A Conundrum

The memoir I am reading posed a problem which apparently illustrates the huge cultural divide between Muslim Egyptians (and presumably all muslims) and people from the United States (and similarly, presumably most 'westerners').

The book is The Butterfly Mosque by G. Willow Wilson.  She is an American writer and journalist who converted to Islam and married an Egyptian man in the very volatile post 9/11 world.  I am not very far into the book, but finding it fascinating despite some of the writer's philosophies/viewpoints being completely alien to mine.

A team-building exercise was given to the staff at the Language School at which she worked. Participants were given a short case study. 

In summary:

A woman whose husband is always away on business and who neglects her goes out at night to meet a lover.  There is a known homicidal madman on the loose.  At the end of the evening the woman asks her lover to escort her home in case the madman appears.  He refuses.  The woman goes to a nearby friend's house and asks her friend to walk home with her.  The friend refuses.  The woman goes on alone.  At the river separating her neighbourhood from her lover's she asks the ferryman to take her across.  She has insufficient money to pay the fare and he refuses.  The woman, trapped on the wrong side of the river is killed by the madman.

The question asked of the participants is 'Who is responsible for her death?  Rank the characters by the order of their guilt with the most guilty being ranked 1'.  Stop at the point where you think there is no guilt.

The answers given by the westerners were very, very different to those given by the Egyptians.  I didn't agree with either list completely but came much closer to the Egyptian viewpoint. 

I would be very interested to hear your ideas.  I would really appreciate it if you would list your 'order of guilt' in the comments, perhaps with some explanation.

I will be out most of today, but will post the answer the class gave and the reasons, and my own later.

 

Author Shout Out

Most of you know I am a bookaholic.  A greedy guzzler of books, both fiction and non-fiction and across  most genres.  Here in the blogosphere I have found plenty of other readers, and also writers to tempt my weak-willed self.  R. Mac Wheeler is one of those writers.

He is a prolific and varied writer and has just released his 28th publication.   I really don't know how he does anything else but he does.  He tells me that Timmy needs new crutches and he really needs to sell some books.   

The 28th book in question is Book 3 of the 6 Ways Series  I have read them all, and realised how much I had invested in that reading when I found myself arguing with him about Mar, the protagonist for the series.  Not about the way he had written her - but who she was.   It really is a bit embarrassing when you argue with an author about their creation.

And I still insist that he is wrong.  She isn't even a border-line sociopath.  She cares for way too many people.  She is difficult, and she is certainly damaged by her up-bringing and her experiences but a sociopath or a psychopath (and he has described her as both) she is not.

So, without further ado, here is the blurb about the helter-skelter rides which make up this series.  I hope that some of you will visit him, will read one (or more) of his books - and would be interested to know whether you agree with me, or with him. 

Book 3 of the 6 Ways Series

At eighteen it’s tough to decide a life path when the threat of pandemic hangs over the world, your brother is the genius who engineered the plague, and you’re repeatedly drawn into the fight against the terrorists spreading it. Plenty of people would kill an Abernathy on sight so it would be wise for Mar to visit the dojo, otherwise play invisible, but her brother is manipulating her into another adventure.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B015WNJJBU
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/1122714188
Read an excerpt here

If you haven't read Book 1 or 2, and like to start at the beginning...

BOOK 1

Alcoholic parents treated Margarite as an unwelcome stranger, then left her at fourteen with her thirty year old autistic brother. At sixteen, things really sour, thanks to her brother. A medical researcher, Reggie engineers the ultimate plague. Fanatics seek to control him. The government pursues them as terrorists. Margarite witnesses ruthlessness, compassion, and competence she couldn't imagine from her brother, but the world needs a miracle. The best she and Reggie can do is wing it.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B010E8N0Y0/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/1122198437
Read an excerpt here

BOOK 2

Nightmares. Panic attacks. Depression. Margarite is hammered by the typical issues of a seventeen year old loner, whose parents sympathized with insane people intending to collapse civilization. The few who care about Mar have more concerns. Her drinking. Fighting. Jumping out of airplanes.

Her brother engineered the plague that’s breaking out across the globe and she holds a little guilt for not stopping it. Or being one of the first to die. Still, conspirators behind what they call The Correction are not done with her.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B015WNJJBU

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/1122714188
Read an excerpt here

The Author

R. Mac Wheeler writes about characters with a lot of baggage, men who make many men look like wimps, tough chicks that can whip most men...puts them in situations that push them to the edge...in worlds that don’t overly stretch the imagination.

A former IT professional,  he now focuses full time on suspense, paranormal, science fiction, and fantasy  that leverages the quirkiness and baggage of real life more often than the far fetched.

Visit his Home Page: WWW.RMACWHEELER.COM

Greedy Reading.

I am an unashamed bookaholic.  If there was such a thing and someone forced me to attend a Bookaholics Anonymous meeting there would undoubtedly be a book in my bag.

If I am pretending to be couth and sophisticated I might talk about eclectic or omnivorous reading tastes.  Greedy is more truthful.

I read fiction and non fiction and from a wide range of genres.  There are ones I prefer, but few I won't attempt.  I read every day and frequently neglect other things to do so.

These are some of the very different books which I have devoured recently.

I picked up 'love anthony' because Lisa Genova's more famous book 'Still Alice' about a woman and her families experience with early onset Alzheimer's disease had moved me.  Beautifully written, and powerful.

love anthony also deals with a confronting and heartbreaking condition, autism, and its impact on a family.

