http://apps.facebook.com/theguardian/commentisfree/2011/dec/12/ts-eliot-poetry-prize-pulled-out
Interesting to see what she thinks is the place of poetry, and how poetry and economy are at odds, a viewpoint shared with writers down the centuries...Yeats, Gissing, P. B. Shelley spring to mind...
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
Love, love, love this book. There are just some books that when you lose yourself in them, you do what tends to be known by the cliche of 'finding yourself'. For me, this was one of those books. I got absolutely lost in it, and wow. Here I am with a subtle but fundamental shift in paradigm.
Mrs Dalloway reveals the interior worlds of several characters, most of them somehow connected with socialite Clarissa Dalloway, over the course of a single day in 1920's London, as Clarissa prepares to host a party. Written in almost continuous prose, unbroken by chapters, the narrative flickers seamlessly between characters as they pass each other in the street etc. A large part of the narrative focuses on Clarissa's past loves.
I loved Virginia Woolf's style. I have never read her before, but I fell absolutely in love with her on the first reading. Her ability to convey the second-by-second experience of what it's like to be a person was beautiful, poetic, apt. It reminded me of D. H. Lawrence a lot, but was so much more readable. Whereas Lawrence verges on the ridiculous on occasion, describing people 'wincing through their wombs' etc., in Mrs. Dalloway I felt Woolf pitched it perfectly. I could not put this book down, I was absolutely swept up in the flittering and flurrying of 1920's London, to the extent that I had severe physical pangs for the British Museum, white marble terraces with black doors in leafy boulevards, and black cabs.
Definitely a book I need to read more than once. Now that it has changed my life I think I should probably go back and look at language, context, etc., the stuff I am supposed to be studying it for...sorry for the crap review, it's just my mind is still reeling from this one. Profound. Absolutely profound!
Mrs Dalloway reveals the interior worlds of several characters, most of them somehow connected with socialite Clarissa Dalloway, over the course of a single day in 1920's London, as Clarissa prepares to host a party. Written in almost continuous prose, unbroken by chapters, the narrative flickers seamlessly between characters as they pass each other in the street etc. A large part of the narrative focuses on Clarissa's past loves.
I loved Virginia Woolf's style. I have never read her before, but I fell absolutely in love with her on the first reading. Her ability to convey the second-by-second experience of what it's like to be a person was beautiful, poetic, apt. It reminded me of D. H. Lawrence a lot, but was so much more readable. Whereas Lawrence verges on the ridiculous on occasion, describing people 'wincing through their wombs' etc., in Mrs. Dalloway I felt Woolf pitched it perfectly. I could not put this book down, I was absolutely swept up in the flittering and flurrying of 1920's London, to the extent that I had severe physical pangs for the British Museum, white marble terraces with black doors in leafy boulevards, and black cabs.
Definitely a book I need to read more than once. Now that it has changed my life I think I should probably go back and look at language, context, etc., the stuff I am supposed to be studying it for...sorry for the crap review, it's just my mind is still reeling from this one. Profound. Absolutely profound!
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Catch-up and Pig by Andrew Cowan
The irony is, I've just finished my first semester of my degree in Eng Lit at UEA, and have been reading all sorts, but haven't found the time to write about any of the texts I've come across. Apologies for such a long lonely desolate gap in blogging, but rest assured I will try and be a bit less useless from now on!
I've been writing lots - had a gap where I didn't seem to be able to write at all, and then when I finally did start writing it all came out as self-indulgent crap. Although there have been some good things I've written...lots of lyrics, for example, and an epic prose poem, and I started writing some short stories and a play script...poetry is still the only thing I seem able to finish off to any degree of finished-ness, but I'm beginning to dip my toes in other things, we shall see where it takes me...
Possibly the biggest change since I last blogged is that my whole life has been turned upside-down, my horizons have been broadened, my world view rounded, my personal development developed, my heart and soul have been made exultant, my intellect has been astounded etc. etc. by my new love for the Romantics. Primary school murdered Wordsworth for me cruelly and in cold blood many years ago, but I have rediscovered him through The Prelude. In terms of studying it, it's a pain in the arse because every sentence is about 2385082370875023 lines long and by the time you get to a full stop you can't remember what on earth he was talking about at the beginning. But even so, I loved it. And Percy Bysshe Shelley! What a babe! What a legend! Me and Shelley, we got a thang going on. I love that dude. The epicnosity of ol' Percy B. cannot be described. Basically he's just a well cool dude.
What I love about the Romantics is how kick-arse they were. They were absolutely radical, and I hadn't appreciated that before. Also, Wordsworth was a bit of a babe for being in France during the Revolution. And they still interest me despite the fact that most of them became beige beaurocratic Tories in later life (although Shelley - what an awesome dude he was! - wrote an Elegy for Wordsworth when Ol' Bill was still alive to bemoan his loss of principles and abandonment of his duty to the Great Goddess Poesia). Who would've thought it? Me absolutely besotted by the Romantics?!
Anyway, aside from Ol' Bill and a bit of Percy Bysshe I've had John Gower, Chaucer, Hildegard of Bingen, George Gissing, Yeats, Deborah Eisenberg, Caryl Churchill, Samuel Beckett, Derek Mahon and so many more, thrust at me with instructions to devour them and come back with some ideas. Loving every second of it. I shall review Deborah Eisenberg at a later date for sure, as I AM ACTUALLY HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH HER WRITING.
Anyway, I also skimmed Eugene Ionesco's 'Rhinoceros' for a French Module (in the original French). Very interesting play. I think I'd like to see it on the stage though; it was some what depressing rushing it within the last two days I had to write an essay on it. And also, again for a French module, I have been organising a bilingual poetry slam event. Despite the unhelpful interfering of a particularly negative tutor who twisted our arms and made us cancel our first planned event, it is back on for January now. Fingers crossed all goes to plan. It probably won't. But at least it was a good idea in the first place, it had potential to be amazing, and I can now turn to the uplifting and sustaining works of the Romantics to cheer myself up if it turns out to be a complete flop. But yeah, anyway, if anybody reading this happens to be in Norwich on January 24th, head down to the Workshop on Earlham Road. There will be food, there will be booze (you have to pay, we're students, we can't afford it, sorry) and there will be poetry. So come on down and help make it a success, so that I don't have to seek comfort in the papery posthumous arms of Percy. Please.
Anyway, onto Andrew Cowan's 'Pig' which I have just read in preparation for next semester's so-called hard work. 'Pig' tells the story of Danny, who lives on the outskirts of an industrial town that has suffered with the closing of its steel works. His grandparents live in a cottage, where they grow their own food and keep a pig. When Danny's gran dies, and his Grandad is removed to a home, he takes on caring for the pig and looking after the house. He and his Indian girlfriend Surinder use it as a meeting place. Their relationship is secret and set against a backdrop of racist tension. As the summer progresses, this tension begins to rise and Danny and Surinder's hiding place is in jeopardy from the encroaching of a theme park to be built behind the cottage.
I enjoyed 'Pig'. What struck me about Cowan's writing was the attention to detail. The appearance, smells, textures of settings in particular was highly evocative and very skillfully crafted. The characters were believable, and the voice of Danny was convincing (although I felt he was maybe portrayed as a little younger than he was supposed to be). I think the novel stands on the intense detail that Cowan manages to convey. What would otherwise be a fairly ordinary novel about fairly ordinary people in fairly ordinary situations becomes a page-turner through the quality of the writing. That said, I was glad to finish the book, and to be able to move on. It felt like a holiday read, a book to ease me into something I could really get my literature-hungry teeth into (now halfway through Mrs Dalloway, and loving it). So yeah, it was a nice book, a pretty good book, but not one I'd go back to (unless I had to study it...oh, wait!) and not one that made my imagination do dizzying loop-de-loops or scale great heights of intellectual magnificence...
Anyway, that is it for now. I see that I have two new followers. Welcome, and thank you! I'm on the old Twit-twoo if you're interested, it's @FloMoses.
Anyway, obrigada for your patience and ate ja :)
I've been writing lots - had a gap where I didn't seem to be able to write at all, and then when I finally did start writing it all came out as self-indulgent crap. Although there have been some good things I've written...lots of lyrics, for example, and an epic prose poem, and I started writing some short stories and a play script...poetry is still the only thing I seem able to finish off to any degree of finished-ness, but I'm beginning to dip my toes in other things, we shall see where it takes me...
Possibly the biggest change since I last blogged is that my whole life has been turned upside-down, my horizons have been broadened, my world view rounded, my personal development developed, my heart and soul have been made exultant, my intellect has been astounded etc. etc. by my new love for the Romantics. Primary school murdered Wordsworth for me cruelly and in cold blood many years ago, but I have rediscovered him through The Prelude. In terms of studying it, it's a pain in the arse because every sentence is about 2385082370875023 lines long and by the time you get to a full stop you can't remember what on earth he was talking about at the beginning. But even so, I loved it. And Percy Bysshe Shelley! What a babe! What a legend! Me and Shelley, we got a thang going on. I love that dude. The epicnosity of ol' Percy B. cannot be described. Basically he's just a well cool dude.
What I love about the Romantics is how kick-arse they were. They were absolutely radical, and I hadn't appreciated that before. Also, Wordsworth was a bit of a babe for being in France during the Revolution. And they still interest me despite the fact that most of them became beige beaurocratic Tories in later life (although Shelley - what an awesome dude he was! - wrote an Elegy for Wordsworth when Ol' Bill was still alive to bemoan his loss of principles and abandonment of his duty to the Great Goddess Poesia). Who would've thought it? Me absolutely besotted by the Romantics?!
Anyway, aside from Ol' Bill and a bit of Percy Bysshe I've had John Gower, Chaucer, Hildegard of Bingen, George Gissing, Yeats, Deborah Eisenberg, Caryl Churchill, Samuel Beckett, Derek Mahon and so many more, thrust at me with instructions to devour them and come back with some ideas. Loving every second of it. I shall review Deborah Eisenberg at a later date for sure, as I AM ACTUALLY HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH HER WRITING.
Anyway, I also skimmed Eugene Ionesco's 'Rhinoceros' for a French Module (in the original French). Very interesting play. I think I'd like to see it on the stage though; it was some what depressing rushing it within the last two days I had to write an essay on it. And also, again for a French module, I have been organising a bilingual poetry slam event. Despite the unhelpful interfering of a particularly negative tutor who twisted our arms and made us cancel our first planned event, it is back on for January now. Fingers crossed all goes to plan. It probably won't. But at least it was a good idea in the first place, it had potential to be amazing, and I can now turn to the uplifting and sustaining works of the Romantics to cheer myself up if it turns out to be a complete flop. But yeah, anyway, if anybody reading this happens to be in Norwich on January 24th, head down to the Workshop on Earlham Road. There will be food, there will be booze (you have to pay, we're students, we can't afford it, sorry) and there will be poetry. So come on down and help make it a success, so that I don't have to seek comfort in the papery posthumous arms of Percy. Please.
Anyway, onto Andrew Cowan's 'Pig' which I have just read in preparation for next semester's so-called hard work. 'Pig' tells the story of Danny, who lives on the outskirts of an industrial town that has suffered with the closing of its steel works. His grandparents live in a cottage, where they grow their own food and keep a pig. When Danny's gran dies, and his Grandad is removed to a home, he takes on caring for the pig and looking after the house. He and his Indian girlfriend Surinder use it as a meeting place. Their relationship is secret and set against a backdrop of racist tension. As the summer progresses, this tension begins to rise and Danny and Surinder's hiding place is in jeopardy from the encroaching of a theme park to be built behind the cottage.
I enjoyed 'Pig'. What struck me about Cowan's writing was the attention to detail. The appearance, smells, textures of settings in particular was highly evocative and very skillfully crafted. The characters were believable, and the voice of Danny was convincing (although I felt he was maybe portrayed as a little younger than he was supposed to be). I think the novel stands on the intense detail that Cowan manages to convey. What would otherwise be a fairly ordinary novel about fairly ordinary people in fairly ordinary situations becomes a page-turner through the quality of the writing. That said, I was glad to finish the book, and to be able to move on. It felt like a holiday read, a book to ease me into something I could really get my literature-hungry teeth into (now halfway through Mrs Dalloway, and loving it). So yeah, it was a nice book, a pretty good book, but not one I'd go back to (unless I had to study it...oh, wait!) and not one that made my imagination do dizzying loop-de-loops or scale great heights of intellectual magnificence...
Anyway, that is it for now. I see that I have two new followers. Welcome, and thank you! I'm on the old Twit-twoo if you're interested, it's @FloMoses.
Anyway, obrigada for your patience and ate ja :)
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
The first book I have ever read on the Kindle, and the first by Charles Dickens that I have ever read! My friend (who has read every single classic known to man, but nothing else apart from Harry Potter and a few vampire books) said that I wasn't a proper Lit student until I'd read him, so I thought I better get a move on...and I absolutely loved this book.
In case you haven't read this particular book (or like me, are new to Dickens...I know...I feel rather embarassed admitting it) it is a historical novel, set in the 1780's - 90's, in the lead up and height of the French Revolution. The narrative is split between England and France, and follows a series of characters whose lives have intermingled - and mingled with the rise of the Revolution - over generations.
In the first part of the novel, (which opens with a delicious description of the turbulent social and political situations on both sides of the channel during the late 18thC) the wrongfully imprisoned Dr Manette is 'recalled to life' after confinement in the Bastille for eighteen years. He is reunited with his daughter Lucie, and goes with her to England to recover, accompanied by her and by Mr. Lorry, a banker and loyal friend. As the book continues, we learn about their life in London - Dr Manette's recovery, and the happy family life they lead. However, the build-up to the Revolution casts a grim shadow, and eventually Lucie's husband Charles makes his way to France in secret, to try and save a faithful servant from the Guillotine...
I loved this book. It took me a while to really get into it, but from the start I was carried along by Dickens' absolutely wondrous descriptions of the turbulent times, and the perfectly-conjured characters. I think perhaps the strength of his descriptive writing was the detail, but also the scope of the writer's view: suitably elaborate scenes of the wealth of the royal court in France, for example, contrasted with emotional, pitiful but unflinching details about the life of the peasantry; the comfortable old 'man of business' Mr Lorry, and the gentle respectability of the Manettes is juxtaposed with the character of Jerry Cruncher, an odd-jobsman who treats his poor wife appallingly, continuously suspecting her of 'flopping'; the character of Sidney Carton encompasses both the pathetic and the heroic. Dickens' pity for the peasantry of countryside and underfed, underprivileged poor of the city is palpable (and obviously informed by the social conditions at the time of writing), and yet the bloodthirstiness of the Revolution itself is recounted sensitively but horrifically. The great strength of the book - along with the lovely language and turn of phrase - is the way that it encompasses absolute opposites, and shows them in a pitying but balanced light.
In terms of the turn of phrase, Dickens writes beautifully, and I loved the touches of humour throughout the book. He writes sharply, critically, observantly, and touchingly. I also really enjoyed reading this on the Kindle. Although the free version that I downloaded had a few typos in it (less than 10, I reckon - not too bad), it was really useful to be able to look up unknown words immediately, without interrupting my reading of the text. I now know what a blunderbuss is, without having to go online or dig out a big fat dictionary.
I loved 'A Tale of Two Cities' so much, I want to read it again straight away, but am forcing myself onto pastures new. I read the final chapter again, however, and it affected me even more the second time. There are several famous quotes from this book that most people will know ('it was the best of times, it was the worst of times...'; 'it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done...') but reading them in context turned these oft-quoted lines into some of the most emotional I can remember ever having read.
In case you haven't read this particular book (or like me, are new to Dickens...I know...I feel rather embarassed admitting it) it is a historical novel, set in the 1780's - 90's, in the lead up and height of the French Revolution. The narrative is split between England and France, and follows a series of characters whose lives have intermingled - and mingled with the rise of the Revolution - over generations.
In the first part of the novel, (which opens with a delicious description of the turbulent social and political situations on both sides of the channel during the late 18thC) the wrongfully imprisoned Dr Manette is 'recalled to life' after confinement in the Bastille for eighteen years. He is reunited with his daughter Lucie, and goes with her to England to recover, accompanied by her and by Mr. Lorry, a banker and loyal friend. As the book continues, we learn about their life in London - Dr Manette's recovery, and the happy family life they lead. However, the build-up to the Revolution casts a grim shadow, and eventually Lucie's husband Charles makes his way to France in secret, to try and save a faithful servant from the Guillotine...
I loved this book. It took me a while to really get into it, but from the start I was carried along by Dickens' absolutely wondrous descriptions of the turbulent times, and the perfectly-conjured characters. I think perhaps the strength of his descriptive writing was the detail, but also the scope of the writer's view: suitably elaborate scenes of the wealth of the royal court in France, for example, contrasted with emotional, pitiful but unflinching details about the life of the peasantry; the comfortable old 'man of business' Mr Lorry, and the gentle respectability of the Manettes is juxtaposed with the character of Jerry Cruncher, an odd-jobsman who treats his poor wife appallingly, continuously suspecting her of 'flopping'; the character of Sidney Carton encompasses both the pathetic and the heroic. Dickens' pity for the peasantry of countryside and underfed, underprivileged poor of the city is palpable (and obviously informed by the social conditions at the time of writing), and yet the bloodthirstiness of the Revolution itself is recounted sensitively but horrifically. The great strength of the book - along with the lovely language and turn of phrase - is the way that it encompasses absolute opposites, and shows them in a pitying but balanced light.
