait.

On the novel front, this month's book group choice is Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. I've read it a couple of times before, the first being the more disconcerting since I could relate to Esther Greenwood's disturbed state of mind rather more than is healthy. I'm hosting book group this time so it's unlikely I'll be able to wriggle out of reading it again, even allowing for extra coffee making and other hostess duties. Hmmph! Reading's not supposed to be a chore.

I made the mistake of opening one of my birthday gifts, Elizabeth Taylor's Complete Short Stories. I only read the first few pages of 'Hester Lilly' and now I don't want to stop. Taylor's such a subtle and skillful writer that there's so much lies beneath the words on the page. It's a rather long short story so clearly The Bell Jar is going to have to wait too.

All these literary distractions wouldn't be so bad, but with the pace stepping up at work and the cricket season beginning, real life is really getting in the way.

But hey, better to have too much to do than too little.

And at least I can now cross one thing off my list.

Book group envy

When The Mathematician told me he was joining a book group I'm ashamed to say I was not entirely encouraging. I'd always thought of book groups as quite feminine affairs. (I realise at this point I risk losing any male readers I might have had). I do apologise for this blatant sexism, but my mental image of bookgroups was a gaggle of middle-aged ladies sipping wine and interspersing book talk with updates on school holidays and living with teenagers. I know - I'm old enough to know better.

Of course, rationally I do realise that book groups come in all shapes and sizes. There's no reason why a glass of shiraz can't be swapped for a pint of real ale or a cup of tea for that matter. Nor is there any reason why family talk can't be replaced by thoughts on the Manchester derby. And now, I must confess, I find myself suffering from book group envy.

Since its inception, the all-male Second Monday Book Group have read the following:

The Psychopath Test - Jon Ronson
From Russia with Love - Ian Fleming
The Outsider - Camus
A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich - Solzhenitsyn
The God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy

So why am I envious? Partly for their choice of books. Well, the Camus and Solzhenitsyn at any rate. There's something about the broader canvas - whether political or philsophical - that appeals. It's the pleasure of a conversation that begins with the book itself but then roams far and wide. I'd also like to escape from what seems to have become a comfortable rut of 'women's writing'.Then there's the muscularity of the debate. Only once have the Lancashire Ladies derided someone's book choice, and that was only by accident. The SMBG, by contrast, have no such qualms and tables have been thumped on several occasions.

I'm in a belligerent mood for book group this evening. Lancashire Ladies be warned!

December reading - Parisian nights and mathematical obsessions

With the reading room nearing completion, the thought of settling down with a book on a winter's evening has never been so appealing.

It's hardly surprising that Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men is so popular as a high school set text. Its central characters, George and Lennie, are migrant American labourers during the Great Depression. George, intelligent but uneducated, has to look out for his companion Lennie, a kindly but simple-minded giant of a man who doesn't know his own strength. From the start, Steinbeck makes us fear the worst for the unlikely duo. The pitfalls are many and we wonder how, rather than when, the two men will be undone. At a mere one hundred pages it's a quick and satisfying read. The dialogue and pace are excellent and the ending is very moving. It thoroughly deserves its place on my Classics Club list.

Inspired perhaps by Woody Allen's film Midnight in Paris, my two recent purchases have a definite Parisian flavour. My first purchase was The Ladies' Paradise which was recently televised by BBC TV. I'm intrigued to see if Zola, who wrote so convincingly about the appalling conditions of the miners in Germinal, can be equally at home in a Parisian department store. Rumour has it that there will be a Zola readalong in the new year, so this will be a good starting point.  The second was The Parisian Wife by Paula McLain. This tells the story of the troubled marriage of Ernest Hemingway and Hadley Richardson. It promises 'nights awash with absinthe in the giddy company of F.Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein.' What's not to like? Incidentally, if you haven't seen Midnight in Paris, I would recommend it.  Entirely self-indulgent, but also great fun.