Yes, I was moved and informed.  I have reservations though.  Strong reservations.

The novel starts when Olivia retreats to their holiday home in Nantucket when her marriage breaks down after the death of her 8 year old son Anthony.  Anthony had autism, and the stresses and tensions placed on Olivia and her husband David in their desperate search for a cure, a treatment, and for support are beautifully portrayed.  Olivia is an editor and on long term leave from work while she comes to term with the tragedies in her life.  Her pain is huge, and she can find no comfort and no support.  So far so good.

Then we meet Beth, a year round resident of Nantucket who kicks her husband out when she discovers he is having an affair.  Her friends help, but it is returning to her creative side which gives her most healing.  Beth starts to write.

Beth, who doesn't know Olivia, channels Anthony and writes his story.  Which of course falls serendipitously into Olivia's lap.  And brings a measure of healing both to her and to Beth.

Beautifully  researched and written.  Informative.   The exploration of just how difficult it is to communicate with a non-verbal child who also resents touch was incredible.  She shines a light on a disorder which is still mysterious both to the public and to scientists, and all too often overwhelming to the families who must live with it.  She explores the isolation of coping with a child with a chronic and misunderstood illness.   And I loathe and detest the structure.  Artificial.  Contrived, and I didn't find it believable.  I have no doubt it will do well but this is a book which has gone to my recycle pile.

I did however love the quote from the acknowledgements section of the book:
'If you've met one child with autism, you've met one child with autism.'
One size definitely doesn't fit eveyone.  Here or anywhere else.

The next book crosses two genres that are often on my go-to list.  Memoirs and travel writing.  Franz's fiance calls their wedding off at the very last minute.  Too late to get refunds on the reception or the honeymoon.  So late that some of the guests are already in transit to attend.

So he has the celebration anyway, supported by family and friends.  And then has a brain wave.  He and his younger brother (who he barely knows) go on the honeymoon together (cancelling the rose petals on the beds).  A trip which starts as a way to make the best of a bad situation becomes a life changer.  A job surrendering, house selling life changer.  Four years later and more than sixty countries under their belt the brothers have forged a new and improved relationship, and new careers.

I am a bad traveller - and still got itchy feet reading...

As an avid, obsessed, greedy reader the fact that I love authors goes without saying.  Awe and gratitude.  Here in the blogosphere I have come across lots of writers.  Who put temptation in my weak-willed way.

R. Mac Wheeler is one of those people.  Clicking on his name will take you to his latest post.  He loves trees, clouds, colour and animals.  He would probably be pleased if Santa bought him a boat.  And he writes, across a variety of genres.  And writes some more.  He now has twenty-eight books under his belt and is working on the next.  All of them are featured on his side-bar and clicking on the books will take you to the links.

I guzzled the first two books in this series.  Margarite Abernathy (who only answers to Mar) is a teenager.

Like all teenagers she is impatient.  Subject to mood swings and impetuous behaviour.  And not precisely sweet natured.  And feels put upon and unjustly treated.  And she is right. 

In the first we learn that Mar's alcoholic abusive parents have lost an argument with a tree.  Probably not entirely a bad thing.  Her only remaining family is her brother Reggie.  A scientist.  With Asperger's disease.  Reggie engineers the ultimate plague. Fanatics seek to control them. The government pursue them as terrorists. Mar sees all sorts of unexpected behaviour from her usually rigidly controlled brother - including ruthlessness, and compassion.  He can also (sometimes) surprise her with his competence.  Is it enough?  Can it be?    Temporarily the answer is yes.

But in 6 Ways to Mental we learn just how tenuous that safety is.  Mar is still a teenager.  Probably a fairly obnoxious one.  She drinks and fights.  And loves her dog.  She has nightmares and panic attacks.  All the usual teen issues and some more.  She feels guilty that she couldn't stop the plague her brother created, and piles survivor guilt on top.  And the conspirators whose plans they at least partially foiled are not done yet.  Not done with either their plans or with her.  Nor are the police.  And Mar doesn't play piggy in the middle well...

Both books are helter-skelter action packed rides.  And I am intrigued to know where Mar will go next....

NaNoReMo

March was NaNoReMo - or National Novel Reading Month.  Specifically, a month for us to read a classic novel that for one reason or another we have been putting off.  Essentially NaNoReMo is a support system.  It isn't a book club and participants choose their own book - which may or may not be one read by other participants.  At the end (or earlier) participants blog or tweet about their experience.  I don't tweet, so blogging it is.

John Wiswell gave me the impetus to play and I have joined him, and others.

The classic I chose this time is The Turn of the Screw by Henry James.

 The novella was first published over a hundred years ago in 1898.  It has apparently been the subject of several film and television adaptions and a Benjamin Britten opera, all of which have passed me by.

It appears simple.  Members of a house-party are gathered around a fire on Christmas Eve, telling ghost stories.  One of the party says that he knows a truly terrible tale.  Pushed to share it, he says he has to send away for the written account.  Written not by him, but by his sister's governess.  A woman he obviously fell in love with.  A woman he respects and values.  He remained her friend until her death.

The story is duly sent for, and read to the houseparty.