In terms of the turn of phrase, Dickens writes beautifully, and I loved the touches of humour throughout the book. He writes sharply, critically, observantly, and touchingly. I also really enjoyed reading this on the Kindle. Although the free version that I downloaded had a few typos in it (less than 10, I reckon - not too bad), it was really useful to be able to look up unknown words immediately, without interrupting my reading of the text. I now know what a blunderbuss is, without having to go online or dig out a big fat dictionary.
I loved 'A Tale of Two Cities' so much, I want to read it again straight away, but am forcing myself onto pastures new. I read the final chapter again, however, and it affected me even more the second time. There are several famous quotes from this book that most people will know ('it was the best of times, it was the worst of times...'; 'it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done...') but reading them in context turned these oft-quoted lines into some of the most emotional I can remember ever having read.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Three + Three: My Baby is Growing Wings...
Here I was in August, in Rosanne's wonderful studio. It was here also that the talented and lovely Marina Diamandis christened my poetry 'Floetry' - what an honour!
For those who don't know, the Three + Three project began when I wrote some poems after Rosanne Jedly's paintings. The idea emerged that she should reciprocate and that we should publish the results in a little pamphlet, as a kind of artistic dialogue.
Well, since then, a photographer friend, Patty Papageorgiou-Axford, and graphic designer Liz Jenkins have got involved, with Patty photographing Rosanne's paintings as well as contributing her own photographs and perspective, and Liz working on ideas for how to present the whole thing, as well as suggesting that the initial pamphlet be reworked as a Magazine....!!!!
Poet Paul Henry (published by Seren - his collected works 'The Brittle Sea' is wonderful, read it!) gave me some incredibly kind feedback on my poetry and on the whole project, which was a wonderful boost.
We've had positive responses from the local bookshop, Bookish, and hopefully we can get some sponsorship and maybe even a grant...suddenly the little collection of works that I started during a long lazy morning in my summer holiday has grown enormous wings and is taking off...I have no idea where it may land!
Part of me is feeling a bit possessive and control-freakish, but mostly this relinquishing of control is so exciting. Everyone has such amazing ideas for what started out as my 'baby' - eg. Patty's ideas for her own interpretations of my poems in photography, and even just the fact that everybody wants in! Fortunately we have a wonderful mix of creative and business brains.
I will keep you posted about Three + Three, this is turning out to be a really exciting journey and I can't wait to see where it will lead to!
Here are the websites of the wonderful people mentioned in this post:
Sunday, September 4, 2011
The Kindle...
Maybe I was a little harsh on Resistance, rereading the last post. All I will say however is that the whole plot happens in the last 25 pages. There was a surprising twist but to be honest, I wouldn't personally say that the book was worth reading to the end; despite the twist I felt like I'd wasted my time with it.
Any way, I now have a Kindle!
It was a gift, and I adore it. I am still reading paper books - buying books from the charity shop is still cheaper a lot of the time! - however I find that the Kindle has numerous benefits.
1) Very light and comfortable to hold, which is more than can be said for some books (thinking of the whopping Birds Without Wings, for example)
2) the screen really is all it's cracked up to be. Really strange at first but easy to read, even in bright sunlight
3) The ability to choose your own font size - as well as line spacing, etc. - is really nice. My eyes are fine, but even so, larger font is more comfortable to read and the Kindle makes this very easy.
4) The built in dictionaries mean that you can look up words in the text without losing your place or anything - just a click of a button. Finding this very useful when reading the classics - there's always a word or two that you just don't hear any more and it is great being able to look them up.
5) You can also highlight sections and bookmark them, which for a Lit student like me is really useful!
6) Free classics. Lots of books for under £2. The initial investment soon repays itself if you're a book worm.
7) It keeps your place for you. I'm finding this really useful for reading the classics, as some of them I find difficult without taking frequent breaks to rest my brain!
The only things I'll say against the Kindle and my experience of it so far is that I wish there was just a button on Amazon for buying all their free classics. Instead you have to go through and 'buy', for free, the ones you want, one by one.
Also, as yet the technology does not exist for it to be able to waft old-paper smell at you. I do miss this when I am holding my Kindle.
Took me a while to register it, and find out how to turn it off! But that is just me being technilliterate.
And finally, the Amazon-to-Kindle-download-your-books-system is called Whispernet, which makes me think of Newspeak and Thoughtcrime. The conspiracy theorist in me is very perturbed by this.
Anyway, that is my initial assessment of the Kindle. Now I'm off to do some reading, not sure whether it will be of the electronic or paper kind but either one will do!
Any way, I now have a Kindle!
It was a gift, and I adore it. I am still reading paper books - buying books from the charity shop is still cheaper a lot of the time! - however I find that the Kindle has numerous benefits.
1) Very light and comfortable to hold, which is more than can be said for some books (thinking of the whopping Birds Without Wings, for example)
2) the screen really is all it's cracked up to be. Really strange at first but easy to read, even in bright sunlight
3) The ability to choose your own font size - as well as line spacing, etc. - is really nice. My eyes are fine, but even so, larger font is more comfortable to read and the Kindle makes this very easy.
4) The built in dictionaries mean that you can look up words in the text without losing your place or anything - just a click of a button. Finding this very useful when reading the classics - there's always a word or two that you just don't hear any more and it is great being able to look them up.
5) You can also highlight sections and bookmark them, which for a Lit student like me is really useful!
6) Free classics. Lots of books for under £2. The initial investment soon repays itself if you're a book worm.
7) It keeps your place for you. I'm finding this really useful for reading the classics, as some of them I find difficult without taking frequent breaks to rest my brain!
The only things I'll say against the Kindle and my experience of it so far is that I wish there was just a button on Amazon for buying all their free classics. Instead you have to go through and 'buy', for free, the ones you want, one by one.
Also, as yet the technology does not exist for it to be able to waft old-paper smell at you. I do miss this when I am holding my Kindle.
Took me a while to register it, and find out how to turn it off! But that is just me being technilliterate.
And finally, the Amazon-to-Kindle-download-your-books-system is called Whispernet, which makes me think of Newspeak and Thoughtcrime. The conspiracy theorist in me is very perturbed by this.
Anyway, that is my initial assessment of the Kindle. Now I'm off to do some reading, not sure whether it will be of the electronic or paper kind but either one will do!
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Resistance by Owen Sheers
I read this as I have enjoyed some of Sheers' work in the past, and as he was doing a book signing at the shop where I worked over the summer I thought I'd better read it.
Resistance quickly became my crappy holiday read. It was mildly interesting and didn't require any deep thought to get through it. I didn't enjoy it hugely, but equally I felt like I should finish it.
It tells the story of Sarah Lewis and her neighbours in an isolated Welsh valley during an imagined Nazi invasion of Britain during the Second World War. An German patrol comes to the valley for mysterious reasons, and ends up staying there. Meanwhile, the husbands of the women of the valley have gone missing, leaving in the night soon after the first wave of invasion. Whilst worrying about their husbands, Sarah and her neighbours must swallow the unsavoury fact that if they want to keep their farms running during their husbands' absence, they will need to bury the hatchet when it comes to dealing with the occupying patrol.
I think the reason this book didn't really click with me was that such a large proportion of it describes the women's rural labours and the landscape - this is not a book of action. Also, the human relationships on which the whole plot hinges didn't ring true. The old creative-writing adage of 'show not tell' may be cliched but I felt as if Sheers would have done better in applying it more meticulously. Instead of letting the plot, character formation and dialogue speak for themselves, at times I felt as if I were being lectured; it felt a bit contrived and 'try-hard' at times. For me, it certainly lacked the spark of Sheers' poetry.
However, the film of Resistance is soon to be released, and despite it being my crappy holiday read, I can't deny that Sheers has achieved the dream of many people - his first novel has been turned into a film, and he will quite possibly make megabucks, despite the fact to me Resistance was disapointingly lack-lustre.
Resistance quickly became my crappy holiday read. It was mildly interesting and didn't require any deep thought to get through it. I didn't enjoy it hugely, but equally I felt like I should finish it.
It tells the story of Sarah Lewis and her neighbours in an isolated Welsh valley during an imagined Nazi invasion of Britain during the Second World War. An German patrol comes to the valley for mysterious reasons, and ends up staying there. Meanwhile, the husbands of the women of the valley have gone missing, leaving in the night soon after the first wave of invasion. Whilst worrying about their husbands, Sarah and her neighbours must swallow the unsavoury fact that if they want to keep their farms running during their husbands' absence, they will need to bury the hatchet when it comes to dealing with the occupying patrol.
I think the reason this book didn't really click with me was that such a large proportion of it describes the women's rural labours and the landscape - this is not a book of action. Also, the human relationships on which the whole plot hinges didn't ring true. The old creative-writing adage of 'show not tell' may be cliched but I felt as if Sheers would have done better in applying it more meticulously. Instead of letting the plot, character formation and dialogue speak for themselves, at times I felt as if I were being lectured; it felt a bit contrived and 'try-hard' at times. For me, it certainly lacked the spark of Sheers' poetry.
However, the film of Resistance is soon to be released, and despite it being my crappy holiday read, I can't deny that Sheers has achieved the dream of many people - his first novel has been turned into a film, and he will quite possibly make megabucks, despite the fact to me Resistance was disapointingly lack-lustre.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Three +Three Project
I've got a new project on with artist Rosanne Jedly (see her very cool website at http://www.rosannejedly.com/), in which we inspire each other with our poems/paintings to create new works.
The idea is that eventually this will be published in a little pamphlet, with the paintings and poems next to each other and interweaving. This isn't about creating photoetry (haven't seen an example that works yet) or illustrating a set of poems; it's more about a dialogue between two artists working in different media.
Each piece will work on its own, but our intention is to inspire each other to create something that we might not otherwise have thought of.
The project is called Three + Three, and the intention is that we each select three pieces of work from the other's repertoire and create something new inspired by each of these three pieces.
So far I have written three poems based on Rosanne's paintings (although I intend to write more and then choose the best). They are 'After Oil Seed Rape Field', 'Smoking Hot Woman' and 'Rap' and I'm really pleased with the work so far. Of my poems, Rosanne has so far selected 'The Satellite Rabbit' from a series of poems, and 'Echo Speaks', which you can see on ABCtales (http://www.abctales.com/story/arfellian/echo-speaks). However, she's at a bit of a disadvantage in this, as what with waiting for the layers of paint to dry etc. it takes her longer to complete a painting than it does for me to get a poem reasonably polished off!
Anyway, I've been working with Rosanne in her studio, and also putting together a basic MS Publisher document to give us an idea of how the pamphlet could work, and to check the quality of the photos we've been taking. So far though it seems to be coming on really well! I'm very excited about this :D
I'm loving writing from Rosanne's pictures as well. I've written from pictures a couple of times before but nothing on this scale, and the paintings are really magnificent. Rosanne uses layers and layers of colour built up to create amazing compositions, most often portraits of her 'spirit people'. I think this project has given a depth to my work and a focus that I haven't experienced before. So bring on more 'artistic dialogues'! I'm loving it!!
The idea is that eventually this will be published in a little pamphlet, with the paintings and poems next to each other and interweaving. This isn't about creating photoetry (haven't seen an example that works yet) or illustrating a set of poems; it's more about a dialogue between two artists working in different media.
Each piece will work on its own, but our intention is to inspire each other to create something that we might not otherwise have thought of.
The project is called Three + Three, and the intention is that we each select three pieces of work from the other's repertoire and create something new inspired by each of these three pieces.
So far I have written three poems based on Rosanne's paintings (although I intend to write more and then choose the best). They are 'After Oil Seed Rape Field', 'Smoking Hot Woman' and 'Rap' and I'm really pleased with the work so far. Of my poems, Rosanne has so far selected 'The Satellite Rabbit' from a series of poems, and 'Echo Speaks', which you can see on ABCtales (http://www.abctales.com/story/arfellian/echo-speaks). However, she's at a bit of a disadvantage in this, as what with waiting for the layers of paint to dry etc. it takes her longer to complete a painting than it does for me to get a poem reasonably polished off!
Anyway, I've been working with Rosanne in her studio, and also putting together a basic MS Publisher document to give us an idea of how the pamphlet could work, and to check the quality of the photos we've been taking. So far though it seems to be coming on really well! I'm very excited about this :D
I'm loving writing from Rosanne's pictures as well. I've written from pictures a couple of times before but nothing on this scale, and the paintings are really magnificent. Rosanne uses layers and layers of colour built up to create amazing compositions, most often portraits of her 'spirit people'. I think this project has given a depth to my work and a focus that I haven't experienced before. So bring on more 'artistic dialogues'! I'm loving it!!
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Birds Without Wings by Louis de Bernieres
Just finished this 600-odd page book this evening, after perhaps two weeks since I first started reading it.
Birds Without Wings tells the various entertwining stories of the people of a small Anatolian town called Eskibahce in the Ottoman Empire, in the years preceding and following WWI and the Turkish War of Independence. In Eskibahce, as all over the empire, people of different religions and ethnic groups live side by side and mostly peacefully, uited by the Turkish language, and with friendships and intermarriage making these different groups inseparable in places. Each chapter reads almost like short story, detailing key events in the lives of the people of Eskibahce, including the games of the towns children, the unlikely friendship between the Orthodox Greek priest and the town's Imam, and more sinister events such as an attempted stoning and the exhumation of a corpse.
Alongside this, the tale of Mustafa Kemal, aka Ataturk, is interwoven, as the people of Eskibahce find themselves caught up in a world where the distinction between Turkish and Greek becomes seemingly more important and leads to all sorts of trouble. The story is told through multiple voices, including an omniscient 3rd person, and through several of the characters, both as they live the events of the book, and as they look back on them in later life.
I really loved this book. de Bernieres presents colourful, flawed but likeable characters, and I found the stories of life in Eskibahce charming and moving. I was gripped by the sense of inevitability brought in through the reflective passages and the inclusion of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's rise to power, and really wanted to find out what would happen to the characters.
The charming and often humourous exploits of Eskibahce were eventually replaced by sensitive but honest and horrific details of the events of the decade of war that the people of the Ottoman Empire faced in the early twentieth century. Some of the stuff included - in just enough detail to be shocking without being too horrible to read - was unimagineably awful, and opened my eyes to a side of fairly recent history that I had no idea about before reading this book.
I found that towards the end of the book the narrative of Ataturk's rise to power took over a bit. This was necessary to explain what would eventually happen to the Eskibahce characters, although I felt that it dominated a little bit too much and that, despite Bernieres' drawing in of the novel's characters in places, this section of the book could have done with a more human element, to bring it down to a human level and to make it a little less dry. I started to wish that I could read something else at this point, although the end of the book was worth the wait and I couldn't put it down until I had devoured every word.
An important aspect of the book that I haven't yet mentioned is de Bernieres' writing itself. I have never read him before but it strikes me that he writes extremely well. Characters are excellently drawn, humour and poignancy are both handled deftly and sensitively, and his choice of language is an absolute lexical feast. Despite using such rarified words as 'mommixity', 'foofaraw', and 'dunderpate', de Bernieres' prose remains highly readable, and even when I didn't know the exact dictionary definition of a particular word (particularly some Turkish terms), the language is handled so beautifully that the meaning is still clear and the words delicious. de Bernieres uses them sparingly, always using the perfect word for the occasion, whilst visibly revelling in such nuances of language. Beautifully written.
A really fantastic read. de Bernieres writes fantastically well and in Birds Without Wings has created a moving story about the highs and lows of being human in the face of adversity. A great book.
Birds Without Wings tells the various entertwining stories of the people of a small Anatolian town called Eskibahce in the Ottoman Empire, in the years preceding and following WWI and the Turkish War of Independence. In Eskibahce, as all over the empire, people of different religions and ethnic groups live side by side and mostly peacefully, uited by the Turkish language, and with friendships and intermarriage making these different groups inseparable in places. Each chapter reads almost like short story, detailing key events in the lives of the people of Eskibahce, including the games of the towns children, the unlikely friendship between the Orthodox Greek priest and the town's Imam, and more sinister events such as an attempted stoning and the exhumation of a corpse.
Alongside this, the tale of Mustafa Kemal, aka Ataturk, is interwoven, as the people of Eskibahce find themselves caught up in a world where the distinction between Turkish and Greek becomes seemingly more important and leads to all sorts of trouble. The story is told through multiple voices, including an omniscient 3rd person, and through several of the characters, both as they live the events of the book, and as they look back on them in later life.
I really loved this book. de Bernieres presents colourful, flawed but likeable characters, and I found the stories of life in Eskibahce charming and moving. I was gripped by the sense of inevitability brought in through the reflective passages and the inclusion of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's rise to power, and really wanted to find out what would happen to the characters.
The charming and often humourous exploits of Eskibahce were eventually replaced by sensitive but honest and horrific details of the events of the decade of war that the people of the Ottoman Empire faced in the early twentieth century. Some of the stuff included - in just enough detail to be shocking without being too horrible to read - was unimagineably awful, and opened my eyes to a side of fairly recent history that I had no idea about before reading this book.
I found that towards the end of the book the narrative of Ataturk's rise to power took over a bit. This was necessary to explain what would eventually happen to the Eskibahce characters, although I felt that it dominated a little bit too much and that, despite Bernieres' drawing in of the novel's characters in places, this section of the book could have done with a more human element, to bring it down to a human level and to make it a little less dry. I started to wish that I could read something else at this point, although the end of the book was worth the wait and I couldn't put it down until I had devoured every word.
