Shadow of the Hedgehog

The holidays are receding rapidly into the past (sadly) as are the memories of the books I took with me, so I had better make some notes whilst I remember!

I broke off in the middle of Waugh's Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, there being so few pages left that it wasn't really worth taking away with me. I read some of his collected short stories on the outbound plane - that is, when I could read: the two and three year-olds sitting behind me were totally undisciplined by their parents and spent the entire journey kicking the back of my seat and catching my hair as they grabbed onto the top of it. Not conducive to concentration! I did manage a few stories though, which were a fairly engrossing representation of a particular echelon of society at a particular time in history.

We spent less time just lazing about this year, so I didn't read as much as I did last year, but it didn't take me long to dispatch Alexander McCall Smith's Corduroy Mansions. It was a warm, fuzzy holiday read, as are all his works, but the new cast of characters aren't sufficiently well-defined in my head to warm to yet. Additionally, there seems to be some overlap between characters in this latest offering and the Isabel Dalhousie series: another older lady caught in an unexpected romance with a beautiful youth? I also kept getting mixed up between the young men in the book....they're all so unbelievably sensitive and in touch with their inner selves!

I started on Dan Simmons' Children of the Night, but the setting was so dark and bleak (post-Ceaucescu Romania) that it was not consonant with the holiday mood and I once more retreated to dip into the brittle world of Waugh.

On my return home I polished off Gilbert Pinfold and moved rapidly on to Carlos Ruiz Zafon's Shadow of the Wind, which I'd picked up in a Waterstones' three-for-two offer. It would actually have been the ideal book to take on our city-break last autumn, set as it is in the very city we visited, Barcelona.

I have very mixed feelings about this book. I've read a lot of reviews on it since finishing it (to have read them before would have prejudiced me, I feel) and find myself agreeing with most of the views expressed. The characters - particularly the female ones - are thinly padded stereotypes, the protagonist, Daniel, seems colourless and unsympathetic. The character that some reviewers enthused most about (and an equal number hated), Fermin, I found to be a highly irritating caricature of a lecherous cod-philosopher who - if I were Daniel - I'd have dropped quicker than a hot potato. Or punched into unconsciousness and silence. The way Fermin was accepted (and this in the paranoid post-civil war Spain) by the father without murmur or question into the family business was incredible. The 'evil nemesis', the police chief Javier Fumero, was a cartoon villain, who apparently 'giggled'. Indeed, quite often the translation let the book down, with the translator seeming to prefer formal rather than dynamic equivalence, which led to stilted, unbelievable or tortuous phrases. The plotting was confusing, and the lack of colour and differentiation between characters meant that I if my concentration lapsed (as it does if one is tired), I became unsure as to which time-thread I was reading (Daniel/Julian, Penelope/Bea/Nuria).

However, having said all this and despite its faults I actually thoroughly enjoyed the book in the same way that I enjoyed The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson, and found myself looking forward to picking it up and reading it at the beginning and end of each day. What better recommendation is there? It had sufficient atmosphere to immerse the reader in the city, and I felt that this was where this book triumphed, rather than in its characters. It is a good, holiday season book, and I am actively looking forward to reading another of Zafon's books, The Angel's Game, which is similarly set in Barca.

After the Shadow of the Wind, I read The Elegance of the Hedgehog by the French author Muriel Barbery, whom I'd never heard of until I spotted this. Opinions are sharply divided on this book too, people either loving it or hating it in equal numbers, calling it either profound or pretentious. The conceit, that of an socially and emotionally stunted concierge who hides a sensitive, intellectual side behind a drab exterior is quite intriguing if somewhat unbelievable - who'd really have a TV set playing game shows to fool the residents into thinking that one is really dumb? Would it really be worth the effort to buy bland foods to kid the neighbourhood that one had plebian tastes? The characterisation (mostly of unpleasant or deficient people) is satisfyingly well done. For my liking, Renee surrenders her mask somewhat too easily during the course of the book, but the surprising denouement literally had me in tears reflecting that, at the moment of death, our thoughts must inevitably turn to those who we are leaving behind, and to the second death of those loved ones who are kept alive only in the memory of the dying person. I'm not sure what message the author intends to impart. There seems to be a divide: that a person can only blossom in the company of a like-minded soul (and we get glimpses of Renee's ultimate potential in the company of her friend Manuela), and that beauty can only really be appreciated at the moment of its passing. A bit like life, I suppose.