It is written in the first person, by an unnamed young woman who has accepted her first position as a governess.  Her charges are two orphaned children.  Their parents died in India, and they were given into the guardianship of their uncle, our narrator's employer.

The children had been in the care of a young lady, who had died.  The little girl was currently being cared for by the housekeeper, and the boy had been sent to school - but was due to start holidays.

She accepts the position, but is told that she will have to go to the house in the country where he has placed them and she is to have supreme authority.  With a most peculiar condition.   '... she should never trouble him - but never, never: neither appeal nor complain nor write about anything; only meet all questions herself.'

The children are beautiful.  Angelic looking, intelligent, eager to please.  Our narrator is given a letter from the boy's headmaster which says that the school refuses to have him back after the holidays.  No reason is given - and she cannot contact her employer.  Miles is such a charming child that she assumes the headmaster made an error.

Soon she begins to feel a malign presence.  First she sees a man, where no man could be.  In consultation with the housekeeper she identifies him as Peter Quint, her employers valet - now deceased.  She is convinced that he wants the children.  Later, she sees a further apparition, Miss Jessel, the woman who had cared for the children and died. 

She becomes convinced that the children are  in mortal danger from the ghosts. 

Later she decides that the children are in cahoots with the apparitions and are deceiving her, charming and angelic as they seem.  She challenges the girl, wresting her away from Miss Tressel.  The girl becomes ill, and develops an immense distaste for and fear of the narrator.  She is sent away to her uncle, leaving the narrator alone with the boy.

Who dies, in the final confrontation between the governess and the spectre of the valet.

So we have a traumatised small girl, and a dead boy.  Why?  Who is responsible?  Is it our narrator, or the supernatural.  Will the small girl recover?  How did the governess explain the death of the other child?  And explain it she obviously did, because we know she continued to work as a governess.

This book reminded me of a jigsaw puzzle one of my brothers gave me.  A two sided jig-saw puzzle.  The picture on the front is identical to the picture on the back but has been rotated ninety degrees. 
As I try and put the pieces of the novella together, I can't help feeling that I am trying to squeeze pieces from one side of the puzzle into the other.  They simply don't fit, and don't add up.

Our narrator admits that she is impressionable.  I suspect her narrative is unreliable.  She becomes obsessive about keeping the children with either her or the house-keeper at all times.  Is she sane?  Or not?
No-one other than her sees (or admits to seeing) the ghosts.  Do they exist?  What do they want of the children?  My deliberations are not helped by the fact that my wandering mind is wondering what killed the parents in India...

Henry James himself apparently described it as a 'trap for the unwary'.

And trapped I assuredly became and remain, to the extent that I am not certain whether it is a ghost story, a story of supernatural possession or an illustration of obsession and insanity.

Has anyone else read it?  And what do you think?

I should add that I don't regret reading it.  Any work which leaves me wondering, thinking or questioning trumps a book which I close and forget. 

Romping down Memory Lane

In a recent post about Enlighten I mentioned that I was having an attack of the SulkPot Ben Nagnags.  Ellie Foster recognised the name from a book which she (and I) love.

The book in question?  The Land of Green Ginger by Noel Langley.

I first read it when I was eight or nine.  I think it was the first book that I finished, and immediately  started again.  I loved it, and despite it being several decades since I had read it, I could still quote pieces of it.  My copy was tired, and had lost a page or two over the years.  So I replaced it - and devoured it all over again.

I expected it to be fun, which it was.  My younger self hadn't been aware of how clever it is though.  I thoroughly enjoyed the adventure, and laughed at some gems which I am pretty certain I missed when last I read it.

The Land of Green Ginger is set some years into the Happy Ever After of stories we all know.  Aladdin has had a son, the Djin (genie) from the Lamp has had a son, Sinbad has had a son...

A tale of heroes and villains.  Magic, mystery, evil Princes, a dragon, spells which have misfired.  Naturally there is a supremely beautiful girl.  Equally naturally her father is totally unreasonable.

And the names of the characters are a joy.  Prince Rubdub Ben Thud, Prince Tintac Ping Foo.  Sulkpot Ben Nagnag and of course Boomalakka Wee.  

And, while I found it before he did, (being older) Neil Gaiman also loves it.

I am so very grateful to have renewed my acquaintance with this gem - and won't let the decades slide by before I read it again.

Calvin and Hobbes

I fell in love with Calvin and Hobbes the first time I read one of Bill Watterson's stunning cartoons.  Over the years my love affair deepened.  I bought all of the books as they became available.  I still reread them and the smaller portion and I quote them at each other.

They are a joy on many levels and for many reasons.  The drawings are a delight.  In turn I have empathised with rebellious Calvin - and his poor put-upon parents.  He made his teacher's life hell.  Calvin loves nature and hates organised games - except Calvin Ball which has only one rule - that it cannot be played the same way twice.  And in Hobbes, he has the best friend anyone could ever ask for.  Someone to fight with and fight for.  Someone to have fun with, and a companion on the darkest days.  An alibi - and a scape goat.  Some of the cartoons are hilarious, others moving and/or thought provoking.

When Watterson stepped aside and retired the series in 1995 I grieved.  Twenty years on, my love affair with Calvin, and more particularly with Hobbes continues.

Watterson has always shunned publicity, and stayed out of the public eye when ever possible.  He gave his last interview to a journalist in 1989 and last spoke publicly in 1990.  Essentially he has out-done Greta Garbo. 