An important aspect of the book that I haven't yet mentioned is de Bernieres' writing itself. I have never read him before but it strikes me that he writes extremely well. Characters are excellently drawn, humour and poignancy are both handled deftly and sensitively, and his choice of language is an absolute lexical feast. Despite using such rarified words as 'mommixity', 'foofaraw', and 'dunderpate', de Bernieres' prose remains highly readable, and even when I didn't know the exact dictionary definition of a particular word (particularly some Turkish terms), the language is handled so beautifully that the meaning is still clear and the words delicious. de Bernieres uses them sparingly, always using the perfect word for the occasion, whilst visibly revelling in such nuances of language. Beautifully written.
A really fantastic read. de Bernieres writes fantastically well and in Birds Without Wings has created a moving story about the highs and lows of being human in the face of adversity. A great book.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
More Ruth Padel and some Louis de Bernieres
Read another two collections by Ruth Padel recently - Rembrandt Would Have Loved You and Fusewire. Rembrant was a lovely read. It was obviously an earlier collection and Padel's sensual style was a bit less developed but I still absolutely loved it, the love poems and use of the kind of scene you see in paintings by the Dutch Masters as an image was absolutely lovely. Fusewire is even earlier, and very politically-focused, particularly on conflict between Britain and Ireland. For this reason I didn't identify with it so much - I'm young enough that I haven't even been taught about the Troubles in school, let alone remember them - although I loved one poem in particular, 'Desire Paths of Sarajevo', which juxtaposes scenes of genocide and suffering with the comfort of love and the tenderness/violence of sex.
I recently bought Pascale Petit's 'The Treekeeper's Tale' and Carol Rumens' 'De Chirico's Threads' (I love De Chirico, the half-cartoon, half-sci-fi, surrealist style of his and the beautiful scenes of Hector and Andromache) and even though I am dying to tear into them I am holding off so that I finish Louis de Bernieres' Birds Without Wings, which I am absolutely adoring (any book that is compellingly readable but still contains the words 'mommixity' and 'foofaraw' is OK by me). L'Etranger is lying in a corner gathering dust. I am trying to forget to feel guilty about this.
I recently bought Pascale Petit's 'The Treekeeper's Tale' and Carol Rumens' 'De Chirico's Threads' (I love De Chirico, the half-cartoon, half-sci-fi, surrealist style of his and the beautiful scenes of Hector and Andromache) and even though I am dying to tear into them I am holding off so that I finish Louis de Bernieres' Birds Without Wings, which I am absolutely adoring (any book that is compellingly readable but still contains the words 'mommixity' and 'foofaraw' is OK by me). L'Etranger is lying in a corner gathering dust. I am trying to forget to feel guilty about this.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Mslexia Hates Me
Crazy new poem just came off the top of my head. Sometimes my inner psycho just has to come out. 1st draft, I am not taking this one further I shouldn't think! But I made myself laugh with it so here it is.
(I actually love Mslexia magazine, and as I have only just started writing seriously it's no surprise I haven't been published either there or anywhere else yet. But when you freewrite, as this started off as, you never know what deep dark psychoses you may uncover!)
Mslexia Hates Me
My paranoid side - (the one that tears open
every month the plastic wrapper in a flap
and fumble of...well...deluded hope) - tells me
that this well known literary magazine
hates me.
Every month's New Writing critique
is obviously aimed at me.
They wanted pure, unbridled emotion: they got it, surely?
They wanted the slightly
less suicidal, bordering on funny,
so I sent them some poems, three,
including one with pop culture references
to I'm A Celebrity. Why don't they see
that I'm the new TS Eliot, the next Kingsley
Amis, with a dash of Ruth Padel's sex appeal?
I'd give Carol Ann Duffy
a run for her money.
Every issue the same. Zilch. Diddly squat.
And yes, I know they get a lot
of cliched shit, but I'm in a league
of my own, and so the reason they keep on rejecting me
can only, as far as I can see, be
that the editors or whoever-it-is
hate me. But I'll show them, just you wait and see:
Soon I will be
famous for my poetry.
NB:
You see? How good I am, I mean?
This was certainly worth chopping down a tree.
(I actually love Mslexia magazine, and as I have only just started writing seriously it's no surprise I haven't been published either there or anywhere else yet. But when you freewrite, as this started off as, you never know what deep dark psychoses you may uncover!)
Mslexia Hates Me
My paranoid side - (the one that tears open
every month the plastic wrapper in a flap
and fumble of...well...deluded hope) - tells me
that this well known literary magazine
hates me.
Every month's New Writing critique
is obviously aimed at me.
They wanted pure, unbridled emotion: they got it, surely?
They wanted the slightly
less suicidal, bordering on funny,
so I sent them some poems, three,
including one with pop culture references
to I'm A Celebrity. Why don't they see
that I'm the new TS Eliot, the next Kingsley
Amis, with a dash of Ruth Padel's sex appeal?
I'd give Carol Ann Duffy
a run for her money.
Every issue the same. Zilch. Diddly squat.
And yes, I know they get a lot
of cliched shit, but I'm in a league
of my own, and so the reason they keep on rejecting me
can only, as far as I can see, be
that the editors or whoever-it-is
hate me. But I'll show them, just you wait and see:
Soon I will be
famous for my poetry.
NB:
You see? How good I am, I mean?
This was certainly worth chopping down a tree.
Voodoo Shop by Ruth Padel
I am a big fan of Ruth Padel and after reading 'The Soho Leopard' bought many of her earlier collections. Voodoo Shop is from 2002.
Wow. Where to begin? This collection follows the stages of a love affair, the lovers travelling the world and their relationship explored through the different locations and experiences that they share, from buying twin voodoo dolls in South America, to watching flocks of seabirds in Ireland. Along the way bereavement, sex, love, infidelity/illicit affairs and the breakdown of a relationship are explored with Padel's trademark style: painterly, exotic and lyrical with human experience linked inextricably with the natural world. This collection is an eclectic mix of imagery, emotion and language, and is completely different to what I expected. I absolutely loved it.
Favourite poems? There are so many killer lines throughout the collection, and while eclectic it holds together so well, that it is difficult to choose individual poems, but I would have to say 'Hey Sugar, Take A Walk On The Wild Side', where the lovers are compared exquisitely to olive oil; 'Rattlesnakes And Rubies' for the colours and the humour; and the final poem, 'Casablanca and the Children of Storm' for its true-to-life emotions and magical descriptions of seabirds.
Padel's writing in Voodoo Shop is wonderful; it's sometimes verging on obscure but always beautiful, and very original. I get the feeling that she is a poet who really appreciates the music of words and images. Even when writing about sadness or even crudeness, she manages to bring a lightness of touch and beauty to difficult subjects.
This collection really touched me and I'm sure it will remain one of my favourites. I couldn't put it down when I was reading it - I raced from poem to poem, and will enjoy going back to it over the years to savour it again.
Wow. Where to begin? This collection follows the stages of a love affair, the lovers travelling the world and their relationship explored through the different locations and experiences that they share, from buying twin voodoo dolls in South America, to watching flocks of seabirds in Ireland. Along the way bereavement, sex, love, infidelity/illicit affairs and the breakdown of a relationship are explored with Padel's trademark style: painterly, exotic and lyrical with human experience linked inextricably with the natural world. This collection is an eclectic mix of imagery, emotion and language, and is completely different to what I expected. I absolutely loved it.
Favourite poems? There are so many killer lines throughout the collection, and while eclectic it holds together so well, that it is difficult to choose individual poems, but I would have to say 'Hey Sugar, Take A Walk On The Wild Side', where the lovers are compared exquisitely to olive oil; 'Rattlesnakes And Rubies' for the colours and the humour; and the final poem, 'Casablanca and the Children of Storm' for its true-to-life emotions and magical descriptions of seabirds.
Padel's writing in Voodoo Shop is wonderful; it's sometimes verging on obscure but always beautiful, and very original. I get the feeling that she is a poet who really appreciates the music of words and images. Even when writing about sadness or even crudeness, she manages to bring a lightness of touch and beauty to difficult subjects.
This collection really touched me and I'm sure it will remain one of my favourites. I couldn't put it down when I was reading it - I raced from poem to poem, and will enjoy going back to it over the years to savour it again.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
Finished this a couple of days ago, having started it ages ago, let it drop to the bottom of the pile and then finished it off. Thought it sounded interesting: literature with a certain sense of the 'exotic' always appeals to me and it was shortlisted for the Booker or something.
How can I describe this book? It takes the form of a conversation between the narrator Changez and a silent American who he meets in downtown Lahore, Pakistan. We only read Changez's contribution to the conversation as he invites his new aquaintance to dine with him whilst telling his story. Turns out that Changez is a Princeton graduate who lived and loved in America for several years. His reminiscences of his time in America are interwoven with one-sided exchanges with the silent American and evocative, painterly descriptions of the Lahore district they are dining in. The story of Changez is no great adventure but presents a compelling view of what it is like to be an outsider, in both your home country and foreign places, and offers a perspective on such events as 9/11 that we don't often get to hear about in the West.
The form of the novel as half of a conversation between two people made it very readable and easy to get into. I wouldn't say that the style was amazing or even literary - I was surprised that this was nominated for the Booker; to me it was more like an easy holiday read - but it was accessible and kept me reading. I found the characterisation to be well-constructed. Changez's voice is believable, with the flaws, confusion and inconsistency of a real human being. I found the perspective and underlying message of the book thought-provoking and interesting, although the ending was a bit disappointing. For me it was just a little too open to be satisfying, particularly when seen in the context of the hints dropped throughout the book.
In short, I enjoyed it, it made me think, and it was a quick and easy read. But not amazing. Something I'd buy at an airport, read on holiday, and to be honest it'sbeen a couple of days since I finished it and I'm already forgetting it. 5/10.
How can I describe this book? It takes the form of a conversation between the narrator Changez and a silent American who he meets in downtown Lahore, Pakistan. We only read Changez's contribution to the conversation as he invites his new aquaintance to dine with him whilst telling his story. Turns out that Changez is a Princeton graduate who lived and loved in America for several years. His reminiscences of his time in America are interwoven with one-sided exchanges with the silent American and evocative, painterly descriptions of the Lahore district they are dining in. The story of Changez is no great adventure but presents a compelling view of what it is like to be an outsider, in both your home country and foreign places, and offers a perspective on such events as 9/11 that we don't often get to hear about in the West.
The form of the novel as half of a conversation between two people made it very readable and easy to get into. I wouldn't say that the style was amazing or even literary - I was surprised that this was nominated for the Booker; to me it was more like an easy holiday read - but it was accessible and kept me reading. I found the characterisation to be well-constructed. Changez's voice is believable, with the flaws, confusion and inconsistency of a real human being. I found the perspective and underlying message of the book thought-provoking and interesting, although the ending was a bit disappointing. For me it was just a little too open to be satisfying, particularly when seen in the context of the hints dropped throughout the book.
In short, I enjoyed it, it made me think, and it was a quick and easy read. But not amazing. Something I'd buy at an airport, read on holiday, and to be honest it'sbeen a couple of days since I finished it and I'm already forgetting it. 5/10.
Latitude 2011 & Good News!!
First the really cool news, today I signed up for abctales.com, where you can share your stories and poems online, and I uploaded two poems (unseen on this blog). Just found out that they have been cherrypicked by the editors and have had a warm reception from fellow abctales-ers! The poems are 'Plastic Lovespoon' and 'Blind Woman at Clapham Junction' and can be read here. Please take a look!
Latitude is a music festival with a difference, also featuring comedy, theatre and literature among much much more. I just got back from this year's festival and thought I'd write about the amazing wordsmithing I found there.
I spent a lot of time in the poetry tent and the poets that I saw read/perform include:
- Sophie Hannah
- Jo Shapcott
- Dizraeli and the Small Gods
- Amy Blakemore
- Hannah Jane Walker
- Kate Fox News
- Jack Dean
- Mab Jones
- Sam Riviere
Who shone? Dizraeli and the Small Gods - a beautiful, emotional mix of music, rap and poetry; Mab Jones - comic, honest poetry about life's minutiae, really loved it; Hannah Jane Walker for thought-provoking, lyrical poems; and Amy Blakemore for a young voice with surprising maturity and real originality. I urge you to check these guys out online, they were fantastic, and I am going to try and persuade a bookshop that I know in Wales to book a reading with Mab Jones!
Who disappointed me? Well, no one really, all the acts I saw were of a really high quality. However, Sophie Hannah's reading was more like a rant and although humourous at times I also left wondering if she was a psychopath..... Sam Riviere's work seemed, from what I caught of it, to be about the issues of identity and being an outsider, including a long poem about a trip to America. Interesting but not my personal cup of tea. Jo Shapcott read a series of poems about bees, and at that point I had to leave. But I was disappointed with her reading - it lacked audience connection, I felt, and although I love her poetry, the beekeeper in me (yes, I do actually keep bees, have done for 6 years now I think) was frustrated with her overly simplistic explanations to the audience about the science behind the poetry, the science of bees, and her mis-pronunciation of the word 'propolis'. But that's just me being nit-pickety.
What really fascinated me however was the different reading/performing styles of the poets. Some read from books or pieces of paper, e.g. Amy Blakemore, Sophie Hannah, Jo Shapcott - whereas others recited their work from memory, e.g. Mab Jones, Dizraeli, Jack Dean. Both methods worked well but undoubtedly those who had memorised their poems gave more energetic performances. So I picked up some interesting tips for when I am brave enough to finally enter an open mic! Who knows, maybe at next year's Latitude...?
Anyway, just a few musings on the world of the live spoken-word performance. For those who are into performance poetry like me, I can highly recommend Latitude festival; the poetry line-up was wide-reaching, varied and inspiring.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Paul Henry Poetry Workshop 1
Wednesday night I went to Bookish in Crickhowell, Wales, and took part in a poetry workshop with poet Paul Henry. It was a great success, a lovely workshop in a cosy atmosphere. A little daunting reading my work out to a bunch of complete strangers! But really improved my confidence in a workshop setting and met some lovely people.
We began with a free-writing exercise, based on the theme of 'where I come from...', before looking at a few poems based around the idea of place, and then attempting to write our own poetry. Everyone in the class came up with some really cool ideas, I was surprised and a little intimidated by the standard, even though half of us had never written anything before! Anyway, I didn't really do as well - it was a great workshop - but I felt that I lacked life & travel experience and distance from my birthplace which may have helped.
The 'poetry' I came up with isn't very good. The workshop made me become more aware of my writing process, through making me try a completely new method. I found writing after - or imitating the first line as a trigger - the poems we looked at (one by R.S Thomas, another by Kit Wright, another that I can't remember right now) challenging and completely new. These are the results so far, but there is nothing I am even slightly happy with yet. However I shall keep trying!
Anyway, this post will show you what I came up with during the workshop and afterwards. I hope it encourages others to come along to the next workshop or to take the plunge and go to a similar writing event. I'd never done anything like this before, and I have never shown my work to anybody in person before, let alone read it out loud, but I loved the experience and can't wait for the next one!
FREEWRITING: WHERE I COME FROM...
er, what shall I write? B_, or B_grad as I call it, kind of grotty but posh in places, or more precisely a little village called O_, a long high street of georgian-fronted houses built along a geological faultline between the clays and chalk & flint, surrounded by fields with its own castle, and of course the sound of the motorway/by-pass always going, cows behind the housing estate mooing in the heat, the swampy ponds in the fields with the fallen oak I used to climb as a kid, oh dear what next can't think of anything, the churchyard with the graves of the two French soldiers, rooks, jackdaws that descend on our garden and eat the animal food, mistletoe growing on oak trees, the river full of crayfish and trout and watermint, the canal where I once saw an otter with her cub,
WORKSHOP ATTEMPTS AT POETRY - came out more like more freewriting
To live in the Home Counties is to
be strung between the motorway and hedgerows
full of fruit as shiny as Next Door's new Audi
that cannot be left outside for fear of pigeon droppings. It is to
To live between two countries is to be always having to choose
Christmas in Wales or in England?
To live in my home town is to... (very scribbled 3rd draft)
be somewhere between the jaguar-driving cricket clubbers, ex-military, busy-bodied, feeding the charity shop with last week's trends: a gucci handbag, real italian leather, a laura ashley dress, a striped armani shirt - and the one's down B_ Road, where the drugs and murderers are. It is to revel in gossip, the GP dating the shopkeeper's estranged wife who had an affair with so-and-so, the scandal of the hint of the possibility of encroaching supermarkets versus the convenience of waitrose ready meals and the battle of the georgian-fronted high street and the affordable housing estates at christmas: tasteful blue lights, holly wreaths, versus houses bedecked with americana
POST WORKSHOP DRAFTING
Tiptoe over conifer needle-strewn tarmac for fear of dog shit, its orangey iron-smell sharp, making your nostrils flare. As you walk brambles claw their way over the tops of the fence, snagging your hair and clothes. Burs coat the hem of your sleeve. A snail's shell cracks underfoot. A blackbird cackles in fear, swooping in front of you like a dolphin before a ship.
The path is dark. Dank. Damp. Houses rise unfriendly behind the fences on either side. Blank windows. Net curtains. Peeking out from behind the conifer trees. The path is rising, inclined to the breast that continues, it seems, ito the grey ink of the sky. Stones, gravel, punching through the soles of your shoes.