My husband, The Mathematician, is often to be found with his head in a book. Generally speaking it's a maths textbook or 'How to Play Poker', but he's branched out a little recently and joined an all-male book group. Their first two choices, The Psychopath Test and Casino Royale, haven't impressed him greatly. He's been rather more taken with books on a mathematical theme. Firstly The Newtonian Casino, a true story of a group of talented physicists and mathematicians who developed an early computer to predict the results of roulette and smuggled it into Vegas casinos in the sole of their shoe. The second, Fermat's Last Theorem by Simon Singh, tells of one of the most notorious mathematical problems and the man who thought he'd solved it.  Both books have gripped TM, but on closer examination I've found them far too mathematical for my tastes. Still wanting to share in TM's enthusiasm, I chose instead Uncle Petros and Goldbach's Conjecture by Apostolos Doxiadis. This novel describes one man's obsession with a simple but dastardly challenge - to prove that every even number greater than 2 is the sum of two primes. It's proving to be an interesting insight into mathematical obsession, but not at all intimidating for a non-mathematician like me.

Last, but not least, I have our own book group choice - Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson. I read this many years ago and I'm looking forward to revisiting it.

All in all, an excellent month.

What's on your reading list?

The Soul of Kindness - Elizabeth Taylor

Our book club choice this month was Elizabeth Taylor's The Soul of Kindness, published in 1964.

Loneliness seems to be a recurring theme in Taylor's novels. Mrs Secretan finds a gaping hole in her life after the death of her husband and the marriage of her only child, Flora. Then there's Flora's friend Meg, still young, but 'on the shelf' and already showing signs of becoming an 'old maid.'  Flora wants to marry Meg off to Richard, but he's pining for his fickle friend Frankie, buying in treats just in case Frankie calls round. Meg's brother Kit is trying to find work as an actor, but without success. Flora's husband, Richard, befriends a Elinor who also leads a lonely life, despite being married.

At the centre of it all is Flora herself, a young newly-wed, living in London. She's beautiful and charming, the very 'soul of kindness'. There's something appealing, but also quite appalling, about Taylor's heroine:

'Here I am!' Flora called to Richard as she went downstairs. For a second, Meg felt disloyalty. It occurred to her all of a sudden that Flora was always saying that, and that it was in the tone of one giving a lovely present. She was bestowing herself.'

Perhaps Flora is a woman of her time and class. With no need to work for a living, her 'job' is to be kind and charming, the perfect wife and mother.  If such a thing as selfish selflessness is possible, then Flora is its embodiment. She's a fixer and wants everyone to be happy, but only because their unhappiness disturbs her own peace of mind. The other characters seem to have to put their own feelings to one side, so as not to disturb her well being. They can't even resent her for it, since she is apparently so kind and well-intentioned in all she does.

Flora congratulates herself on cheering up Kit when he's in bed with flu:

'she felt invigorated, sure that she had accomplished something for Kit, had left him uplifted and inspired. It was the gift she had - to be able to do this for him, to give him something to lie and think about and hope for.'

Events don't always turn out as she'd like them to and Flora realizes, albeit briefly, that what she takes for kindness may not be kindness at all.

Elizabeth Taylor

Until the last few pages, I must admit that the book was a little too understated for me. But then, at the very end, the denouement underlines the absolute irony of the title. The story seemed unremarkable as I read it, but it will linger in my memory for quite some time.

Inspiring Dickens

A few weeks ago Lancaster library hosted a Dickens Readers Day. I nearly didn't go, but I'm very glad I did.

From a choice of workshops I selected the Close Reading Group. The idea is, rather than reading a book before hand and discussing it generally, a group meets and reads a chapter aloud together, pausing along the way to discuss interesting points. It felt rather like a university tutorial, but it was sensitively facilitated to encourage everyone to participate.  Readers were encouraged to focus on the chapter in hand rather than the book as a whole or contextualise with what many readers knew of the writer's background. The reading in question was the first chapter of Dombey and Son. Mrs Dombey has finally produced a male heir, much to her husband's delight:

'The earth was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships; rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against their enterprises; stars and planets circled in their orbits , to preserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre. Common abbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole reference to them: A.D. had no concern with anno Domini, but stood for anno Dombei- and Son.'

This isn't my favourite Dickens novel, but this first chapter does encapsulate so much of what makes him a great writer: humour and pathos, social commentary and characters that leap from the page.  Even if the novel is a hefty nine hundred pages, he does manage to cram so much into this chapter and set up the story effectively.