To me at any rate, the quirky charming characters are much more important than his personal life.  Just the same I wondered whether he had a Calvin in his life - or had perhaps been a Calvin.  So I was more than happy to be given his biography.

Except that when I started reading it I discovered that Nevil Martell, the author of the biography, had never met Watterson, never spoken to him - or even exchanged emails.  Not for lack of trying, but still...  And Watterson's family and friends respect his barriers and give only very limited information and interviews.

As a result, it is a biography with holes in it.  Information chasms.  I did learn that Calvin is entirely a feat of imagination.  There is no tear-away terror in Watterson's life who inspired Calvin's creation, and the man himself was a well behaved child rather than a rebellious non-achiever.

I also learnt that the absence of Calvin and Hobbes memorabilia and spin-off products is deliberate.  Watterson refused to licence products, and with the exception of a couple of calendars (which Watterson drew the images for) the books and the cartoons are all there is.  Which I respect, while hypocritically admitting that I would happily drink from a mug with either Calvin or Hobbes on it.

There was one element of the book which floored me though.  Martell seemed to think it was a big issue - and it had never occurred to me.  His question was:  Is Hobbes a tiger, or (his words) a doll?

Of course Hobbes is a tiger.  A ferocious tiger.  Some days an attack tiger, other days a big pussy cat.  Who happened to be Calvin's very best friend, loved tuna, comic books and couldn't be trusted not to draw moustaches on the super-heroes. 

Reluctantly I will also admit that Hobbes is also a stuffed toy.  I know which perception I prefer though.  I am very, very grateful that my mind is more flexible than my body and that it happily accepts two contradictory realities simultaneously.

I gather that Watterson has turned his considerable talents to painting.  I wish him well - and would love (when he is ready) to see some of his work.

The Name of the Wind

I have been reading speculative fiction/fantasy novels for well over twenty years, and don't expect to stop any time soon.

I read them for entertainment/amusement/comfort and as an escape.  I have a serious weakness for magic, far-away lands, different societies/cultures and dragons.  One or more of these will always suck me in.

Recently I picked up this book - the first in a series by an author I didn't know.

In my usual restrained fashion I guzzled it, but am in at least two minds about it.  I do hope that someone else in the blogosphere has read it and will tell me what they thought.

In some ways it is formulaic.  Which is not necessarily a bad thing.  A fresh and new slant on a familiar story is often a delight.

The main protagonist is male:  Check.
He was orphaned at an early age by a powerful and evil group:  Check.
He doesn't know why:  Check.
He was taught magic (known as sympathy in this series which intrigued me) by an older and somewhat mysterious figure:  Check.
True names for things have power:  Check.
He finds his way to a place of learning where he can learn more and hone his (already considerable) skills:  Check.
He is desperately poor.  Check.
At that school he find friends - and at least one enemy:  Check.
His aim is to track down (and naturally destroy) the enemy which annihilated his family:  Check.
He is a highly skilled musician.  Check.
He falls in love and the path to true love is anything but smooth:  Check.

There is at least one dragon.  Though I am not entirely comfortable with the concept of a flame-throwing, vegetarian, drug-addicted dragon.  And a dragon without magic strikes me as wrong. 

The writing is clear and evocative.  Even when I suspected I knew where the plot was heading I needed to read more.

I do have some reservations though.  This first novel in the series is over 650 pages long.  And the way it is structured it reads like a 'back story'.  A very, very long back story.  For much of the book we learn what has gone before as our 'hero' tells his story to someone who has stumbled into his life, and insists that it be written down - verbatim.  There are flashes to the present - where conflict and danger lurk, and lots of filling in of times past.

He has friends - but I am not entirely certain why.  They do favours for him, but he (at least in this novel) does little that is positive for anyone else (with the exception of a mentally damaged ex-student who lives in hiding beneath the school).  We get hints that he has done brave things, tremendous things - and dreadful things.  Legends about him abound, and he has largely retired into obscurity.  With a Fae student.  Who is deeply attached to him.   Why?  What is he teaching his student?  Why is he hiding?  Who or what is he hiding from?  Does he still have his powers?  He, and those around him are still in danger.  Probably from the group which slaughtered his family and friends.  Why?  How did they find him?  What do they want of him?

I will track down at least the next in the series - but hope that much more of it is written in the present.  But have my doubts.

Do any of you know this author or the series?   Should I persevere?


And, on a different note.  Thank you to those of you who suggested that since I loved the biography of Dorothea Bate I would also be interested in and enjoy Tracy Chevalier's 'Remarkable Creatures'.  I did.

Discovering Dorothea

As I have often said, I am a greedy reader.  I read something every day, and often several somethings.  I read fiction and non-fiction; literature and agreeable trash.  There are few genres I won't read (none spring to mind) but biographies, autobiographies, memoirs and diaries are always on my go-to list.

I am endlessly fascinated by people.  I don't always like them, and I certainly don't always like what they do, but I am fascinated just the same.  Curiosity is one of my defining characteristics.

While the house was in chaos with the platoons of tradies I continued to read.  And this book reminded me of just what I love about biographies.  Education and delight packed into a compact package...

 

 I grew to love Dorothea, someone about whom I knew less than nothing before I picked up this book.