Until you emerge, blinking, blinded and shocked by the view. A field of blue-green wheat stretching to a hedgerow horizon. Oast roofs in red and mossy tiles poke like upturned strawberries from amongst the greenery. Unseen cricket drums a lazy rhythm. The air tastes of poppies and mallows, watermint from the river, hobby farm sheep, oak trees.
You feel that you can breathe it in, this openness, the wheat
the egg-brown earth, its chalk, its flint, is unyielding beneath your feet.
DRAFT 3
dog shit, orangey iron-smell sharp, makes nostrils flare.
brambles clawing over top of fence, snag hair.
burs broider hem of sleeve. snail's shell cracks underfoot
blackbird cackles in fear, swoop
in front like dolphin before ship. Path. Damp. Narrow.
Houses unfriendly, fences: empty windows.
Net curtains. Peek.
path, inclined to grey sky ink.
emerge, blinking, shocked by view
field of blue
wheat stretches to hedgerow horizon. Oast roofs, red mossy
tiles, upturned strawberries amonst greenery.
Unseen cricket drums lazy
rhythm. air taste poppies, mallows, hobby farm sheep, oak trees
breathe it in, openness, wheat
egg-brown earth, chalk, flint, unyielding beneath my feet.
We began with a free-writing exercise, based on the theme of 'where I come from...', before looking at a few poems based around the idea of place, and then attempting to write our own poetry. Everyone in the class came up with some really cool ideas, I was surprised and a little intimidated by the standard, even though half of us had never written anything before! Anyway, I didn't really do as well - it was a great workshop - but I felt that I lacked life & travel experience and distance from my birthplace which may have helped.
The 'poetry' I came up with isn't very good. The workshop made me become more aware of my writing process, through making me try a completely new method. I found writing after - or imitating the first line as a trigger - the poems we looked at (one by R.S Thomas, another by Kit Wright, another that I can't remember right now) challenging and completely new. These are the results so far, but there is nothing I am even slightly happy with yet. However I shall keep trying!
Anyway, this post will show you what I came up with during the workshop and afterwards. I hope it encourages others to come along to the next workshop or to take the plunge and go to a similar writing event. I'd never done anything like this before, and I have never shown my work to anybody in person before, let alone read it out loud, but I loved the experience and can't wait for the next one!
FREEWRITING: WHERE I COME FROM...
er, what shall I write? B_, or B_grad as I call it, kind of grotty but posh in places, or more precisely a little village called O_, a long high street of georgian-fronted houses built along a geological faultline between the clays and chalk & flint, surrounded by fields with its own castle, and of course the sound of the motorway/by-pass always going, cows behind the housing estate mooing in the heat, the swampy ponds in the fields with the fallen oak I used to climb as a kid, oh dear what next can't think of anything, the churchyard with the graves of the two French soldiers, rooks, jackdaws that descend on our garden and eat the animal food, mistletoe growing on oak trees, the river full of crayfish and trout and watermint, the canal where I once saw an otter with her cub,
WORKSHOP ATTEMPTS AT POETRY - came out more like more freewriting
To live in the Home Counties is to
be strung between the motorway and hedgerows
full of fruit as shiny as Next Door's new Audi
that cannot be left outside for fear of pigeon droppings. It is to
To live between two countries is to be always having to choose
Christmas in Wales or in England?
To live in my home town is to... (very scribbled 3rd draft)
be somewhere between the jaguar-driving cricket clubbers, ex-military, busy-bodied, feeding the charity shop with last week's trends: a gucci handbag, real italian leather, a laura ashley dress, a striped armani shirt - and the one's down B_ Road, where the drugs and murderers are. It is to revel in gossip, the GP dating the shopkeeper's estranged wife who had an affair with so-and-so, the scandal of the hint of the possibility of encroaching supermarkets versus the convenience of waitrose ready meals and the battle of the georgian-fronted high street and the affordable housing estates at christmas: tasteful blue lights, holly wreaths, versus houses bedecked with americana
POST WORKSHOP DRAFTING
Tiptoe over conifer needle-strewn tarmac for fear of dog shit, its orangey iron-smell sharp, making your nostrils flare. As you walk brambles claw their way over the tops of the fence, snagging your hair and clothes. Burs coat the hem of your sleeve. A snail's shell cracks underfoot. A blackbird cackles in fear, swooping in front of you like a dolphin before a ship.
The path is dark. Dank. Damp. Houses rise unfriendly behind the fences on either side. Blank windows. Net curtains. Peeking out from behind the conifer trees. The path is rising, inclined to the breast that continues, it seems, ito the grey ink of the sky. Stones, gravel, punching through the soles of your shoes.
Until you emerge, blinking, blinded and shocked by the view. A field of blue-green wheat stretching to a hedgerow horizon. Oast roofs in red and mossy tiles poke like upturned strawberries from amongst the greenery. Unseen cricket drums a lazy rhythm. The air tastes of poppies and mallows, watermint from the river, hobby farm sheep, oak trees.
You feel that you can breathe it in, this openness, the wheat
the egg-brown earth, its chalk, its flint, is unyielding beneath your feet.
DRAFT 3
dog shit, orangey iron-smell sharp, makes nostrils flare.
brambles clawing over top of fence, snag hair.
burs broider hem of sleeve. snail's shell cracks underfoot
blackbird cackles in fear, swoop
in front like dolphin before ship. Path. Damp. Narrow.
Houses unfriendly, fences: empty windows.
Net curtains. Peek.
path, inclined to grey sky ink.
emerge, blinking, shocked by view
field of blue
wheat stretches to hedgerow horizon. Oast roofs, red mossy
tiles, upturned strawberries amonst greenery.
Unseen cricket drums lazy
rhythm. air taste poppies, mallows, hobby farm sheep, oak trees
breathe it in, openness, wheat
egg-brown earth, chalk, flint, unyielding beneath my feet.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Palace of Dreams by Ismail Kadare
The second book of Kadare's that I have read. Whereas the first that I read, Chronicle in Stone, presented the reality of WW2, The Palace of Dreams is set in an Ottoman Empire that never seems quite real - it is halfway between reality and fantasy.
The story is that of Mark-Alem, a member of the powerful but cursed Quprili family. He is sent to the Palace of Dreams and given a job. The Palace of Dreams, or Tabir Sarrail, is where the dreams of the entire Empire are sorted and stored and interpreted. In particular, signs of political unrest or plots against the state are carefully looked for. Mark-Alem experiences bewilderment at the intricate workings of the Tabir Sarrail but soon finds himself rising through the ranks.
I enjoyed this little book. Not the best book I've ever read, but enjoyable. I found that it was a little slow to start, but picked up about halfway through and eventually the slow beginning made sense in relation to the rest of the plot. I didn't identify with Mark-Alem at first - he spends a lot of his time being confused and tired - but by the end I found him to be more sympathetic. The plot and construction were a lot more subtle than I had been expecting also: instead of the towering vision of something like 1984 for example, Kadare's presentation of oppression was a lot more subtle and more of a political intrigue, which did make for interesting reading. And the basic premise and history of the Quprili family were well imagined without being overly fantastical - they were believable.
Interestingly, the symbol of the Chronicle appears here again, just as in Chronicle in Stone. I wonder if this is a recurring theme in Kadare's work? I shall just have to read more of his books to find out, something that I look forward to.
The story is that of Mark-Alem, a member of the powerful but cursed Quprili family. He is sent to the Palace of Dreams and given a job. The Palace of Dreams, or Tabir Sarrail, is where the dreams of the entire Empire are sorted and stored and interpreted. In particular, signs of political unrest or plots against the state are carefully looked for. Mark-Alem experiences bewilderment at the intricate workings of the Tabir Sarrail but soon finds himself rising through the ranks.
I enjoyed this little book. Not the best book I've ever read, but enjoyable. I found that it was a little slow to start, but picked up about halfway through and eventually the slow beginning made sense in relation to the rest of the plot. I didn't identify with Mark-Alem at first - he spends a lot of his time being confused and tired - but by the end I found him to be more sympathetic. The plot and construction were a lot more subtle than I had been expecting also: instead of the towering vision of something like 1984 for example, Kadare's presentation of oppression was a lot more subtle and more of a political intrigue, which did make for interesting reading. And the basic premise and history of the Quprili family were well imagined without being overly fantastical - they were believable.
Interestingly, the symbol of the Chronicle appears here again, just as in Chronicle in Stone. I wonder if this is a recurring theme in Kadare's work? I shall just have to read more of his books to find out, something that I look forward to.
Friday, June 24, 2011
The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick
Having discovered my unexpected interest in sci-fi (never would have thought it) after reading 1984 and The Handmaid's Tale, I thought I'd try some by Philip K. Dick (1928 - 1982, American) who is rather well known and has a large cult following I believe. So I saw this volume in Waterstones and having just got turned down for yet another job I thought I'd buy it to cheer myself up.
Probably not the best book to do that! The scenario behind The Man in the High Castle is that the Nazis and Japanese won WW2 and have now divided the American continent between them, with a kind of no-man's-land in the Rockies. The Nazis have carried out a Final Solution in Africa, leaving it as a radioactive wasteland and doing awful things to the corpses of the Africans. The action of the novel takes place in the Pacific side of the USA (now the PSA and run by the Japanese, although a strong Nazi presence is also there). So not the most cheering of scenarios, but an interesting concept.
The narrative follows several different characters - Mr. Tagomi (a Japanese official), Frank Frink (a Jew), Robert Childan (a shopkeeper specialising in American historical artefacts), and the mysterious Mr Baynes, among others. The narratives of these characters never quite interconnect but the actions of each have repercussions on the lives of the others.
The book is so called because of an important undercurrent to the narrative - a book in circulation despite its being banned in Nazi-controlled areas, entitled 'The Grasshopper Lies Heavy', in which its author - the Man in the High Castle - imagines a world where the Allied forces won WW2 - in other words, the world that we, the reader, inhabit.
In terms of this writing, this book is quite unusual. A lot of the prose is written with the articles ('a' and 'the') quite often absent, perhaps to imitate the Japanese way of talking and thinking that is now the norm in the PSA. Many of the characters also consult the I-Ching and much of the book is made up of this, and of abstract philosophical musings. Also there are lots of snippets of German - something that I found quite hard as I don't speak a word. So it reads quite strangely, and took a while for me to get into.
My reaction to this book? Not what I expected at all, and surprisingly intellectual! Having just finished it, I feel like I didn't understand a word! Sometimes I feel like I have a hold on the underlying message of the book and other times I feel completely nonplussed. From second to second it changes from a vividly imagined political commentary juxtaposing disparate utopic and distopic visions of the past/present to the 'potpourri of pointlessness' to use Dick's own turn of phrase.
For me, this book failed to hit the mark. Perhaps because I don't really understand it, but also I think because of the way it is constructed. The separateness of the characters, and the way that the narrative flashes between them, meant that as a reader I didn't really get to know any of them particularly well, none of them becoming particularly sympathetic, and no clear protagonist emerging. This is probably intentional by Dick, however, for me as a reader it meant that I didn't really identify with any of the characters and never really got into the plot as a result. And due to my complete lack of knowledge I found the German and I-Ching sections rather isolating.
Conclusion? One I might read again, more carefully, and having done extensive research into the I-Ching and philosophy!
Probably not the best book to do that! The scenario behind The Man in the High Castle is that the Nazis and Japanese won WW2 and have now divided the American continent between them, with a kind of no-man's-land in the Rockies. The Nazis have carried out a Final Solution in Africa, leaving it as a radioactive wasteland and doing awful things to the corpses of the Africans. The action of the novel takes place in the Pacific side of the USA (now the PSA and run by the Japanese, although a strong Nazi presence is also there). So not the most cheering of scenarios, but an interesting concept.
The narrative follows several different characters - Mr. Tagomi (a Japanese official), Frank Frink (a Jew), Robert Childan (a shopkeeper specialising in American historical artefacts), and the mysterious Mr Baynes, among others. The narratives of these characters never quite interconnect but the actions of each have repercussions on the lives of the others.
The book is so called because of an important undercurrent to the narrative - a book in circulation despite its being banned in Nazi-controlled areas, entitled 'The Grasshopper Lies Heavy', in which its author - the Man in the High Castle - imagines a world where the Allied forces won WW2 - in other words, the world that we, the reader, inhabit.
In terms of this writing, this book is quite unusual. A lot of the prose is written with the articles ('a' and 'the') quite often absent, perhaps to imitate the Japanese way of talking and thinking that is now the norm in the PSA. Many of the characters also consult the I-Ching and much of the book is made up of this, and of abstract philosophical musings. Also there are lots of snippets of German - something that I found quite hard as I don't speak a word. So it reads quite strangely, and took a while for me to get into.
My reaction to this book? Not what I expected at all, and surprisingly intellectual! Having just finished it, I feel like I didn't understand a word! Sometimes I feel like I have a hold on the underlying message of the book and other times I feel completely nonplussed. From second to second it changes from a vividly imagined political commentary juxtaposing disparate utopic and distopic visions of the past/present to the 'potpourri of pointlessness' to use Dick's own turn of phrase.
For me, this book failed to hit the mark. Perhaps because I don't really understand it, but also I think because of the way it is constructed. The separateness of the characters, and the way that the narrative flashes between them, meant that as a reader I didn't really get to know any of them particularly well, none of them becoming particularly sympathetic, and no clear protagonist emerging. This is probably intentional by Dick, however, for me as a reader it meant that I didn't really identify with any of the characters and never really got into the plot as a result. And due to my complete lack of knowledge I found the German and I-Ching sections rather isolating.
Conclusion? One I might read again, more carefully, and having done extensive research into the I-Ching and philosophy!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
77 Love Sonnets by Garrison Keillor
I got this beautiful little book as a gift. It comes with 2 CDs of Garrison reading and singing the sonnets, which I loved. I am a big fan of his, I love the Lake Woebegon stories - I have never read them, only listened to them on tape. So the fact that I could read and listen to these sonnets was lovely.
After reading the first two sonnets my reaction was "wow! these are really good!" and this reaction continued to the end of the collection. Not to say that there aren't some weaker ones, but I was struck by how cleverly Keillor uses the sonnet form. I loved the references to earlier sonnets, for example in 'My Love' which references Bunyan, Herrick, Marlowe...but the real strength of this collection is Keillor's observations of ordinary humanness and exquisitely playful matching of language and form.
I loved this little book. Lots of it's about love, lots about sex, lots about growing old, and lots about ordinary people, and lots of other themes to boot. Beautifully written sonnets with Keillor's own brand of tender humour. Loved it.
After reading the first two sonnets my reaction was "wow! these are really good!" and this reaction continued to the end of the collection. Not to say that there aren't some weaker ones, but I was struck by how cleverly Keillor uses the sonnet form. I loved the references to earlier sonnets, for example in 'My Love' which references Bunyan, Herrick, Marlowe...but the real strength of this collection is Keillor's observations of ordinary humanness and exquisitely playful matching of language and form.
I loved this little book. Lots of it's about love, lots about sex, lots about growing old, and lots about ordinary people, and lots of other themes to boot. Beautifully written sonnets with Keillor's own brand of tender humour. Loved it.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Destiny Disrupted by Tamim Ansary
Full title 'Destiny Disrupted: A History of the World Through Islamic Eyes'. Really good book, I highly recommend and I think it would do the world a load of good if everybody read it, Muslims and non-Muslims alike.
First of all, let me say that I am a devout atheist, but that I have friends who are Christian and friends who are Muslim and friends who are Buddhists and Hindus and atheists and agnostics etc. etc. Basically, I look in a religious debates as an outsider and 99% of the time it sounds like everyone is spouting complete rubbish and not listening to each other. So it was nice to read a book as balanced and informative as Destiny Disrupted.
Ansary takes the reader from the birth of Islam and the life of the Prophet through to our post-9/11 world. All the major and many minor events in the history of the Arab peoples and Islam are covered, from the original khalifas (Mohammed's immediate successors and trusted followers) through the Crusades and the Mongol invasion, from the Abassids and Umayyads to the Turks and Persians, from Akbar the Great to Ahmadinejad, from the house of Ibn Saud to the Ottomans to the Secular Modernists, from Jamaluddin-i-Afghan to Osama bin Laden.
Not everything in this book sits comfortably; I'm British and a lot of the railing against European Colonialism touched a socially-conditioned nerve of mine, but every point that Ansary made about this was valid, and there was an equal amount of railing against Arab mistakes too. I didn't agree with everything in the book, and I wish that Ansary had touched a bit more on current conflicts, the rise of the Taliban and Muslim Brotherhood, etc, as well as the life of women in the Arab world. However, the book was balanced (between Arab and Western, and between 'moderate' and 'fundamentalist' Islamic sensibilities) and written wonderfully. Ansary has a real feel for the interconnectedness of events and a sensitivity to both the 'Middle World' and the 'West', having lived in both. Also, he's a pretty good story teller, making even the driest of religious doctrines readable and understandable to your average outsider. After reading this book, I understand so much better what the Islamic faith is about, what makes it different from and similar to Christianity, and how history has led our two civilisations to the conflicts that are now raging.
Ansary refrains from calling the current conflicts raging around the world and the events leading up to them as a 'clash of civilisations', instead making a convincing argument for calling them two mismatched world views. This isn't the only book to read on the subject of Islam, or the 'mismatch' of our two cultures, but it's a brilliant place to start, and I wish that more people would read it. Maybe that way we'd understand each other a little bit more.