The highlight of the day was Claire Tomalin, Dickens biographer. Perhaps it was Tomalin's evident enthusiasm for her subject, her eloquence and knowledge, or perhaps it was just that Dickens is such an interesting subject. Either way, she had the audience's full attention - it was certainly the quickest hour of the day. I do admire a writer who can speak and engage equally well with those who know their work and those who don't. Some writers seem so keen not to give the plot away, that they seem to say little at all of any import. Certainly Tomalin left me wiser and wanting more.

It was only this last weekend that I caught up with my audiobook subscription. Since I only tend to listen to audiobooks in bed, they send me to sleep very quickly. After four attempts at Bleak House, I've definitely missed more than I've heard. For a change, I thought I'd give Tomalin's biography of Dickens a go. I've only reached chapter three, and my enthusiasm may be premature, but so far I'm captivated. He seems such a remarkable man, and I'm marvelling at his productivity, his long walks and philanthropic work. I wonder too at the impact of his childhood and family poverty on his adult life. I'm imagining the sensitive eleven year old boy, finishing a day at the blacking factory to rejoin his family in Marshalsea debtors' prison.

I find so much to admire in Dickens, in both his gift as a story teller and for his social conscience. It's true, I may revise my ideas somewhat when I know more about his relationship with his wife Catherine, but for now I'm enthralled.

It's this capacity of books to enthuse and inspire that makes me such a bibliophile. I think I may have found my remedy for the November blues.

The last book I read...

was Trumpet by Jackie Kay. One of the best books in a while, but sine I've already reviewed it here, I'll mention instead Daphne du Maurier's My Cousin Rachel. This was only the second of her books I've read,  but what great psychological drama! Philip is such an unreliable narrator, but I couldn't help wanting the best and fearing the worst for him.

The book I'm reading now...

Graham Greene's gangland story Brighton Rock. This is a book that hits the ground running, plot wise. The characters are so well drawn as are the relationships between them.

What I'm reading next...

Our book group choice this month is The Soul of Kindness by Elizabeth Taylor. We enjoyed Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont so much that we've plumped for another by the same author. It was a last-minute decision with no time to phone a blogger friend for advice, so I don't know yet if we've picked a good one. I'm determined not to leave my reading until the last minute this time.

The last book I bought...

was on a shopping trip to Manchester with my daughter. In the biggest bookshop I've visited in a long time, I was like a kid in a candy store. No matter how good the on-line discounts, you can't beat handling the books. I managed to limit myself to just one - Umberto Eco's new novel The Prague Cemetery. I loved the combination of ideas and great storytelling in The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum, but found myself baffled by Eco's later works. I'm hoping this is a return to his early form.

The last book I was given...

The Bridge of the Golden Horn by Emine Sevgi Ozdamar. This was given to me by Lizzy Siddal as part of her German literature month. It tells the story of a Turkish teenager who goes to Germany in search of work. I must confess I'm struggling with this one. The first-person, almost childlike, narration was refreshing at first, but my enthusiasm has waned a little. I'm waiting for the right moment to pick this one up again.

Lancaster Litfest 2012 - Curate's egg picks

In an ideal world, I would immerse myself in books for a whole week, gliding seamlessly from event to event, and talking all things literary with friends old and new over coffee and cake.

Since I can't possibly enjoy it all, here's my selection from a packed program of events:

Wednesday 17th October - Gothic Young Adult Fiction. After last year's excellent talk on pushing the boundaries in YA fiction, my daughter's really looking forward to this one. With Cliff McNish, Chris Priestley and Celia Rees.

Thursday 18th October - David Constantine (winner of the 2010 BBC National Short Story Award) and Adam Marek read from their short fiction collections.

It's so tempting to spend the whole weekend of 20th/21st enjoying the Poetry Shindig (Saturday) and Prose Shindig (Sunday), but I'm rationing myself to a couple of events each day.

Saturday 20th October - Gillian Clarke & Robert Crawford. Two poets, one Welsh and one Scottish. In At the Source, Clarke writes with great passion about the relationship between language and place so I'm hoping for more of the same.

Saturday 20th October - An Evening with John Hegley, poet, comedian and performer. This is the event chosen by our book group. I've never seen Hegley before, but having watched clips on YouTube I'm looking forward to an entertaining evening.

Sunday 21st October - And Other Stories present: Deborah Levy and Oleg Zaionchkovsky I'm intrigued by And Other Stories' unusual publishing route, involving readers in the publishing process through of a series of readers groups, on-line forums and discussions. Deborah Levy's novel Swimming Home has been short-listed for the Booker Prize. It's a disconcerting book, with some great writing. I'll be posting a review soon.