In 1898, aged nineteen she marched into the Natural History Museum in South Kensington and demanded a job.  Despite the prejudice against women scientists, and no little opposition from her family her association with the museum lasted more than fifty years and only ended with her death in 1951.  Her contribution to the then brand new discipline of Paleontology was huge.  And over the years, this self taught driven woman carved out an international reputation for scientific excellence.

In the early 1900s she explored Cyprus, Crete, Majorca and Menorca.  In remote caves and sea battered cliffs she discovered fossil evidence of extinct creatures including dwarf elephants and hippos, swans too large to fly and giant dormice.  She developed intelligent theories about the changing face of the landscape and of the climate.  As I read I thought that she was certainly one of the very first to investigate climate change and its impact.

And there were other gems to revel in.  Did you know that the myth of Cyclops probably developed from the fossilised remains of an elephant?  That eye in the centre of the forehead was the explanation for the hole in the skull left by the trunk? 

Thirty years later she was excavating in Bethlehem,  in the midst of growing threats of war.  Later, into Africa.  And she continued to work, to learn and to grow. 

How many of us can take an interest and turn it into a passion and career - with very little encouragement and plenty of opposition?  Such a determined woman, with courage and persistence in every thing she undertook.  Very little is known about her private life - which appears to have been sublimated first to her family and then her career.  And I love her successes and hope she knew towards the end of her life just how highly her professionalism and achievements were regarded.

More than fifty years after her death the Natural History Museum employed the actress Jane Cartwright to re-create her as a 'Gallery Character'.  In the company of Charles Darwin and other scientists Dorothea now haunts the galleries of the Museum in school holidays sharing stories of her scientific achievements and hopefully inspiring others to follow their dreams...

I am so very grateful that I picked this book up, and loved reducing my ignorance about her life, her times and her achievements.

So much to learn...

I am a greedy reader and, as I have often said, biographies. autobiographies and memoirs are among my favourite reading.

However while I am greedy, I am also selective about which biographies I read.  Celebrities?  Not as a rule.  Sportspersons?  Ditto.

Writers, often.  Artists.  More women than men.  And travellers, particularly women travellers, capture my interest very rapidly.  If the travel takes place in a country/culture/time which is foreign to me, it is almost a done deal.

Over the years I have read a lot of travel memoirs and biographies of the travellers.    Among my Christmas hoarde this year was 'A Time in Arabia' by Doreen Ingrams.

I picked it up with eager anticipation, and was flummoxed in the introduction!!!

Doreen Ingram was compared (favourably) to Freya Stark, and Mabel Bent.  And my ignorance was exposed mercilessly.  I have several books by Freya Stark, and others about her.  And I had never heard of either Doreen Ingrams or Mabel Bent.

Doreen travelled to what was then South Arabia and is now known as Yemen with her husband, a civil servant, arriving in 1934.  She and her husband had taken the time and the trouble to learn Arabic before they went, and spend as much time as possible living within, not apart from the communities.  She worked both with her husband and independently promoting peace, education and women's rights.

And there is a lot of charm in her writing too.  How do you identify your cloak from all the other identical black and shapeless garments?  By the lingering smell of your own perfume...

And when she arrived she was childless.  'One of the Sherifas asked if I had any children of my own flesh and blood, and when I said no, she took my coffee cup, spat in it, and handed it back saying "I am a Sherifa, if you drink this you will have a child"'.  She did drink it, and did have a child - who travelled with her, with an abandoned child she adopted.

Having finished the book, I am now determined to find out more about her - and about Mabel Bent too.  So much to learn, so many books, so little time...

Double Delight

I am addicted to reading.  I always have at least two books on the go.  One is usually non-fiction and the other fiction but I read (happily) from most genres.  And cannot imagine going a day without reading.  I once worked with a woman who had a stroke and lost, permanently, her ability to read and write.  And still consider it an almost impossible disability.

However, I am also addicted to books.  Old books or new.  I love their texture, their weight, their smell.  Which is probably at least part of the reason I am not happy with e-books.  I will read them when I have no choice, but...

Essentially I am an unashamed bookaholic.  And here in the blogosphere both sides of my addiction are more than catered for.

There are many talented writers, and I receive (and welcome) recommendations about their books, and other books that people have enjoyed.

In addition there is a talented group who MAKE books.  Which often starts with making the paper which is used.  I am in complete awe at their imagination, drive and technical skill.  Collage, printing, photography, embossing, origami, and the list goes on...

A little while ago this blog alerted me to an exhibition of hand-made books to be held in Canberra.  You can read a little more about it here. 

Today was the day.  Oh how I loved it.  And the expertise on display.  My role as an appreciator got a big, big work-out today, and I am still smiling.

So much talent.  And I was lucky enough to be there.

I took photos, but sadly they do not show any of the books to their best advantage.  The display cases were made of reflective glass, and the light wasn't the best.

Just the same, here are some of the ones I fell in love with.

Wow, wow and wow.

And the double delight?  I met up with one of the people who organised the exhibition, a talented blogger who I have followed since I first landed here.  I feel so very guilty that my photo of her book (another I loved which made my eyes leak) was too blurred to share.

And to indulge another of my obsessions I am also adding a photo of a the flower on a tree just outside the library.  I suspect it is a member of the bottle brush family - but it is very, very pretty.

A pointless gesture?

This post is prompted by one of the books I picked up from a book fair on election day.  It is a biography of an Australian poet, Shelton Lea, about whom I knew nothing.