First of all, let me say that I am a devout atheist, but that I have friends who are Christian and friends who are Muslim and friends who are Buddhists and Hindus and atheists and agnostics etc. etc. Basically, I look in a religious debates as an outsider and 99% of the time it sounds like everyone is spouting complete rubbish and not listening to each other. So it was nice to read a book as balanced and informative as Destiny Disrupted.
Ansary takes the reader from the birth of Islam and the life of the Prophet through to our post-9/11 world. All the major and many minor events in the history of the Arab peoples and Islam are covered, from the original khalifas (Mohammed's immediate successors and trusted followers) through the Crusades and the Mongol invasion, from the Abassids and Umayyads to the Turks and Persians, from Akbar the Great to Ahmadinejad, from the house of Ibn Saud to the Ottomans to the Secular Modernists, from Jamaluddin-i-Afghan to Osama bin Laden.
Not everything in this book sits comfortably; I'm British and a lot of the railing against European Colonialism touched a socially-conditioned nerve of mine, but every point that Ansary made about this was valid, and there was an equal amount of railing against Arab mistakes too. I didn't agree with everything in the book, and I wish that Ansary had touched a bit more on current conflicts, the rise of the Taliban and Muslim Brotherhood, etc, as well as the life of women in the Arab world. However, the book was balanced (between Arab and Western, and between 'moderate' and 'fundamentalist' Islamic sensibilities) and written wonderfully. Ansary has a real feel for the interconnectedness of events and a sensitivity to both the 'Middle World' and the 'West', having lived in both. Also, he's a pretty good story teller, making even the driest of religious doctrines readable and understandable to your average outsider. After reading this book, I understand so much better what the Islamic faith is about, what makes it different from and similar to Christianity, and how history has led our two civilisations to the conflicts that are now raging.
Ansary refrains from calling the current conflicts raging around the world and the events leading up to them as a 'clash of civilisations', instead making a convincing argument for calling them two mismatched world views. This isn't the only book to read on the subject of Islam, or the 'mismatch' of our two cultures, but it's a brilliant place to start, and I wish that more people would read it. Maybe that way we'd understand each other a little bit more.
The next book I want to see is a collaboration between both Western and Arabic/Islamic historians, comparing within the same book these two mismatched world views. If any historians read this....
Friday, June 3, 2011
PS
sorry about the layout at the moment, I know that I always hate it on blogs when the labels etc. aren't immediately obvious. Can't actually see why everything is at the bottom, Blogger seems to think it's at the side but is displaying it at the bottom. No idea how to fix this but I will investigate! ;)
The Passion of New Eve by Angela Carter
The second book by Carter that I have read. The basic story is that Evelyn is an Englishman living in a crumbling America. He treats his lover Leilah badly, and so is captured by a fertility goddess and forced to have a sex change, in order that he a) gets a taste of his own medicine and b) repopulates the world by getting himself pregnant. And yes, it is as weird and grotesque as it sounds.
The basic premise of the story (chauvinist pig gets turned into a woman so he sees how he likes it) sounded promising - profound but with room for some dark humour. But this story went off at completely the opposite direction to what I expected. In fact I was a little disappointed - it isn't the story I expected, and it isn't the story I would have written.
This being Carter of course, the book is full of vivid description, poetic and grotesque language, and enough symbolism to sink a ship. In fact I've decided taht the way Carter writes is not so much in terms of a coherent plot, but more a string of vivid and symbolic scenes strung together by common characters. If you want a plot, don't read this book. However, Carter's vision is vividly painted and if you want a profound and challenging read then this is the book for you.
The depiction of a crumbling America was perhaps my favourite part of this book. It is horribly described, the first thing Evelyn sees when he arrives in America is a man who has just been stabbed, and it gets more and more horrible as the book continues. However Carter's vision of America was very interesting and imaginative. Surreal, but interesting, and not incomparable with the worlds of Fitzgerald and Steinbeck.
In all I was disappointed with this book. Hard to explain why. I think it's because there is no subtlety about Carter's message. Instead of allowing the message to develop through plot and characters, she thrusts it down the reader's throat with heavy-handed symbolism and gore. I found the fertility goddess's chant (something along the lines of Oedipus this, Oedipus that, Jocasta Jocasta Jocasta!) among other aspects ridiculous and actually laughable. There is no subtlety here, absolutely none, and boy did I miss it! The understated vividness of Austen and George Eliot, the poetry of the Brontes, the real-world believability of Iris Murdoch, the sharply-observed and humourously constructed messages of Jeanette Winterson's work...Carter stands out against the canon of great female writers for her surrealist and unflinchingly hideous descriptions, but she lacks, despite the scholarly references peppering The Passion of New Eve, the intelligence and wit of other female writers past and present. I found her writing interesting when I read The Infernal Desire Machines of Dr Hoffman, but found New Eve hard to swallow.
I know it's simplistic but I rate this 4.5 / 10, and would only read it again if I were studying it!
Not that I've consigned Carter to the back of the bookshelf, mind, but it will be a while before I read her again of my own free choice.
The basic premise of the story (chauvinist pig gets turned into a woman so he sees how he likes it) sounded promising - profound but with room for some dark humour. But this story went off at completely the opposite direction to what I expected. In fact I was a little disappointed - it isn't the story I expected, and it isn't the story I would have written.
This being Carter of course, the book is full of vivid description, poetic and grotesque language, and enough symbolism to sink a ship. In fact I've decided taht the way Carter writes is not so much in terms of a coherent plot, but more a string of vivid and symbolic scenes strung together by common characters. If you want a plot, don't read this book. However, Carter's vision is vividly painted and if you want a profound and challenging read then this is the book for you.
The depiction of a crumbling America was perhaps my favourite part of this book. It is horribly described, the first thing Evelyn sees when he arrives in America is a man who has just been stabbed, and it gets more and more horrible as the book continues. However Carter's vision of America was very interesting and imaginative. Surreal, but interesting, and not incomparable with the worlds of Fitzgerald and Steinbeck.
In all I was disappointed with this book. Hard to explain why. I think it's because there is no subtlety about Carter's message. Instead of allowing the message to develop through plot and characters, she thrusts it down the reader's throat with heavy-handed symbolism and gore. I found the fertility goddess's chant (something along the lines of Oedipus this, Oedipus that, Jocasta Jocasta Jocasta!) among other aspects ridiculous and actually laughable. There is no subtlety here, absolutely none, and boy did I miss it! The understated vividness of Austen and George Eliot, the poetry of the Brontes, the real-world believability of Iris Murdoch, the sharply-observed and humourously constructed messages of Jeanette Winterson's work...Carter stands out against the canon of great female writers for her surrealist and unflinchingly hideous descriptions, but she lacks, despite the scholarly references peppering The Passion of New Eve, the intelligence and wit of other female writers past and present. I found her writing interesting when I read The Infernal Desire Machines of Dr Hoffman, but found New Eve hard to swallow.
I know it's simplistic but I rate this 4.5 / 10, and would only read it again if I were studying it!
Not that I've consigned Carter to the back of the bookshelf, mind, but it will be a while before I read her again of my own free choice.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
This sci-fi novel is set in the future, when the US has become the state of Gilead, a religious dictatorship. The repressive regime is born out of the fact that only a small minority of women remain fertile. These women are the Handmaids, and are basically hired out to important men in order to procreate. If they fail to do this, or break the strict rules governing their lives, they can become Unwomen and be sent to the radioactive colonies, be hanged and displayed as an example, or maybe even be torn to pieces by fellow humans.
The novel is told from the point of view of the Handmaid Offred (literally, the woman Of Fred). She recounts details of her former life and family, which intertwine with the story of her present. Offred is manipulated by the wife of her Commander, the Commander himself, and finds herself drawn towards his chauffeur/butler/servant, Nick, all of which puts her life in danger. The structure of the book revolves between the past and present, and Offred's encounters with other characters, and there is a reflective section at the end of the book told from many years after the events of the book.
I enjoyed the book, although it's a disturbing story and one that describes certain events in grisly detail. Atwood writes in an unfussy, almost conversational tone, but paints her characters very persuasively and uses symbolism as if it were going out of fashion. I felt that some elements were rather anachronistic - the Compucheck, Compubank, etc. It was Compu-everything - and that some elements were quite obviously borrowed from 1984. Also the 'Historical Notes', the last and reflective part of the book, didn't, I feel, add anything to the story. In fact it detracted from it, in that the deliciously tantalising cliff-hanger at the end of Offred's story is explained away. I think this was added to explain how Offred's internal monologue could have been recorded, but to be honest this part was unnecessary and surperfluous.
In all, however, Atwood's characters and scenario were uniquely presented and uniquely uncomfortable to read. Definitely a book that makes the reader think, and one that, though disturbing, I thoroughly enjoyed. I will certainly return to this book. It has really freaked me out, but I couldn't put it down.
The novel is told from the point of view of the Handmaid Offred (literally, the woman Of Fred). She recounts details of her former life and family, which intertwine with the story of her present. Offred is manipulated by the wife of her Commander, the Commander himself, and finds herself drawn towards his chauffeur/butler/servant, Nick, all of which puts her life in danger. The structure of the book revolves between the past and present, and Offred's encounters with other characters, and there is a reflective section at the end of the book told from many years after the events of the book.
I enjoyed the book, although it's a disturbing story and one that describes certain events in grisly detail. Atwood writes in an unfussy, almost conversational tone, but paints her characters very persuasively and uses symbolism as if it were going out of fashion. I felt that some elements were rather anachronistic - the Compucheck, Compubank, etc. It was Compu-everything - and that some elements were quite obviously borrowed from 1984. Also the 'Historical Notes', the last and reflective part of the book, didn't, I feel, add anything to the story. In fact it detracted from it, in that the deliciously tantalising cliff-hanger at the end of Offred's story is explained away. I think this was added to explain how Offred's internal monologue could have been recorded, but to be honest this part was unnecessary and surperfluous.
In all, however, Atwood's characters and scenario were uniquely presented and uniquely uncomfortable to read. Definitely a book that makes the reader think, and one that, though disturbing, I thoroughly enjoyed. I will certainly return to this book. It has really freaked me out, but I couldn't put it down.
Friday, May 13, 2011
1984 by George Orwell
I know this is a 20th C classic but I have never read it before, nor any of Orwell's work for matter, and the only other science fiction book I have ever read is Never Let Me Go. So here are my thoughts about 1984, and maybe it will convince even those who have read it before to pick up this book again and reread it!
For those who do not know the story: Winston Smith lives in a totalitarian state ruled by the Party. Free thought, human emotion and even love are utterly forbidden, and history and truth denied and warped. Winston embarks on a dangerous love affair with the seemingly regime-loyal Julia, whilst attempting in his own small way to undermine the oppressive powers that govern every aspect of his life. Without giving too much away...it lands him in all sorts of trouble in a plot full of twists but also driven by a haunting inevitability.
I absolutely loved this book, and it amazes me how something written 63 years ago is still so terrifyingly relevant. Goldstein, the hate figure, is currently (or until recently) incarnate in Osama bin Laden. Telescreens are everywhere these days - in fact I am typing on one right now, and what's more, it has an undisguised camera facing me - and we even have portable ones that we carry round with us all the time. The News of the World phone hacking scandal show how these telescreens can be used to spy on us. I'm not a conspiracy theorist - well, ok, a bit, but hey, I'm young and revolutionary - but Orwell's vision of an utterly totalitarian future has so many frightening parallels to today. Even the world divided into the three superstates of Oceania, Eurasia and Eastasia is not unrecogniseable. The UK is the only pro-American country in Europe, Europe and the US are terrified of China, India and Russia, and countries as varied as China, the US and Arab states seem to almost fight one another for control of Africa - which is kept impoverished and oppressed. The constant, ever-shifting war? Surely it has several parallels with the War on Terror. It's amazing that Orwell had such foresight back in 1948, and the fact that he was writing just after the Second World War - and had already seen a totalitarian Europe and a whole world at war - and could see no improvement in the future...it's astounding, it really is.
But apart from the continued relevance and frightening foresight of the book, Orwell just writes absolutely compellingly. The ominous inevitability of Winston's end, right from the beginning of the book - 'it would end in the Ministery of Love' - had me gripped. I read the book in stolen snatches, desperate to read on. The portrait of the word imagined by Orwell is beautifully and shockingly painted. The invented world - Thought Crime, Doublethink, Newspeak, the Telescreen, Ingsoc - is horrifyingly believable. Characters are complex and Winston's inner battles are pitched just right. The plot is a real driving force (its only digression is The Book, something which although a bit of a drag compared to the rest of it, but still fascinating). But even Orwell's use of language is absolutely brilliant. My favourite line, the one that stays with me, is when Winston is described as 'gelatinous with fatigue'. Gelatinous! Perfect, glorious description! It's thoughtfully, inventively, bizarrely written, the language straightforward and unfussy but also perfectly judged and wonderfully precise and descriptive.
In short, I loved this book. I haven't been made to think so deeply by a book since I don't know when. But as well as being a thought-provoker, and a political statement, 1984 has beautiful language and perfectly-paced plot to add to its list. And the ending - so inevitable, but utterly surprising. I'd give it 9.99999999999999999 recurring out of 10. The tiny decimal knocked off only because although I admire Orwell's vision, I hope it never becomes true.
For those who do not know the story: Winston Smith lives in a totalitarian state ruled by the Party. Free thought, human emotion and even love are utterly forbidden, and history and truth denied and warped. Winston embarks on a dangerous love affair with the seemingly regime-loyal Julia, whilst attempting in his own small way to undermine the oppressive powers that govern every aspect of his life. Without giving too much away...it lands him in all sorts of trouble in a plot full of twists but also driven by a haunting inevitability.
I absolutely loved this book, and it amazes me how something written 63 years ago is still so terrifyingly relevant. Goldstein, the hate figure, is currently (or until recently) incarnate in Osama bin Laden. Telescreens are everywhere these days - in fact I am typing on one right now, and what's more, it has an undisguised camera facing me - and we even have portable ones that we carry round with us all the time. The News of the World phone hacking scandal show how these telescreens can be used to spy on us. I'm not a conspiracy theorist - well, ok, a bit, but hey, I'm young and revolutionary - but Orwell's vision of an utterly totalitarian future has so many frightening parallels to today. Even the world divided into the three superstates of Oceania, Eurasia and Eastasia is not unrecogniseable. The UK is the only pro-American country in Europe, Europe and the US are terrified of China, India and Russia, and countries as varied as China, the US and Arab states seem to almost fight one another for control of Africa - which is kept impoverished and oppressed. The constant, ever-shifting war? Surely it has several parallels with the War on Terror. It's amazing that Orwell had such foresight back in 1948, and the fact that he was writing just after the Second World War - and had already seen a totalitarian Europe and a whole world at war - and could see no improvement in the future...it's astounding, it really is.
But apart from the continued relevance and frightening foresight of the book, Orwell just writes absolutely compellingly. The ominous inevitability of Winston's end, right from the beginning of the book - 'it would end in the Ministery of Love' - had me gripped. I read the book in stolen snatches, desperate to read on. The portrait of the word imagined by Orwell is beautifully and shockingly painted. The invented world - Thought Crime, Doublethink, Newspeak, the Telescreen, Ingsoc - is horrifyingly believable. Characters are complex and Winston's inner battles are pitched just right. The plot is a real driving force (its only digression is The Book, something which although a bit of a drag compared to the rest of it, but still fascinating). But even Orwell's use of language is absolutely brilliant. My favourite line, the one that stays with me, is when Winston is described as 'gelatinous with fatigue'. Gelatinous! Perfect, glorious description! It's thoughtfully, inventively, bizarrely written, the language straightforward and unfussy but also perfectly judged and wonderfully precise and descriptive.
In short, I loved this book. I haven't been made to think so deeply by a book since I don't know when. But as well as being a thought-provoker, and a political statement, 1984 has beautiful language and perfectly-paced plot to add to its list. And the ending - so inevitable, but utterly surprising. I'd give it 9.99999999999999999 recurring out of 10. The tiny decimal knocked off only because although I admire Orwell's vision, I hope it never becomes true.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Flo's Own...Poetry: Portrait of the Escapologist, in Macroscopic Quantum State
This poem came to me as a combination of Francis Bacon's painting, and a scene from The Terminator 2 when the Terminator melts, and the drops of liquid start trembling, moving and reamalgamating.
This led to some research into superfluids, photoisomerisation and macroscopic quantum state. All very scientific and I don't understand any of it, but it says what I want it to - 'superfluid' is full of soft slippery sounds, and is perfect for the movement of drops of liquid that I wanted to convey.
First draft, took 30 mins to write after research.
Portrait of the Escapologist, in Macroscopic Quantum State
(After Francis Bacon's 'Seated Figure')
straightjacketed in skin (on a camel's back) i am an acrobat
hulahooping, melting, superfluiding
into the corner, and crawling up the wall...
(c) stays with me, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile, by Alice Oswald
Alice Oswald: successful British poet. Her most recent collection is 'A Sleepwalk on the Severn', I think published earlier this year or late 2010. Gap-Stone Stile was her first collection, from years ago. I know she's a well-respected poet but this was the first of her work I have read.