Sunday 21st October - Jo Baker and Zoe Lambert - The Right to Imagine. Two North West writers talk about the role of war in story telling.

There's too much else going on to mention it all here, but you can find the whole programme on the Lancaster Litfest website.

Lancaster Litfest - first impressions

I've taken a first peek at Lancaster Litfest's 2012 programme. It may just be that I've overdone the caffeine today, but now I'm all aflutter.

It's probably more years than I realise since my first experience of Lancaster Litfest. I heard Wendy Cope read at the Dukes Theatre. I'd never been to a poetry reading before and I wasn't sure what to expect. I felt sure that all female poets must wear scarves. I've even tried wearing a scarf myself, but I still couldn't make my lines scan.  Wendy Cope didn't wear a scarf, but she did look like my grandma and her poetry was warmly received. By the time I saw Carol Ann Duffy in 2010, I was hooked.

Last year our reading group went to hear Carol Birch talk about her Booker short-listed novel, the wonderful Jamrach's Menagerie.  I took my daughter to the discussion of young adult literature and wondered about drawing boundaries in teenage reading, before realizing that the boundaries had been crossed without my even realising.

My brief excursion into creative writing did go some small way to demystifying the art of writing. No longer did I view writers as gifted gods, far above Premiership footballers and Hollywood actors. These were people like you and me. Didn't they have days too when the ideas didn't come, or the words clumped together on the page like lumpy porridge? I was determined not to feel out of place amongst the 'literary types' in both the audience and on the stage.

So this year, in a spirit of adventure, I have put myself forward as a volunteer to promote Lancaster Litfest in the ether and anywhere else where people will listen. I have no idea what this will entail, but I'm hoping it will lead to some interesting experiences and blog posts too.

I've yet to study the Litfest brochure in all its details, but I've already circled the poet Gillian Clarke and Jo Baker, author of The Picture Book, reviewed in my last post. My daughter's eyes lit up at the mention of the  Gothic young adult fiction event, so that's another for the diary.

You can view the Lancaster Litfest brochure here. Let the reading begin!

Wallis Simpson, Mrs Palfrey and 'mummy porn'

There's a longer gap than usual between book group meetings over the summer, so tradition has it that we pick two books rather than the usual one for those lucky members who will be basking by pools in sunnier climes.

First choice is Rose Tremain's collection of short stories The Darkness of Wallis Simpson. I'm new to Tremain's short fiction, but I did enjoy The Road Home.   The title story imagines the last days of Wallis Simpson, imprisoned by her lawyer in her Paris flat.  Already I'm intrigued and think that the book might be worth it for this one alone.

Second on the list is Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor. I've heard great things about this book, both on dovegreyreader's blog and on Radio 4's Bookclub. David Baddiel certainly spoke with enthusiasm, describing Taylor as 'the missing link between Jane Austen and John Updike'.

Due to end of term celebrations and summer school commitments, I couldn't join the Lancashire Ladies for their last book group meet. I was disappointed to miss the discussion not only on last month's choice, The Song of Achilles, but also on an unexpected third nomination for summer reading, E.L. James' Fifty Shades of Grey. I gather that this suggestion caused great debate, not least from J who refuses to read it on the grounds of not wanting to jump on the bandwagon. I can understand where she's coming from. I too am stubborn enough to refuse to watch, read or listen to something when it becomes too popular. Being at the cutting edge, when you can find it, is very good indeed, but come to something too late and you risk feeling like a sheep.

However I must admit to having downloaded the first two chapters 'for research purposes'. The book does seem to break all the rules of creative writing courses, but then, with 31 million copies sold worldwide, who am I to criticise?  In chapter two the handsome, enigmatic Christian Grey comes into the hardware store where young college graduate Anastasia Steele is working:

   "Some rope, I think." His voice mirrors mine, husky.

   "This way." I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.

   "What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope...twine...cable cord..." I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.

    "I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please."

    Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.

     "Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don't look at his mouth!

     "Organised, group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey."

     He arches a brow.

     "What is your thing, Anastasia?" he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I'm on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.

With the masking tape and cable ties Christian has already selected, I can't help fearing the worst.

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.