I expected to be intrigued, I expected to learn things.  I did not expect to be filled with ballistic and impotent rage.

Shelton Lea was adopted.  Adopted into the Darrell Lea family.  Non-Australian readers may or may not know that Darrell Lea was a privately owned company which made and sold chocolate, liquorice and confectionery.

He was not the only child adopted into the Darrell Lea dynasty.  His adoptive parents were wealthy and their money spoke for them.  Valerie, the matriarch of the family adopted three children - to be playmates for her own children because 'Two dogs play better than one.'

Based on her treatment of the children she adopted I don't think she should have been allowed to adopt anything which needed more care than a house brick.  

She had difficulties with Shelton, and when he was three (three for goodness sake) took him for psychiatric assessment at a residential centre for children with intellectual and psychiatric problems.  He was watched and tested over several months and the doctors came to the conclusion that the problem did not lie with the child.  This finding was supported by other agencies over the years - and they left Shelton and the other adopted children where they were.  Grr.

Needless to say Valerie did not agree.  She drugged him, she slapped him ('he needs a good whack a day').  I cannot comprehend the emotional damage that being constantly belittled, punished and blamed for everything - without proof, would have had. 

The other adoptive children seemed to fare a little better.  But only a little. Shelton was the scapegoat but they were also treated badly.  It was made clear to them that they would inherit none of the Lea family wealth.  Presumably being adopted was inheritance enough.   

Shelton was placed in boys homes, imprisoned and turned to drugs and alcohol.  As a teenager in a lock-up he discovered the writings of Era Pound and turned to poetry.

He escaped from his adoptive family early, but spent time on the streets, in boys homes and in prison.  Unsurprisingly his relationships with women were difficult.  He felt rejected by his birth mother and was rejected by his adoptive mother.

As an adult, he plucked up the courage to approach Valerie to ask about his birth mother.  She lied, and effectively denied knowing anything about his mother.  His biographer ultimately tracked her down - ten years after her death.

And here is where the pointless gesture comes in.  If they hadn't gone out of business last year I would have imposed a personal boycott on Darrell Lea products.

I occasionally bought their liquorice for the smaller portion, but didn't like their other products.  I doubt that I would have spent $20 a year on Darrell Lea confectionery.  Insignificant.  And, as a private gesture it would have had even less impact. 

Just the same, if they were still in operation, I would have imposed my personal ban.  A question of conscience perhaps?

PS:  This is not a review, but a rant.  I have some books, some written by other bloggers which I will review (here and on Amazon) but I needed to vent some spleen about a woman who used her money to treat children like a commodity.  

  

Into the Lucky Dip

I have been reading.  For a change.  And, as is also usual, I have been reading an eclectic assortment of things.

I will start with a gem from a chain email (which I usually loathe) that the smaller portion's sister sent me.

'...remember this motto to live by: Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, totally worn out and screaming 'WOOO HOOOOO what a ride!'

There is not the remotest chance of me arriving at that final destination in a well preserved attractive body - so I appreciated the sentiment.  And I am a consumer of both chocolate and wine.

And then onto books proper.

You might remember I got a bit greedy recently and ordered rather a lot of books.  Some of them have arrived and, largely neglecting my unread towers, I have dived in.

And they have been wonderful.

librarygirl first introduced me to Ben Aaronovitch, and I am beyond grateful.  I have a weakness for murder mysteries/detective novels.  And magic.  And am fascinated by mythology.  This series combines them all.  Cleverly.  The plots are new - and a delight.  There are now four in the series and I have, and will keep, them all.  The blurb on an earlier book in the series talks about a blend of CSI and Harry Potter - which is a serious underestimate of the charm.  Not only did I buy the last in the series in my recent binge I discovered that I had somehow missed the third.  So I had to have them both. 

 Onto the next treat.

 This gem comes from the clever brain of Susan Flett Swiderski.  I enjoy each and every one of her posts and loved her book.  I guzzled it.  I laughed - which is always a good thing, and I wept - which is often not a bad thing either.  This book took me (at a gallop) between the minefields of family, menopause, illness, grief and loss.   Minefields which the leading lady survived - developing intestinal fortitude far beyond what she believed possible.   And reinforcing my own philosophy that there is nothing so serious that it can't be funny.  And that laughter (unless malicious) is never inappropriate.


On election day we went past our local polling booth.  I had already voted, and the skinny one doesn't so we had no need to stop in.  But there was a book fair.   Oh dear.

'My name is Elephant's Child and I am a bookoholic.  It is not very long since I bought my last book and I am unable to stop at one...'

And this next book was one of those I acquired at the book fair.

  
Some of you will remember the BBC program Two Fat Ladies.   The fat ladies in question, Jennifer Paterson and Clarissa Dickson Wright travelled the UK in a motorcycle (and sidecar) cooking gargantuan meals using local fresh ingredients.  I had no urge to try the recipes but enjoyed the interaction between them.  Of the two of them I much preferred Jennifer Paterson.  

Just the same, when I saw this volume of Clarissa's memoirs I snaffled it up with glee.   A mistake.  A big mistake.  She is avidly in favour of hunting.  I am not.  She is not a vegetarian.  I am.  She doesn't understand how anyone can be a vegetarian - and neither do quite a lot of my family.