I quite enjoyed it actually. Some of the stuff just didn't do it for me - some of the Sea Sonnets, for example, to my poetic ear just didn't 'sing', and there were aspects of certain poems that irritated me a little - some just didn't ring true, sounded a bit pretentious. But in all I really liked the collection and I can understand why Oswald is as well-respected as she is. I'm sure her later collections are much more fully-formed.
My favourite poems were The Melon Grower, about a man who neglects his family as he cares for his melon plants (I have grown melons myself, and became quite attached to them, so I could sympathise with his predicament!), one about owls in which there was the lovely line 'an owl about the size of a vicar' - loved it. That line really stood out for me, the incongruity of its humour in a poem with a more serious tone - and a couple of poems addressed to the only-just tolerated nextdoor neighbour. For me it was the flashes of humour in the collection, and the human stories that shone, rather than the soliloquising about water and gardens and nature, which is what Oswald is particularly known for. No - those weren't bad, but they didn't move me. Personally, I feel that a nature poem has to absolutely convey a sense of sheer wonder, and the ones in this collection didn't communicate that to me. However, Oswald's softly-spoken but sharp observations of humanity were brilliant.
At the end of the collection is a long poem about three men from the village of Gotham who go to try and catch the moon in a net (and its title is similarly self-explanatory). Strange. Some of the language was interesting, but it didn't speak to me. The poet's message or whatever it was she wanted to communicate went over my head. It seemed to be long and pretentious for the sake of being long and pretentious, and mostly lacked Oswald's otherwise frequent and clever use of half-rhyme. Didn't get it, although I found the explanation of the ideas behind the poem very entertaining and interesting, and intend to research Gotham - and its strange antic disposition - a little further.
In all, an interesting collection, but one that I sometimes found too serious, and occasionally a little obscure and pretentious. However, there were some lovely lyrical lines and the flashes of human lives and humour were a joy to read. I will read this collection again at some point, and I definitely want to read some of Alice Oswald's later works. A 5 or 6 out of 10 for me, but an intriguing and encouraging one.
I quite enjoyed it actually. Some of the stuff just didn't do it for me - some of the Sea Sonnets, for example, to my poetic ear just didn't 'sing', and there were aspects of certain poems that irritated me a little - some just didn't ring true, sounded a bit pretentious. But in all I really liked the collection and I can understand why Oswald is as well-respected as she is. I'm sure her later collections are much more fully-formed.
My favourite poems were The Melon Grower, about a man who neglects his family as he cares for his melon plants (I have grown melons myself, and became quite attached to them, so I could sympathise with his predicament!), one about owls in which there was the lovely line 'an owl about the size of a vicar' - loved it. That line really stood out for me, the incongruity of its humour in a poem with a more serious tone - and a couple of poems addressed to the only-just tolerated nextdoor neighbour. For me it was the flashes of humour in the collection, and the human stories that shone, rather than the soliloquising about water and gardens and nature, which is what Oswald is particularly known for. No - those weren't bad, but they didn't move me. Personally, I feel that a nature poem has to absolutely convey a sense of sheer wonder, and the ones in this collection didn't communicate that to me. However, Oswald's softly-spoken but sharp observations of humanity were brilliant.
At the end of the collection is a long poem about three men from the village of Gotham who go to try and catch the moon in a net (and its title is similarly self-explanatory). Strange. Some of the language was interesting, but it didn't speak to me. The poet's message or whatever it was she wanted to communicate went over my head. It seemed to be long and pretentious for the sake of being long and pretentious, and mostly lacked Oswald's otherwise frequent and clever use of half-rhyme. Didn't get it, although I found the explanation of the ideas behind the poem very entertaining and interesting, and intend to research Gotham - and its strange antic disposition - a little further.
In all, an interesting collection, but one that I sometimes found too serious, and occasionally a little obscure and pretentious. However, there were some lovely lyrical lines and the flashes of human lives and humour were a joy to read. I will read this collection again at some point, and I definitely want to read some of Alice Oswald's later works. A 5 or 6 out of 10 for me, but an intriguing and encouraging one.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Charity Shop Books
I have been charity shopping today and found some real treasures! So often I think of books in charity shops as limited to the Maeve Binchies, Clive Cusslers and Good Housekeepings of this world. I forget that I have got some of my most treasured books second hand and many of them from charity shops.
Once I found The Vogue Sewing Book - a massive doorstep of a book - for the princely sum of £1. I was well chuffed. Another best buy is a Haruki Murakami with the most beautifully illustrated cover. Charity shopping can be so satisfying when you strike gold, like I did today.
I wandered into the British Heart Foundation shop in my local town, looking for clothes I could cut up and resew. Nothing that I particularly liked or would wear even once I'd dismantled it. So I wandered to the back of the shop and looked at the books.
It's a miracle I kept on looking. The first things I was confronted with were diets and loads of strange Christian books that rather freaked me out...but soon I realised that just above my head was a poetry and drama section, bigger even than that in the local Waterstones!! (Waterstones' near me is appalling for poetry and drama). There was everything. Donne. Betjeman. Shakespeare. Seamus Heaney's new translation of Beowulf. Emily Dickinson. Loads more that I can't remember but that had my eyes agog. And some literary fiction among the Maeve Binchies and Clive Cusslers. So many of them were brand new, as well. I couldn't believe it! Beautiful books!!
So I came out with a battered but very lovely Penguin Book of Italian Verse (I speak a bit, but luckily there are translations, and anyway, I just want the rhythms of the language, rather than the meaning if I'm honest), Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist and The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile by Alice Oswald, as well as book on myths for my mum. All cost me £8. That's £2 a book. The Alice Oswald on its own would have cost £8.99 new. Major bargain!!!
So my tip for today is not to dismiss charity shops! They're getting trendy (and ridiculously priced, yes, I am talking about you Cancer Research) for clothes and things but they are also a potential haven for bookworms!
(And thanks so much Crafty Green Poet for the paragraphing solution!)
Once I found The Vogue Sewing Book - a massive doorstep of a book - for the princely sum of £1. I was well chuffed. Another best buy is a Haruki Murakami with the most beautifully illustrated cover. Charity shopping can be so satisfying when you strike gold, like I did today.
I wandered into the British Heart Foundation shop in my local town, looking for clothes I could cut up and resew. Nothing that I particularly liked or would wear even once I'd dismantled it. So I wandered to the back of the shop and looked at the books.
It's a miracle I kept on looking. The first things I was confronted with were diets and loads of strange Christian books that rather freaked me out...but soon I realised that just above my head was a poetry and drama section, bigger even than that in the local Waterstones!! (Waterstones' near me is appalling for poetry and drama). There was everything. Donne. Betjeman. Shakespeare. Seamus Heaney's new translation of Beowulf. Emily Dickinson. Loads more that I can't remember but that had my eyes agog. And some literary fiction among the Maeve Binchies and Clive Cusslers. So many of them were brand new, as well. I couldn't believe it! Beautiful books!!
So I came out with a battered but very lovely Penguin Book of Italian Verse (I speak a bit, but luckily there are translations, and anyway, I just want the rhythms of the language, rather than the meaning if I'm honest), Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist and The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile by Alice Oswald, as well as book on myths for my mum. All cost me £8. That's £2 a book. The Alice Oswald on its own would have cost £8.99 new. Major bargain!!!
So my tip for today is not to dismiss charity shops! They're getting trendy (and ridiculously priced, yes, I am talking about you Cancer Research) for clothes and things but they are also a potential haven for bookworms!
(And thanks so much Crafty Green Poet for the paragraphing solution!)
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sorry
Sorry about the last two posts. For some reason Blogger won't let me paragraph. I will try and sort it out.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Another classic that I haven't read before, this time an American one. The Great Gatsby is set in the wild, whimsical 20's in New York, and tells the story of Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby in their attempt to restart an old romance. Themes include obsession, reality & dreams, hope, love, memory and the complexity of human relationships.
I really enjoyed this book. It's short and sweet, and despite the fact that it's approaching 100 years old (!) it's modern, easy reading and still relevant to today's society. The presentation of the hedonistic, artificial and wild social scene are particularly memorable and relevant.
But to the book. Scott Fitzgerald was clearly a very talented writer. The book is full of descriptions that virtually made my mouth water - 'frosted wedding cake of the ceiling' is one that particularly sticks in my mind. The conjuring of the heat, business and atmosphere of Long Island was beautiful to read.
I liked the characterisation. From the first chapter you have most of the characters pinned down - Daisy is selfish, carefree, seductive, teasing; Tom is possessive and always wants more; Nick Carraway is an interferer and a user, but not unpleasant. Fitzgerald writes his characters perfectly - from their physical description to their speech, they are presented as full, well-rounded and complete entities.
However, despite the mouth-watering descriptions and skilled characterisations having finished the book it does feel a little...unfinished. I don't mean that the reader is left with questions once the book is finished. Everything wraps up rather messily for the characters, but is very neatly explained. Rather, I feel as if it never got going. The plot...well, was that it? Admittedly towards the end there were a couple of twists which I hadn't been expecting, but mostly it was clear that nothing was going to happen, and then it didn't. And the central and crucially important Gatsby as a character? He was the one character that I felt I didn't know and couldn't sympathise with, undoubtedly due to the mystery he holds for other characters in the book, but in the first chapter Nick says how Gatsby turned out to be a good sort...and I don't think he did. He was just some bloke that turns up, gets in a bit of an emotional muddle, and that's that. It's not that I think the story is shallow or uninteresting or anything like that. It just feels a bit of an anticlimax - a gentle stroll through all the parties etc., a couple of promising revelations and then...diddlysquat. End of book.
Somehow it just never rang true for me. It's the kind of book that I know I will understand differently the next time I read it, the kind that reveals more of itself the more you get to know it. Skilled, beautiful writing, with a wonderful use of unique descriptive language. But lacking something - a bit of zing, some spice. Nowhere near my top 20. But possibly in the top 100 for the descriptions. We shall see.
I really enjoyed this book. It's short and sweet, and despite the fact that it's approaching 100 years old (!) it's modern, easy reading and still relevant to today's society. The presentation of the hedonistic, artificial and wild social scene are particularly memorable and relevant.
But to the book. Scott Fitzgerald was clearly a very talented writer. The book is full of descriptions that virtually made my mouth water - 'frosted wedding cake of the ceiling' is one that particularly sticks in my mind. The conjuring of the heat, business and atmosphere of Long Island was beautiful to read.
I liked the characterisation. From the first chapter you have most of the characters pinned down - Daisy is selfish, carefree, seductive, teasing; Tom is possessive and always wants more; Nick Carraway is an interferer and a user, but not unpleasant. Fitzgerald writes his characters perfectly - from their physical description to their speech, they are presented as full, well-rounded and complete entities.
However, despite the mouth-watering descriptions and skilled characterisations having finished the book it does feel a little...unfinished. I don't mean that the reader is left with questions once the book is finished. Everything wraps up rather messily for the characters, but is very neatly explained. Rather, I feel as if it never got going. The plot...well, was that it? Admittedly towards the end there were a couple of twists which I hadn't been expecting, but mostly it was clear that nothing was going to happen, and then it didn't. And the central and crucially important Gatsby as a character? He was the one character that I felt I didn't know and couldn't sympathise with, undoubtedly due to the mystery he holds for other characters in the book, but in the first chapter Nick says how Gatsby turned out to be a good sort...and I don't think he did. He was just some bloke that turns up, gets in a bit of an emotional muddle, and that's that. It's not that I think the story is shallow or uninteresting or anything like that. It just feels a bit of an anticlimax - a gentle stroll through all the parties etc., a couple of promising revelations and then...diddlysquat. End of book.
Somehow it just never rang true for me. It's the kind of book that I know I will understand differently the next time I read it, the kind that reveals more of itself the more you get to know it. Skilled, beautiful writing, with a wonderful use of unique descriptive language. But lacking something - a bit of zing, some spice. Nowhere near my top 20. But possibly in the top 100 for the descriptions. We shall see.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Bone People by Keri Hulme
Just noticed an absolutely hideous split infinitive in the last post. Oh well.
I just finished The Bone People by Keri Hulme five minutes ago. It has been one heck of a read - took me ages, and is very hefty book, full of hefty ideas and hefty writing techniques...but I really enjoyed it, too. Keri Hulme is a New Zealand writer of mixed heritage - some Maori - and this is her first and only novel, although she writes poetry and short stories. The Bone People tells the story of how Kerewin, an asexual artist, finds herself getting more and more involved with Joe and his adopted son Simon. Simon is a difficult child who does not speak, and Joe is suffering from the loss of his wife and biological son. Their relationship is an abusive one, but at the same time absolutely loving. Their three lives become entwined.
I don't really know what it was that kept me going through this book. It's compelling from about 2/3 of the way through, but beforehand not an awful lot happens, except the presentation of the growing relationships between the characters. However, somehow it gripped me from the start, and my word, the end was worth the wait.
I loved several aspects of this book. The first is the inclusion of Maori myth and even language - subtle, at first, and then becoming more influential to the narrative towards the end. It was really fascinating to read about, but Hulme blended it perfectly into a picture of modern New Zealand. The second thing I loved was Hulme's use of language. In her introduction to my edition of the book, she talks about how words have 'shapes', and how the same word written with subtle differences (e.g. bluegreen, blue-green) creates entirely different meanings and feelings. She is a writer who is clearly aware of the infantessimal obscurities of language, and manipulates these beautifully. Her descriptions are spare and concise but conjure perfectly, and her prose, even dialogue, reads like poetry. The third aspect, and possibly the most moving aspect of the book, is the fact that it is a book about people. Despite the Maori myth and the plot and all the ins and outs it is a book about human relationships. All of the characters are flawed. They're all sympathetic. You can see a lot of the writer in this book, but it also reflects back to the reader. A very thought-provoking, caring and complexly simple story, and one that examines the beauty and horror of human relationships, very intelligently and very sympathetically.
I won't lie, there are parts of the book that are disturbing - the abuse scenes, in particular. But despite this it's the kind of book that gives you that bittersweet lift at the end. What they always call 'life-affirming' in film reviews - a term that I hate, but that I guess communicates the feeling.
It's also not easy going. Hulme weaves together third person, first person, past tense, present tense, narrative, dialogue, thought...and the structure puts the end at the beginning, loads of flashbacks in, things in consecutive chapters that are happening simultaneously or before what happened in the last chapter...Very unique, original style. I wouldn't call it avant-garde, because Hulme uses it deftly to mould the characters and narrative, and it is essential to the book rather than just being a pretentious add-on to a simple story. But it is different, and confusing, and tantalising. The complexity of the story requires the complexity of the way it's written. It was tough at times (especially when I had the much slimmer and more straight forward Great Gatsby at my side, watching me and begging to be read) but I really enjoyed Keri Hulme's unique style and tenderly-told story.
The Bone People is the kind of book that you can't rush through, and I won't be rushing to read it a second time. But I will read it again, not too far off. Three words to describe it? Eccentric, human, tender. Would I recommend other people read it? Yes. Not everyone will love it, and I was lucky that I read it at the right time for me, but I will definitely be recommending it to my more open-minded friends, as it is a book that teaches, without being preachy.
Waffle, the above. Basically, read it if you can set aside the time for it and if you like books that make you think hard. I loved it. I rescued it from a box going to the charity shop, and I'm glad I did, and it will be staying safely on my shelf waiting for me. ;)
I just finished The Bone People by Keri Hulme five minutes ago. It has been one heck of a read - took me ages, and is very hefty book, full of hefty ideas and hefty writing techniques...but I really enjoyed it, too. Keri Hulme is a New Zealand writer of mixed heritage - some Maori - and this is her first and only novel, although she writes poetry and short stories. The Bone People tells the story of how Kerewin, an asexual artist, finds herself getting more and more involved with Joe and his adopted son Simon. Simon is a difficult child who does not speak, and Joe is suffering from the loss of his wife and biological son. Their relationship is an abusive one, but at the same time absolutely loving. Their three lives become entwined.
I don't really know what it was that kept me going through this book. It's compelling from about 2/3 of the way through, but beforehand not an awful lot happens, except the presentation of the growing relationships between the characters. However, somehow it gripped me from the start, and my word, the end was worth the wait.
I loved several aspects of this book. The first is the inclusion of Maori myth and even language - subtle, at first, and then becoming more influential to the narrative towards the end. It was really fascinating to read about, but Hulme blended it perfectly into a picture of modern New Zealand. The second thing I loved was Hulme's use of language. In her introduction to my edition of the book, she talks about how words have 'shapes', and how the same word written with subtle differences (e.g. bluegreen, blue-green) creates entirely different meanings and feelings. She is a writer who is clearly aware of the infantessimal obscurities of language, and manipulates these beautifully. Her descriptions are spare and concise but conjure perfectly, and her prose, even dialogue, reads like poetry. The third aspect, and possibly the most moving aspect of the book, is the fact that it is a book about people. Despite the Maori myth and the plot and all the ins and outs it is a book about human relationships. All of the characters are flawed. They're all sympathetic. You can see a lot of the writer in this book, but it also reflects back to the reader. A very thought-provoking, caring and complexly simple story, and one that examines the beauty and horror of human relationships, very intelligently and very sympathetically.
I won't lie, there are parts of the book that are disturbing - the abuse scenes, in particular. But despite this it's the kind of book that gives you that bittersweet lift at the end. What they always call 'life-affirming' in film reviews - a term that I hate, but that I guess communicates the feeling.