In Holiday Mode (or Mood)

Well, my addiction to book buying gets no better and in fact is probably getting somewhat worse. You see, I have discovered that it is possible to source second-hand paperbacks from Amazon's subsidiary sellers at ridiculously cheap prices. Starting at 1p (yes, that's £0.01!) plus the statutory £2.75 p&p, that makes a grand total of £2.76 for a paperback. The quality is usually higher than the second-hand ones you get from charity shops (in fact, some are pristine) and c/s prices (depending on where you shop) are quite often higher. Plus serendipity plays a great part in charity shop finds - you get what's there: buying online you can source what you want. I still mine charity shops looking for books, so in fact they don't miss out, because I still buy as many books as ever from them. But the biggest buzz is when the anticipated package comes through the letter-box: I LOVE it!
The Husband was finding the Paul Torday book he was reading a bit of a downer.....poor old Wilberforce obviously has his downhill path mapped out for him, and although he found it a gripping and well-written book, it didn't help the Husband to de-stress at the end of the day, so I picked him up acopy of Bill Bryson's The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid (which he hasn't actually started yet...) blurbed as 'the happiest book I have ever read' on the back cover. Should do the trick!
Having finished Dan Simmons Drood (excellent if weird), I am re-reading his Ilium and have purchased Children of the Night online (for the grand total of £2.76). That's a potential holiday book, but when I went out to lunch with my eldest daughter, we swung by Waterstones and I got a bit carried away at the 'three-for-two' counter (Zafon's Shadow of the Wind, Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber and Alexander McCall Smith's Corduroy Mansions). I actually went in for a book of Carol Ann Duffy's poetry - which I found, and is a thing of beauty in itself - so I spent rather more than I intended too. Hey ho! But the McCall Smith will be definitely accompanying me to Greece in the near future, The Bloody Chamber is just a masterpiece and I've been intending to read The Shadow of the Wind for some time (but had failed to find it in a charity shop).

When I had my last supervisory meeting, we got to talking about how much we enjoyed the writings of Evelyn Waugh, particularly his shorter works, and it occurred to me that a collection of his stuff would be an excellent holiday book. As I read in the Guardian recently, a collection of short stories is a sure-fire winner on holiday when the right book is crucial to one's enjoyment (see earlier posts): if one story fails to amuse, another most likely will. Certain that I'd find a copy - if not in a charity shop - then in a second-hand book shop (of which we have an abundance in York) I set off with Daughter #2 and the Bouncing Babba to dig one out. Sadly, it was an unsuccessful hunt, and not even Waterstones had a copy. I did, however, find another volume of short stories the Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories, (in the Arthritis and Rheumatism Council shop) which contains a wide spread of 20th century authors from Graham Green to Julian Barnes to Beryl Bainbridge. I'm not sure they're all that modern, but the publication date is 1988 (22 years old!). Looks like ideal holiday fodder, but even that did not stop me buying a second-hand copy of The Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh online when i got home. And The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold to boot. Ooopsy!

Wolf at the Door

Robertson's A Greek Grammar of the New Testament in the Light of Historical Research arrived from AbeBooks and I am absolutely delighted with it! In my opinion, the Victorian/Edwardian Grammarians/Exegetes still stand head-and-shoulders above their modern equivalents and no amount of clever linguistic shenanigans or novel exegesis will ever replace the awesome scholarship of the likes of Farar, Lightfoot, Swete and their ilk.
Other books for the doctoral studies come in on a regular basis and, to be quite honest, they are pretty dull fare that are easier to buy than wait my turn for at the library. Henceforth, I shan't necessarily mention them by name unless they are particularly interesting. I can always sell them later, I suppose.