For an educated woman she is an offensive bigot.  One of the things which caused my hackles to rise in this book is her insistence (and I am too angry to find the exact quote so will paraphrase) that everyone NEEDS animal protein to be healthy.  Based on this premise she asserts that the many people in India who are vegetarian are healthy because their rice and lentils are contaminated by rodent and insect faeces.  When these people come to the UK the ingredients for their accustomed diet are presented to them in a more hygienic way - without the droppings, and consequently they become sick.  Hiss and bloody spit. 

She is equally against conservationists.  And a number of other principles I hold dear.

This book has gone to my recycle pile.  I did finish it, but I said rather a lot of bad words before I was through.  And have nearly finished a collection of crime stories edited by Elizabeth George to take the bad taste of Clarissa's little effort from out of my mouth.

 

A book which made me think....

I suffer from insatiable curiosity, so it is hardly surprising that biographies, autobiographies and memoirs are among my most favourite reading material.

Being invited into another person's world can be exciting, inspirational, challenging - or any number of other emotions.  It is always a privilege.

I recently completed this book.

It was one I picked up when the book shop at my local shopping centre closed down, and it has been languishing on my unread pile for some time.

The blurb on the back fascinated me 'Ali Eteraz tells the story of his schooling in a madrassa in Pakistan, his teenage years as a Muslim American in the Bible Belt, and his voyage back to Pakistan to find a pious Muslim wife...'  A window into a life very different from my own.

The author's father made a covenant with Allah that if he was given a son, that son would become a great leader and servant of Islam.  A son was born - and was named Abir ul Islam (Perfume of Islam).

Striving to keep that covenant guided the author's life for more than thirty years.  He studied at not one but several madrassas.  He rejected the companionship of non-Muslims.  After Osama Bin Laden's strikes against America he strove to become a reformer of Islam.

At intervals in his life journey he changed his name, to better reflect his path of the moment.  While a fundamentalist Muslim, convinced of the superiority of Islam  he called himself Abu Bakr Ramaq.  In this phase he returned to Pakistan in the hopes of finding a Muslim wife - to protect him from sexual temptation.  And prejudices against the 'American' he was assumed to have become put his life and that of his family in danger.

On his return to America he reverted to being Amir ul Islam, and toyed with anti-Islamic ideas at University, while continuing to remain associated with Muslims and becoming the president of the Muslim Student Association.

I really didn't warm to him.  He was never more pious than when he was using his religion to get access to women - preferably devout Muslim women.  And his ongoing determination to marry a Muslim woman (and a devout one who would wear the hijab) was as far as I could see, the 'best' way he could think of to relieve sexual frustration.  And he did want a 'name' for himself, but I wasn't certain that whether this was to meet the terms of his father's covenant or to satisfy his ego.  He dabbled in political protest - and again, it seemed to be more about the status for him, than for the causes he was espousing.

And then came the attacks on Washington and New York.  And his attitudes didn't, as I feared they would, have me flinging the book aside.

'I felt an unbridgeable distance from those militants across the globe, that I'd long ago felt drawn to and then, more recently, had felt pity for.  I had used to think that while their methods were disreputable, they were simply misguided....'
'Now having seen their vision of justice, and recognising how far it was from actual justice, I felt only anger.  What made their actions even more reprehensible was that they had carried out their murders in the name of Islam.  In a single moment they had destroyed all the hard work - of education and awareness - that Muslims the world over had done over the years'.

I have no arguments with these statements.  None.  As a reformer he changed his name again, and he is now Ali Eteraz, and his journey continues... 

I found the book fascinating and infuriating by turns.  I thought that the time he spent in the madrassas could only be described as child abuse.  Religion, any religion, is almost incomprehensible to me, and I thought his piety was often manipulative and I found it distasteful.  That said, I have felt very similar distaste for noisy proponents of other religions, including Christianity.

I can't say that I 'enjoyed' Children of Dust, and I will probably not read it again, but I am glad I persevered.  Very glad.



 

NOT the word I would have chosen...

Just after the New Year, a book stall at my local shopping centre closed down.  Which was probably not entirely a bad thing.

I loved that shop.  She stocked an electic range of books and I often bought several books at a time, and bought something most weeks.  No will power - or at least not where books or plants are concerned.  Her prices were always good, and the closing down sale had some most excellent bargains.  So I went the rats and bought many, many books. 

One of them was this one.

A memoir.  I do like memoirs, diaries, biographies and autobiographies.  Stanley Johnson sounded like an interesting man, who leads a rich and varied life.  His curriculum vitae includes exploration, travel, writing (poetry, fiction and non-fiction) and training as a spy. 

I was right.  He is an excellent story teller and I thoroughly enjoyed reading about his world.  However, I had some early doubts.  On the first page he describes his mother as 'by nature an optimist' and goes on to give an anecdote which he believes illustrates this quality.

'She was always ready to look on the bright side of life.  I remember being woken by her one night when I was about four years old.  My father was a pilot in the RAF during the war and we were living in a little cottage near the runway at Chivenor in North Devon where his squadron was posted.

"Look, darling!  Come quickly!"  She hustled me to the window.  "There is a wonderful bonfire on the runway?  A plane has crashed and, quite soon the depth charges will explode!"

I can't remember where the depth charges did explode that night....'

No, I wouldn't describe that as optimism.  Flakiness?  Space cadetship? 

What do you think?