It's also not easy going. Hulme weaves together third person, first person, past tense, present tense, narrative, dialogue, thought...and the structure puts the end at the beginning, loads of flashbacks in, things in consecutive chapters that are happening simultaneously or before what happened in the last chapter...Very unique, original style. I wouldn't call it avant-garde, because Hulme uses it deftly to mould the characters and narrative, and it is essential to the book rather than just being a pretentious add-on to a simple story. But it is different, and confusing, and tantalising. The complexity of the story requires the complexity of the way it's written. It was tough at times (especially when I had the much slimmer and more straight forward Great Gatsby at my side, watching me and begging to be read) but I really enjoyed Keri Hulme's unique style and tenderly-told story.
The Bone People is the kind of book that you can't rush through, and I won't be rushing to read it a second time. But I will read it again, not too far off. Three words to describe it? Eccentric, human, tender. Would I recommend other people read it? Yes. Not everyone will love it, and I was lucky that I read it at the right time for me, but I will definitely be recommending it to my more open-minded friends, as it is a book that teaches, without being preachy.
Waffle, the above. Basically, read it if you can set aside the time for it and if you like books that make you think hard. I loved it. I rescued it from a box going to the charity shop, and I'm glad I did, and it will be staying safely on my shelf waiting for me. ;)
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Too many books?
My reading is really out of control at the moment. I am currently reading Keri Hulme's 'The Bone People', Camus' 'L'Etranger' in French, D.H. Lawrence's 'The Rainbow', and Gillian Clarke's Collected Poems, as well as studying 'The Great Gatsby' by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'The Rover' by Aphra Behn and revising Hardy's 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles', Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice', Shakespeare's 'Hamlet', and loads of other stuff. And on top of that I have loads of my own stories swimming around my head at the moment. Mostly they have been coming to me in dreams and I have to note them down very quickly before I lose them. Not so many poems at the moment.
Anyway, I am inching my way through 'The Bone People' mostly, and watching BBC4's adaptation of 'Women in Love' and pretending that it means I'm reading the Lawrence. I've decided that Hulme's book of short stories 'The Windeater' is going to be some of my holiday reading this summer, along with some J. M. Coetzee and maybe Ulysses. I had a trial seminar on Ulysses the other day and it sounds interesting, and it doesn't appear to be the solid lump of stream of consciousness that I had thought it was. So maybe. Also I'm a complete masochist so I have dug out my mum's old copy of it and it is staring at me fatly waiting for me to get to it. We shall see.
More on Keri Hulme when I finish it. Then I'll race through Gatsby and then onto the dreaded 'Rainbow'....... and ps. thanks Sean for your comment, I will check out the book, and would really love to one day visit Gjirokastra...when I've paid off my student debt maybe!
Anyway, I am inching my way through 'The Bone People' mostly, and watching BBC4's adaptation of 'Women in Love' and pretending that it means I'm reading the Lawrence. I've decided that Hulme's book of short stories 'The Windeater' is going to be some of my holiday reading this summer, along with some J. M. Coetzee and maybe Ulysses. I had a trial seminar on Ulysses the other day and it sounds interesting, and it doesn't appear to be the solid lump of stream of consciousness that I had thought it was. So maybe. Also I'm a complete masochist so I have dug out my mum's old copy of it and it is staring at me fatly waiting for me to get to it. We shall see.
More on Keri Hulme when I finish it. Then I'll race through Gatsby and then onto the dreaded 'Rainbow'....... and ps. thanks Sean for your comment, I will check out the book, and would really love to one day visit Gjirokastra...when I've paid off my student debt maybe!
Friday, March 18, 2011
Chronicle in Stone by Ismail Kadare
Ismail Kadare is an Albanian writer, and Chronicle set in the southern town of Gjirokaster during WW2. I don't know much abou historical or modern Albania or even much about WW2 for that matter but this book still made perfect sense to me, was beautifully evocative and a joy to read.
Usually when I'm enjoying a book I race through it. I'll take a couple of days to read it if I'm going slowly. With Chronicle it was different. I've been reading it since the last post. It'svery unusual for me to read like this but somehow it suited the book itself. I feel I have given it the sustained attention it deserves.
Told through the eyes of a young boy, the book tells the story of the inhabitants of Gjirokaster under Italian (then Greek, then Italian, then Greek, then Italian...then German) occupation. Kadare writes (or is translated - I think both writer and translator have done a brilliant job here) absolutely beautifully. Evocatively. His descritpions of the city and its surroundings, and perfect descriptions of the characters are absolutely enchanting and very moving.
This isn't a book full of wild action scenes, but I found that it was still a very tense and gripping read. The rumoured presence of Vasiliqia, a Greek holy woman who goes round choosing male citizens to be executed just by pointing at them, was a horrible moment. And the inevitability of Isa and Javer's fate...The book is gentle, with touches of humour and very clever use of a child narrator, but still does not shrink from the real nature of war. Perhaps the saddest part, from my view, was the death of the old lady Kako Pino, something that truly shocked and horrified me.
Kadare has written a very clever, but still enjoyable and above all moving book. The narrative is interspersed with smaller sections of news, but whereas this might distract from a less accomplished story, I found the fragmented structure very appealing. Chronicle draws together traditional Albanian superstition and society with the modern world, and throws in the calamity of war to stir things up still further. When you realise that much of this must have been based on Kadare's own experience, the story is even more profound.
I haven't said this before (or at least I don't remember if I have) about any book, but this is one that I think everyone - no matter where they come from or what their background is - should read. And I would even go so far as to rail and wail about why it isn't on the national syllabus - it should be (but that's another argument). One of the best books I have ever read, and definitely one of my favourites. Bless the day I was trauling through Amazon and it came up in my recommendations! And thank you Ismail Kadare for opening my eyes through your genius literature!
Usually when I'm enjoying a book I race through it. I'll take a couple of days to read it if I'm going slowly. With Chronicle it was different. I've been reading it since the last post. It'svery unusual for me to read like this but somehow it suited the book itself. I feel I have given it the sustained attention it deserves.
Told through the eyes of a young boy, the book tells the story of the inhabitants of Gjirokaster under Italian (then Greek, then Italian, then Greek, then Italian...then German) occupation. Kadare writes (or is translated - I think both writer and translator have done a brilliant job here) absolutely beautifully. Evocatively. His descritpions of the city and its surroundings, and perfect descriptions of the characters are absolutely enchanting and very moving.
This isn't a book full of wild action scenes, but I found that it was still a very tense and gripping read. The rumoured presence of Vasiliqia, a Greek holy woman who goes round choosing male citizens to be executed just by pointing at them, was a horrible moment. And the inevitability of Isa and Javer's fate...The book is gentle, with touches of humour and very clever use of a child narrator, but still does not shrink from the real nature of war. Perhaps the saddest part, from my view, was the death of the old lady Kako Pino, something that truly shocked and horrified me.
Kadare has written a very clever, but still enjoyable and above all moving book. The narrative is interspersed with smaller sections of news, but whereas this might distract from a less accomplished story, I found the fragmented structure very appealing. Chronicle draws together traditional Albanian superstition and society with the modern world, and throws in the calamity of war to stir things up still further. When you realise that much of this must have been based on Kadare's own experience, the story is even more profound.
I haven't said this before (or at least I don't remember if I have) about any book, but this is one that I think everyone - no matter where they come from or what their background is - should read. And I would even go so far as to rail and wail about why it isn't on the national syllabus - it should be (but that's another argument). One of the best books I have ever read, and definitely one of my favourites. Bless the day I was trauling through Amazon and it came up in my recommendations! And thank you Ismail Kadare for opening my eyes through your genius literature!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
Yeah yeah, I know I've only read this because it's recently been turned into a film, but I haven't seen the film yet, so it's alright! Also I've read some of his Nocturnes before and have always been tempted by An Artist of the Floating World. But this is the first full Ishiguro I have read, and hopefully I'm off to see the film this week, so it will be interesting to compare.
But anyway, the book. I really enjoyed it. Short and sweet, literaray but not head-in-the-clouds, difficult message but easy reading. I think everyone should read this book, even if they don't usually enjoy reading. It was such a relief from the old D. H. Lawrence (I'm still struggling through that...I loved it but he's really over-descriptive!) but was still sophisticated and interesting.
Brief outline: Kathy, Tommy and Ruth are students at Hailsham. Eventually they go out into the big wide world. Their world is not like ours: after the Second World War, it was discovered that all sorts of diseases could be cured through transplants, and so they started manufacturing clones to grow organs. The book tells the story of their complex relationships, the clone + transplants thing being mostly a distant - but crucial - backdrop.
When I was enthusing about this book to one of my friends, she screwed up her face and said, "sounds just like 'The Island'." Referring of course to that mediocre Ewan McGregor/Scarlet Johansson film. True. The organ donor stuff has been done before in Hollywood, even if it hasn't in literature (although I don't know which came first, Never Let Me Go or The Island). But the fact is, Ishiguro's story is completely different: the clone thing is a backdrop. What he really focuses on, what he has clearly observed in incredible detail, and what makes the book a joy to read, is the fact that it is the human relationships that make the story. It could be set in our world and have the same poignancy; the fact that Ishiguro sets it in a different one is, as I say, more of a backdrop.
So yeah. No big blockbuster explosions here. But sharply observed and incredibly moving human relationships. A book that I think has made me a wiser person.
I have one criticism Never Let Me Go, and it is just a little niggle really. It's told from the point of view of Kathy, looking back on the past. Ishiguro uses this really interestingly; this is a brilliantly-crafted example of the unreliable narrator if ever there was once. The narrative voice is consistent and sympathetic. Ishiguro has created realistic characters, but ones who I cared about, and it is obvious what a skilled writer he is, from the fact that the voice never falters for one second. However, this was my little niggle with it: at times the unreliable narrator stuff - the way she would digress, then come back to a point, then relate a little anecdote from the past, and then jump to the present - was really interesting, but at a couple of points in the book I wish it had been a bit more...reliable. Just set down some solid facts here and there for a change would have been nice.
One thing this book will do is have you turning the pages. Because of the unreliable narrator, and the way it digresses, and skips backwards and forwards, the story and its background are built up in patches, meaning the only way to find out more is to keep reading. Compulsively! It frustrated me, but in a good way. In a can't-put-it-down kind of way. The end wasn't wholly unexpected but it wasn't what I had expected (if that makes sense) and there are still a few questions left unanswered at the end. A page-turner. A good'un.
I enjoyed this book very much. While not the most ground-breaking book I've ever come across, nor the best, it is one I will come back to and has definitely encouraged me to read more of Kazuo Ishiguro's work, and he is undeniably a very skilled writer.
Next up I'm reading 'Chronicle in Stone' by Ismail Kadare (in translation, I don't actually speak Albanian, in case you were wondering). I tend to read more female writers over male ones but it's really nice to be breaking the habit a bit at the moment. No matter what people say, men and women are different and do have different perspectives on life, and even write differently. So it feels good to equalise it all a bit. Dunno what I'll read after that. Probably worm my way through to the end of 'The Rainbow' with Marjane Satrapi's 'Persepolis' for light relief (in French). But I have a pile of books here that all need reading. 12 in total and that is my current bedside shortlist; in the hallway there are another 134539087340872103 I keep meaning to get round to. One day I'll get there. Maybe!
But anyway, the book. I really enjoyed it. Short and sweet, literaray but not head-in-the-clouds, difficult message but easy reading. I think everyone should read this book, even if they don't usually enjoy reading. It was such a relief from the old D. H. Lawrence (I'm still struggling through that...I loved it but he's really over-descriptive!) but was still sophisticated and interesting.
Brief outline: Kathy, Tommy and Ruth are students at Hailsham. Eventually they go out into the big wide world. Their world is not like ours: after the Second World War, it was discovered that all sorts of diseases could be cured through transplants, and so they started manufacturing clones to grow organs. The book tells the story of their complex relationships, the clone + transplants thing being mostly a distant - but crucial - backdrop.
When I was enthusing about this book to one of my friends, she screwed up her face and said, "sounds just like 'The Island'." Referring of course to that mediocre Ewan McGregor/Scarlet Johansson film. True. The organ donor stuff has been done before in Hollywood, even if it hasn't in literature (although I don't know which came first, Never Let Me Go or The Island). But the fact is, Ishiguro's story is completely different: the clone thing is a backdrop. What he really focuses on, what he has clearly observed in incredible detail, and what makes the book a joy to read, is the fact that it is the human relationships that make the story. It could be set in our world and have the same poignancy; the fact that Ishiguro sets it in a different one is, as I say, more of a backdrop.
So yeah. No big blockbuster explosions here. But sharply observed and incredibly moving human relationships. A book that I think has made me a wiser person.
I have one criticism Never Let Me Go, and it is just a little niggle really. It's told from the point of view of Kathy, looking back on the past. Ishiguro uses this really interestingly; this is a brilliantly-crafted example of the unreliable narrator if ever there was once. The narrative voice is consistent and sympathetic. Ishiguro has created realistic characters, but ones who I cared about, and it is obvious what a skilled writer he is, from the fact that the voice never falters for one second. However, this was my little niggle with it: at times the unreliable narrator stuff - the way she would digress, then come back to a point, then relate a little anecdote from the past, and then jump to the present - was really interesting, but at a couple of points in the book I wish it had been a bit more...reliable. Just set down some solid facts here and there for a change would have been nice.
One thing this book will do is have you turning the pages. Because of the unreliable narrator, and the way it digresses, and skips backwards and forwards, the story and its background are built up in patches, meaning the only way to find out more is to keep reading. Compulsively! It frustrated me, but in a good way. In a can't-put-it-down kind of way. The end wasn't wholly unexpected but it wasn't what I had expected (if that makes sense) and there are still a few questions left unanswered at the end. A page-turner. A good'un.
I enjoyed this book very much. While not the most ground-breaking book I've ever come across, nor the best, it is one I will come back to and has definitely encouraged me to read more of Kazuo Ishiguro's work, and he is undeniably a very skilled writer.
Next up I'm reading 'Chronicle in Stone' by Ismail Kadare (in translation, I don't actually speak Albanian, in case you were wondering). I tend to read more female writers over male ones but it's really nice to be breaking the habit a bit at the moment. No matter what people say, men and women are different and do have different perspectives on life, and even write differently. So it feels good to equalise it all a bit. Dunno what I'll read after that. Probably worm my way through to the end of 'The Rainbow' with Marjane Satrapi's 'Persepolis' for light relief (in French). But I have a pile of books here that all need reading. 12 in total and that is my current bedside shortlist; in the hallway there are another 134539087340872103 I keep meaning to get round to. One day I'll get there. Maybe!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Flo's Own...Poetry: How To Mummify Your Heart
This one just jumped out of nowhere. For some reason I was researching tylosis (how trees stop themselves from rotting in the middle) this week. Went for a walk in the woods, saw lots of fallen trees with hollow middles. Then last night out this one popped. This is draft 1. Don't know whether I like it or not yet. But here it is.
How to Mummify your Heart
First, you must plant your feet in the ground, and draw
up water by capillary action until your toes go pruney
(this shrivelling is essential - it's part of the magic).
Then take a deep breath and hold it. Stay as still as Saint
Kevin until you have sucked in all the CO2, then breathe out
the nitrogen and oxygen. You may find it easier
to whittle out the unwanted air by whistling
as you exhale. Step three is to wait for some bright
sunshine. Savour its warmth on your skin. Your eyes
will turn green. Keep them open, and stare into the sun.
Now you are photosynthesising. You'll feel a tingle
in your bloodstream - try not to panic, ladies and gentlemen,
this is perfectly normal. When you have photosynthesised enough
to have built up some stores of waste products,
set aside your resins and gums.
Now, here's one I made earlier. Watch as I unscrew my ribs
and open up from the sternum; you will see a hard and woody
centre. It's dead wood. As I have expanded
my core has died. But so that I do not become
all hollow on the inside I plug
my frail veins with the resins and gums. This we call
tylosis. When you've practised, this will come
as easily as transpiration, as reflexive as osmosis.
But for now, concentrate really hard. Be aware
of your spinal column, your veins, your aorta.
This should feel almost like a meditation. Imagine
the waste resins and gums pumping through your bloodstream.
Direct them to your heart. Don't get confused between
the pulmonary vein and artery, they're not the same
as your other tubes. Madam, you on the left -
I see that you are getting there. Watch, everyone, the colour leaving her face,
her expression blankening. Very good, very good. Now
open up your ribs - that's it - let's check.
Your xylem is as hard as concrete, madam.
Keep trying everyone else! If you want to mummify your heart
perseverance is key. Look at madam here. There's a breezeblock in her chest.
Excellent!
(c) stays with me.
How to Mummify your Heart
First, you must plant your feet in the ground, and draw
up water by capillary action until your toes go pruney
(this shrivelling is essential - it's part of the magic).
Then take a deep breath and hold it. Stay as still as Saint
Kevin until you have sucked in all the CO2, then breathe out
the nitrogen and oxygen. You may find it easier
to whittle out the unwanted air by whistling
as you exhale. Step three is to wait for some bright
sunshine. Savour its warmth on your skin. Your eyes
will turn green. Keep them open, and stare into the sun.
Now you are photosynthesising. You'll feel a tingle
in your bloodstream - try not to panic, ladies and gentlemen,
this is perfectly normal. When you have photosynthesised enough
to have built up some stores of waste products,
set aside your resins and gums.