I did buy a second-hand Penguin Classics copy of Petronius' Satyricon through Amazon, which I had been intending to do for some time, having read and enjoyed The Golden Ass by Apuleius some time back. In the main I'm not big on Latin literature (finding it pretty turgid fare) but for the Roman 'novel', I make an exception. I may take it with me to Milan. Or I may not. Regular readers will already know that I am extremely picky about what reading matter I take abroad with me, demanding works which are simultaneously well-written, diverting, absorbing, but not too heavy-going. I have identified a new Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions (or some such) in Waterstones, but I am actually reading Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall, which kept me captivated on my train journey down to uni. for my PhD 'upgrade' panel. She is an excellent writer (although didn't like her Beyond Black much), clever enough to keep me intrigued, but accessible enough for the plot to advance at a satisfying pace. I am simultaneously working through a generic sort of book that gives etymologies of words that have made it into the English language, but only v-e-r-y slowly as after a while one stops caring about individual word histories. The pile of unfinished stuff at the side of the bed grows ever-bigger, but I've stopped feeling quite so guilty about it as I used too. One book I did finish was Neil Gaiman's American Gods, but it doesn't get onto my list of great novels (I seem to be in a minority here). I just felt that amongst the verbosity and meandering digressions was a much leaner, better book, waiting to get out. Sadly, it didn't. And I couldn't have cared less about the main character 'Shadow' either, which didn't help. Daughter #3 was working her way through Marina Lewycka's Short History of Tractors in Ukranian. Having received that author's Two Caravans for her birthday, she immediately started to read that, abandoning SHoTiU! Tut! The youth of today!

Metamorphosis I am Hoping for, not Dereliction.

I am rather sad at the demise of Borders bookshops as I have spent a lot of time (and money) browsing their shelves and drinking coffee in the in-store Starbucks of the York branch. It's rather unusual in that the back half of the building was originally a chapel, and the cafe area occupies the gallery that runs around the four walls in a squared-off oval.

Ever since he was very young, the Bright-Eyed Boy and I have spent many a happy hour peering over the handrail and playing our favourite game of 'Book Spotting' with a coffee/bun to hand. This consists of one party naming a book that they can see on the shelves on the floor below, which the other party has to locate and describe. Good for both observation and verbal skills, although we just enjoy it. We went to have a possibly final cup of coffee there today, but sadly found that the coffee-shop was shut for a staff meeting. I hope we manage to fit one more in before the doors shut forever. As a venue, it really does hold many fond memories for me and I hope that the building isn't going to be turned into yet another crappy cheap clothes shop. In truth, I guess I am partly to blame for the chain's demise. Although I have bought a lot of books from them in my time, in many instances the limits of stock, the esoteric nature of my wants, or simply cost, have driven me into the arms of online retailers. Which is where a lot of Borders' clientele have ended up, I suspect.
Mea culpa, Borders.
When I was browsing in town on Saturday, whilst waiting for daughter #3 to do her rowing training (in the boathouse gym, as the river has well and truly burst its banks) I went to a favourite antiquarian book shop, Ken Spelmans on Micklegate. This is absolutely lovely, smells just right (ever so slightly musty), is suitably poky and has an open coal-fire glowing in the back room. Up the rickety stairs there is a modest theology and classics section (always a few Loebs to be had) where I chanced upon a wonderful leather-bound copy of Donnegan's Greek/English Dictionary dating from 1837. I was severely tempted, but as it was a tome of considerable avoir du pois and I had only just started my two-hours' browsing, I regretfully put it back. However, when I thought about it over the rest of the weekend, I developed a terrible hankering for it (small Greek font has a strange effect on me). Monday (a teacher-training day) saw the boy and I legging back up the hill to snatch it gleefully of the shelf. I had previously told myself that it would probably have been bought (to guard against disappointment) but when I saw that it hadn't - well, it was like a real chemical 'hit'. The nice thing about Spelmans is that they wrap your purchases up in green parcel paper, so you feel like Mr Brownlow or some other Dickensian character as you walk out of the shop.
I have to admit to taking advantage of the 20% off sign in Borders and bought Alexander McCall-Smith's The Comfort of Saturdays, a Penguin Classics copy of Selections from the Talmud and an Oxford Classics version of Kafka's short stories. I whipped through the first in no time at all (and for a while found myself thinking in a similar fashion to Isabel Dalhousie: wistfully philosophic) and am dipping in and out of the second. I will read the third in dribs and drabs, as Kafka is far too weird to read a lot of in one go. We've been reading some portions of untranslated Kafka in the German Reading Skills classes and he is a most unsettling author. Nothing is comfortable or predictable. All is alienation and rejection. I remember borrowing Metamorphosis and other stories from the library in response to another (similar) author's work. Damned if I can remember who it was now!