And, the next day they found out it was her husband's plane which had crashed.  He survived (which naturally she assumed he would) but was badly injured.

Mostly Reading

The skinny portion is visiting his sister so I am home alone.  This means that after the needs of the cats, the birds and the fish have been met I can suit myself.  Luxury.

We are also in the middle of a heat wave, so suiting myself has meant hunkering down and reading.  Also sleeping.

I was given many most excellent books for Christmas and indulged myself shamefully and bought nearly forty more between Christmas and New Year when the book stall at my local shopping centre closed.  How I will miss that book store.  She had a wonderful collection at very affordable prices.  Which she further discounted for me (probably because I bought so many).

When you laugh before you have completed the first paragraph of a book it has to be a good sign.

'It is neither flat nor truly hilly, but gently rolling, its patchwork curves spread and rounded like the breasts of huge, reclining, naked women.  Landscapes are best not likened to men, as occasional pylons can then cause embarrassment.'

And it lived up to its early promise.  Not literature by any means - but fun.

I am currently gobbling two of my Christmas books.

This book was given to me to further indulge my Mitford obsession.  The Duchess of Devonshire is the last surviving Mitford sister and, while I suspect I would have little in common with her (quite apart from the obvious class and wealth divisions) she is fascinating.  Not likeable precisely, but fascinating.

This book is a collection of her occasional writings - mostly vignettes.

'I have reached the stage in life when I wake up earlier and earlier in the mornings.  The wait till breakfast time has forced me to put a kettle and toaster in my room, so I can help myself to their merciful productions whenever I like.  I advise all early wakers who have fallen for this plan to buy a clock with a minute and second hand of immediately recognisable lengths, or you may have my disappointing experience of last week.  Waking at 6 a.m., I made and ate my breakfast, only to discover that the clock's similar-looking hands had played a trick on me, and it was in fact only 12.30 a.m.  Too early even for me, but too late to pretend I hadn't had breakfast.'

I laughed, but did think that a digital clock would solve her problem.

The other Christmas book of the moment is very different.

The author, Fiona Houston, was apparently in the habit of denouncing our modern diets and was prone to ranting about the evils of supermarkets.  She said that people in Scotland were better fed at the end of the eighteenth century than they are now.  She admits herself that she was becoming a bit of a bore on the subject when someone called her bluff and dared her to try living as they did at that time.

So she decided she would.  And that she would do so for a calendar year, to experience 'the realities of all seasons'.  I haven't got very far, but am thoroughly enjoying her diary - complete with some recipes that I will certainly try.


Matters not related to reading:   It appears likely that in early February the skinny one will have the first of two operations which are needed to reverse the ileostomy he currently endures.  This is the 'big one' to repair and re-join his bowel.  If all goes well three months later the ileostomy will be reversed and he will be returned to a bag-free state.  Exactly what he/we went through unsuccessfully last year.  He is gung-ho.  I am worried.  I imagine (but have not been told) that his sister will come to stay with me again.  He is a truly rotten convalescent at the best of times and I am so not looking forward to this (while understanding completely why he has agreed to the surgeries).

I have just started a new medication to reduce the pain which has been waking me up shrieking at night for longer than I care to remember.  So far on the pain front it has made a HUGE difference (and about time too).  The trade-off is low level nausea (most of the time) and headaches (ditto).  So far it is worth it - but I am very glad to have my home alone time to come to terms with it.  I also intend to get my relaxation in while I can to prepare me for the ugly months to come.

While he is in hospital and I have a house-guest I will be very much a fly-in, fly-out blogger.  And I know from my experiences last year how much I will miss you all.

Surprise

One of the books I am currently reading is this:

I was given it for Christmas last year.  I do not agree with the title, but there are some interesting snippets in it, and it does make good bedside reading.

I came across the following quote a few days ago and it surprised me, and I have been thinking about it on and off ever since.

The topic the quote was included under was Divorce.  The divorce in question was that of Prince Charles and Lady Diana.  The quote was:

"She is such a sad soul.  It is good that it is over.  Nobody was happy anyhow.  I know I should preach family love and unity, but in their case ....'

I don't disagree at all.  What surprised me was the person who said it.  Mother Teresa.  I would have thought that saying any divorce was a good thing was anathema to such a devout Catholic, though I may be showing my ignorance.

On a much lighter note and still on the topic of divorce, the following quote by Dorothy Parker made me smile out loud.

'It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard'.  Goodness how I admire that woman's ability to come up with the perfect quip for the occasion.

The more things change....

I have just read (or reread) The Autobiography of ALICE B TOKLAS by Gertrude Stein.  I say or reread because I was convinced I had read it.  However I could find no memory of it in the porridge inside my head.

Very early in the book I came across a passage which made me snort with mirth and recognition.  The year was 1907 and Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas were living in Paris.  Miss Stein had a cook, Helene.  Helene objected to people, especially french people, inviting themselves to a meal - particularly if they asked before hand what there was for dinner.  She did not, for this reason, like Matisse.

'So when Miss Stein said to her, Monsieur Matisse is staying for dinner this evening, she would say, in that case I will not make an omelette but fry the eggs.  It takes the same number of eggs and the same amount of butter but it shows less respect, and he will understand.'

And, more than a hundred years later Helene is still right.  What a wonderful way of saying politely to people other than family and close friends, that inviting yourself to dinner is out of line.