Now, here's one I made earlier. Watch as I unscrew my ribs
and open up from the sternum; you will see a hard and woody
centre. It's dead wood. As I have expanded
my core has died. But so that I do not become
all hollow on the inside I plug
my frail veins with the resins and gums. This we call
tylosis. When you've practised, this will come
as easily as transpiration, as reflexive as osmosis.
But for now, concentrate really hard. Be aware
of your spinal column, your veins, your aorta.
This should feel almost like a meditation. Imagine
the waste resins and gums pumping through your bloodstream.
Direct them to your heart. Don't get confused between
the pulmonary vein and artery, they're not the same
as your other tubes. Madam, you on the left -
I see that you are getting there. Watch, everyone, the colour leaving her face,
her expression blankening. Very good, very good. Now
open up your ribs - that's it - let's check.
Your xylem is as hard as concrete, madam.
Keep trying everyone else! If you want to mummify your heart
perseverance is key. Look at madam here. There's a breezeblock in her chest.
Excellent!
(c) stays with me.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
'What the Water Gave Me: Poems After Frida Kahlo' by Pascale Petit
This book has been haunting me for a while, and today I finally bought it from Bookish, an independent bookstore in Crickhowell, Wales (can't recommend it enough - lovely little shop, and a brilliant budding events calendar). I've been dipping into poetry unstoppably over the last few days, maybe because it feels like a worthwhile distraction from my upcoming deadlines (7 of them!) or perhaps because it gives me a short burst of literature-related ecstasy and I'm too tired to bother with a whole novel. Anyway, literally 45 minutes ago I bought 'What the Water Gave Me' and I've been reading it. At last!!
First of all, a bit of background. I've loved Frida Kahlo's paintings since I was about 12 (I remember first reading her name in a Jacqueline Wilson book). I'm an art and literature student, and although in the next stage of my studies I hope to concentrate on literature, art is my second love, so I've been very interested to see how Pascale Petit blends the two together. Frida Kahlo in particular is fascinating: she lived through so much, not just her personal experience, but world events, and she was one of the few Surrealist artists who were women. She had a turbulent life. She remains a figure of mystery and semi-myth. As an equality-of-the-sexes-ist (okay, FEMINIST. There we go, I said the scary word) she fascinates me - she must have had so much strength to survive all that she did, but at the same time she was vulnerable and Diego Rivera trod on her a bit. She's an interesting character. Yes, as I said, semi-mythological.
Background to the story of me and this book: first saw it in Waterstones months ago, it's been popping up all over my Amazon recommendations, read up about it, bought a tutorial of Petit's from The Poetry School (Towards a Collection - very good, wish I had the time and money to take one of her courses), saw it in Waterstones again left to think about it, went back and they had run out of copies. So after all that I now have it.
When I first heard about the book, I was a bit sceptical; it seemed quite a strange thing to me for a poet to try and get under the skin of another REAL person, someone who had their own internal experience that they chose not to put into poetry, and Petit seems to do this more intimately and intensely than other poets (those I have read) who are inspired by paintings or other arts. But now, after reading some of her work, and after the Poetry School tutorial, I understand better what it was that Petit is doing with Frida Kahlo. One of the reviews on the back of the book describes it as 'ventriloquism', and I think that this is a helpful analogy. Petit is exploring the woman and the myth of Frida Kahlo, and how the two reinforce and contradict one another. Kahlo's paintings, her expression of her experience, are interpreted into words by another artist. If we imagine Kahlo and her experience as the word of 'god', Petit is writing the King James bible. It isn't Kahlo herself, but boy is it beautiful English, and it distills her myth into delicious words.
If any of that makes sense. Basically what I'm trying to say is that despite my early misgivings, Petit's relationship with the spirit of Kahlo isn't weird at all. I feel that Petit isn't trying to write or be or sell anything that isn't her, herself. It's just that shes doing it through the exploration of the myth of Kahlo, and what might have been behind the myth.
Anyway, onto the poetry.
Petit writes concisely. Her poems take a variety of forms on the page. She's clearly a poet who really crafts her poems - every word works for its place (my teachers are always spouting on about how this is what makes poetry poetry, but it's amazing the number of published poets who do dilute their message through wasteful words. Petit isn't one of these). Just look at 'a zoo of pinks' ('A Few Small Nips'), 'lightning jigs like skeletons' (She Plays Alone...) and the simple but perfect 'violet morning' of 'The Suicide of Dorothy Hale'.
Petit's vision absolutely sucks you in. Her training as a painter is obvious in her deft use of colour, texture, and the senses. Unike Annie Freud, she shows, rather than tells. Although Petit uses the first person a fair bit, I don't feel that it is monotonous as in Jo Shapcott's 'Of Mutability', as she uses it to express a variety of voices - not just Kahlo's, or her own, but even the characters of the paintings themselves (see 'The Wounded Deer', where it is the deer of the painting speaking to Frida the painter).
I compare Petit's style to that of Ruth Padel; they are two poets who can stick disparate words together to create the perfect image, and who write about beauty and emotion beautifully and emotionally. Petit has done something really clever in these poems - taken the uncomfortable disjointedness of Kahlo's paintings and made beautiful poetry from all that pain - still as haunting but more dreamlike than Kahlo's nightmare reality.
OK, lots of waffle in this review. But basically, three points:
First of all, a bit of background. I've loved Frida Kahlo's paintings since I was about 12 (I remember first reading her name in a Jacqueline Wilson book). I'm an art and literature student, and although in the next stage of my studies I hope to concentrate on literature, art is my second love, so I've been very interested to see how Pascale Petit blends the two together. Frida Kahlo in particular is fascinating: she lived through so much, not just her personal experience, but world events, and she was one of the few Surrealist artists who were women. She had a turbulent life. She remains a figure of mystery and semi-myth. As an equality-of-the-sexes-ist (okay, FEMINIST. There we go, I said the scary word) she fascinates me - she must have had so much strength to survive all that she did, but at the same time she was vulnerable and Diego Rivera trod on her a bit. She's an interesting character. Yes, as I said, semi-mythological.
Background to the story of me and this book: first saw it in Waterstones months ago, it's been popping up all over my Amazon recommendations, read up about it, bought a tutorial of Petit's from The Poetry School (Towards a Collection - very good, wish I had the time and money to take one of her courses), saw it in Waterstones again left to think about it, went back and they had run out of copies. So after all that I now have it.
When I first heard about the book, I was a bit sceptical; it seemed quite a strange thing to me for a poet to try and get under the skin of another REAL person, someone who had their own internal experience that they chose not to put into poetry, and Petit seems to do this more intimately and intensely than other poets (those I have read) who are inspired by paintings or other arts. But now, after reading some of her work, and after the Poetry School tutorial, I understand better what it was that Petit is doing with Frida Kahlo. One of the reviews on the back of the book describes it as 'ventriloquism', and I think that this is a helpful analogy. Petit is exploring the woman and the myth of Frida Kahlo, and how the two reinforce and contradict one another. Kahlo's paintings, her expression of her experience, are interpreted into words by another artist. If we imagine Kahlo and her experience as the word of 'god', Petit is writing the King James bible. It isn't Kahlo herself, but boy is it beautiful English, and it distills her myth into delicious words.
If any of that makes sense. Basically what I'm trying to say is that despite my early misgivings, Petit's relationship with the spirit of Kahlo isn't weird at all. I feel that Petit isn't trying to write or be or sell anything that isn't her, herself. It's just that shes doing it through the exploration of the myth of Kahlo, and what might have been behind the myth.
Anyway, onto the poetry.
Petit writes concisely. Her poems take a variety of forms on the page. She's clearly a poet who really crafts her poems - every word works for its place (my teachers are always spouting on about how this is what makes poetry poetry, but it's amazing the number of published poets who do dilute their message through wasteful words. Petit isn't one of these). Just look at 'a zoo of pinks' ('A Few Small Nips'), 'lightning jigs like skeletons' (She Plays Alone...) and the simple but perfect 'violet morning' of 'The Suicide of Dorothy Hale'.
Petit's vision absolutely sucks you in. Her training as a painter is obvious in her deft use of colour, texture, and the senses. Unike Annie Freud, she shows, rather than tells. Although Petit uses the first person a fair bit, I don't feel that it is monotonous as in Jo Shapcott's 'Of Mutability', as she uses it to express a variety of voices - not just Kahlo's, or her own, but even the characters of the paintings themselves (see 'The Wounded Deer', where it is the deer of the painting speaking to Frida the painter).
I compare Petit's style to that of Ruth Padel; they are two poets who can stick disparate words together to create the perfect image, and who write about beauty and emotion beautifully and emotionally. Petit has done something really clever in these poems - taken the uncomfortable disjointedness of Kahlo's paintings and made beautiful poetry from all that pain - still as haunting but more dreamlike than Kahlo's nightmare reality.
OK, lots of waffle in this review. But basically, three points:
- Beautiful, evocative imagery
- Unique and vibrant vision, an ambitious collection
- Read it, it's really good.
The Mirabelles by Annie Freud, and Gillian Clarke's Collected Poems
'The Mirabelles' is Freud's second collection, has a very pretty front cover and is a Poetry Book Society choice. It is also the first of Freud's work that I have read.
I haven't read the whole of this book, but it's quite an unusual one. It's been very interesting to see a range of what contemporary poetry can be, and The Mirabelles is a good introduction to different styles for someone new to contemporary poetry (like me). It isn't earth-shattering, or ground-breaking, but is unusual.
The collection is split into three different sections, which each showcase different styles and structures. The second section, 'The Inexplicable Human Gorgeousness', is the one I am reading now, and contains a few found poems - i.e. poetry made from an existing text. Although I have enjoyed quite a fair bit of the book so far, the found poems annoyed me. This is just my opinion, but I feel it rather strongly: sticking a few line breaks into someone else's writing does not make a poem. Poetry requires a creative input of vision and skill from the writer. Freud's found poems don't deliver this. To me, these aren't poetry. They're taking credit for someone else's legwork (and I say 'taking credit for', because one of the found poems is mentioned in the blurb, and makes the book sound much more interesting than it really is!).
I enjoy Freud's original work however. The opening poem, 'Squid Sonnet', is one that I particularly liked. In some places her voice seems undeveloped - a bit 'tell', rather than 'show', a bit less vital and vibrant than the work of the fully-formed, mature poetry of Jo Shapcott, for example - but I can see that there is a unique vision under there. I'd recommend borrowing this book from the library and studying it - for me personally, it's poetry to study, rather than to savour.
Gillian Clarke's 'Collected Poems'. Now there's a completely different kettle of fish. Some poetry to really get stuck into. Images and words that you can really taste. And I've only read one section so far!
Gillian Clarke is the Welsh equivalent of Poet Laureate, and I can see why. She writes beautifully, in a variety of forms and styles, with a fully-formed voice that is all her own. She touches so many subjects, absolutely expertly. My favourites include 'Pipistrelle', 'Today' and 'Oranges'. I love the way that she sticks in little bits of Welsh, words that have no exact translation in English, but that fit the meaning perfectly (they are explained - 100% English-speaker friendly, and aren't too numerous, so don't be put off).
I may write a fuller review when I've read more. But for now, all I can say is that if you enjoy poetry, read Gillian Clarke!
I haven't read the whole of this book, but it's quite an unusual one. It's been very interesting to see a range of what contemporary poetry can be, and The Mirabelles is a good introduction to different styles for someone new to contemporary poetry (like me). It isn't earth-shattering, or ground-breaking, but is unusual.
The collection is split into three different sections, which each showcase different styles and structures. The second section, 'The Inexplicable Human Gorgeousness', is the one I am reading now, and contains a few found poems - i.e. poetry made from an existing text. Although I have enjoyed quite a fair bit of the book so far, the found poems annoyed me. This is just my opinion, but I feel it rather strongly: sticking a few line breaks into someone else's writing does not make a poem. Poetry requires a creative input of vision and skill from the writer. Freud's found poems don't deliver this. To me, these aren't poetry. They're taking credit for someone else's legwork (and I say 'taking credit for', because one of the found poems is mentioned in the blurb, and makes the book sound much more interesting than it really is!).
I enjoy Freud's original work however. The opening poem, 'Squid Sonnet', is one that I particularly liked. In some places her voice seems undeveloped - a bit 'tell', rather than 'show', a bit less vital and vibrant than the work of the fully-formed, mature poetry of Jo Shapcott, for example - but I can see that there is a unique vision under there. I'd recommend borrowing this book from the library and studying it - for me personally, it's poetry to study, rather than to savour.
Gillian Clarke's 'Collected Poems'. Now there's a completely different kettle of fish. Some poetry to really get stuck into. Images and words that you can really taste. And I've only read one section so far!
Gillian Clarke is the Welsh equivalent of Poet Laureate, and I can see why. She writes beautifully, in a variety of forms and styles, with a fully-formed voice that is all her own. She touches so many subjects, absolutely expertly. My favourites include 'Pipistrelle', 'Today' and 'Oranges'. I love the way that she sticks in little bits of Welsh, words that have no exact translation in English, but that fit the meaning perfectly (they are explained - 100% English-speaker friendly, and aren't too numerous, so don't be put off).
I may write a fuller review when I've read more. But for now, all I can say is that if you enjoy poetry, read Gillian Clarke!
Monday, February 21, 2011
Jo Shapcott's 'Of Mutability'
I first read Jo Shapcott in Ruth Padel's '50 Ways of Looking at a Poem' which I started dipping into a few months ago. I'd been eyeing up 'Of Mutability' since then, and when it won the Costa prize I knew I had to just bite the bullet and buy it.
I've raced through it, which probably isn't the way to get the most out of a poetry book, but it was very readable. None of the poems in there are too long, which I like. I always find that if I'm flipping through a poetry book, I skip the long ones. I like short to medium length poems. I like concise punchiness.
So does 'Of Mutability' deliver? Certainly the length of the poems fits my personal preferences, but I am in two minds about this collection. There's no denying that it's good. And there's no denying that Shapcott is a talented, well-honed poet with a very clear, recogniseable voice. But at the same time I feel that the collection lacked, in general, a bit of variety. Apart from two stand-out poems (about halfway through the collection), I remember it as kind of homogenised lump. The poems don't vary in length, tone, subject, even voice (3rd/1st person. I find that it's always difficult to decide which voice to use, and it's usually easier to just settle for 1st person, a strategy that Shapcott seems to have followed religiously. It's obviously a very personal, almost intimate collection, so 1st person suits it, but I did find the use of 1st person almost...(I hate to use the word, becuase it really is a good collection, but there's no other word to describe it concisely)....slightly monotonous). In short, it works as a collection. But for me, most of the poems don't stand up on their own.
Shapcott's style and use of language is something I really admire, however. I love how she plays with half-rhyme, alliteration, internal rhyme, and her mixing of specialist, kind of scientific vocabulary with everyday musings. My favourite poems have to be 'Somewhat Unravelled', about dementia, and 'Tea Death', about drowning in tea. For me these two stand out because they deal with serious, difficult subjects with a slightly lighter tone. 'Somewhat Unravelled' contains such lines as 'Don't you want to sell your nail-clippings/ online?' and 'you are a plump armchair...you are a sofa/ rumba', lines that are outwardly humourous but at the same time reveal unflinchingly the difficulty of aging and losing one's memory. 'Tea Death' finishes with a lovely stanza that mentions 'wobbling/ belly buttons'.
Verdict? On the whole not interesting, but enjoyable. One to dip into. I'll reread it, but slower next time, and in tandem with something a little more innovative and with a bit more bite.
I've raced through it, which probably isn't the way to get the most out of a poetry book, but it was very readable. None of the poems in there are too long, which I like. I always find that if I'm flipping through a poetry book, I skip the long ones. I like short to medium length poems. I like concise punchiness.
So does 'Of Mutability' deliver? Certainly the length of the poems fits my personal preferences, but I am in two minds about this collection. There's no denying that it's good. And there's no denying that Shapcott is a talented, well-honed poet with a very clear, recogniseable voice. But at the same time I feel that the collection lacked, in general, a bit of variety. Apart from two stand-out poems (about halfway through the collection), I remember it as kind of homogenised lump. The poems don't vary in length, tone, subject, even voice (3rd/1st person. I find that it's always difficult to decide which voice to use, and it's usually easier to just settle for 1st person, a strategy that Shapcott seems to have followed religiously. It's obviously a very personal, almost intimate collection, so 1st person suits it, but I did find the use of 1st person almost...(I hate to use the word, becuase it really is a good collection, but there's no other word to describe it concisely)....slightly monotonous). In short, it works as a collection. But for me, most of the poems don't stand up on their own.
Shapcott's style and use of language is something I really admire, however. I love how she plays with half-rhyme, alliteration, internal rhyme, and her mixing of specialist, kind of scientific vocabulary with everyday musings. My favourite poems have to be 'Somewhat Unravelled', about dementia, and 'Tea Death', about drowning in tea. For me these two stand out because they deal with serious, difficult subjects with a slightly lighter tone. 'Somewhat Unravelled' contains such lines as 'Don't you want to sell your nail-clippings/ online?' and 'you are a plump armchair...you are a sofa/ rumba', lines that are outwardly humourous but at the same time reveal unflinchingly the difficulty of aging and losing one's memory. 'Tea Death' finishes with a lovely stanza that mentions 'wobbling/ belly buttons'.
Verdict? On the whole not interesting, but enjoyable. One to dip into. I'll reread it, but slower next time, and in tandem with something a little more innovative and with a bit more bite.
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