Libraries, Books, Philosophy and Paul

Now that the new academic term has started, I'm going to avail myself not only of my current uni library, but also the ones belonging to my old alma mater. I think I'm correct in thinking that £50 will get me a post-grad library card with borrowing rights. The main library is a circular Art Deco beauty that just breathes learning and knowledge. I used to really enjoy squirrelling around in its subterranean depths, enjoying the smell of the waxed parquet and old books. I intend to get myself over there soon and sign up. It'd be good to open up old channels of communication again with my old department too.
Books have been coming through the letter box at a very satisfying rate, save for yesterday when I was down on campus and one was returned to the post depot from whence I had to retrieve it today. I though I'd better do as there is a postal strike threatening....oh no!
I finished Alexander McCall Smith's The Sunday Philosopy Club, and felt curiously vindicated concerning my original judgement of it. Unsatisfying, and definitely not as good as its sequels. Still, it was only £1 from the Autism Charity Shop. I've been reading Michael Gorman's Reading Paul and find it a clear and insightful introduction to the Pauline corpus, although a bit too devotional for my liking. I have read so much about Paul that I have the curious feeling that I actually know him, like he is some sort of tetchy uncle that I haven't seen for a while and who I wouldn't necessarily go out of my way too visit. I think he would be far too much like hard work, picking arguments, generally being pedantic, grumpy, nosy, self-pitying, but the kind of chap that would wordlessly press a twenty-pound note into your hand as you left, noting with surprise that his eyes look moist. I've never quite got over the extraordinary feeling that I got when I was translating 1Corinthians in the autumn dusk a few years ago: I'd got to the last verse, verse 16 and was whizzing through the last section when I became convinced that he was personally addressing me, actually speaking to me through the epistle. Amazing, and not a little spooky. One book that I picked up recently and am keen to crack on with is Daniel Everett's Don't Sleep, There Are Snakes, a missionary - and linguist's tale of life amongst the Amazonian Pirahas tribe. His original intention to 'convert' (what a horrible notion!) them is quickly sidelined as he discovers them to be the happiest of people, with absolutely no need to be 'saved' (I wonder what his superiors made of that!). It was the linguistic side of the book that appealed to me most (naturally) as his discoveries concerning the Piraha's language 'run counter to prevailing linguistic orthodoxy'. John Searle rates it highly, so I'm guessing that it is anti-Chomksyian in its thinking. Don't get me started....transformational grammar v behaviourism.....hmmmm.

A New Term, A New Pile of Books......

I'm in a bit of a book frenzy at the moment - courtesy of a small unexpected pension lump-sum bonus. It started off respectably enough: a second-hand copy of Alexander McCall Smith's The Sunday Philosophy Club (which, on first reading a couple of years ago, I had hated enough to leave it behind in the holiday apartment - I had failed to 'get' its subtle observation). It is pure comfort reading, gentle, wryly amusing and deep enough to provide some food for thought. I also bought the husband another Neil Gaiman (Smoke and Mirrors), as he'd finished Neverwhere which he enjoyed immensely. Then my fiscal prudence specs slipped somewhat: my response to needing to study is generally to buy more books, as if the mere act of buying them was equivalent to absorbing the knowledge therein (I actually realise that this is not true....). I kind of justified the expense by reasoning that the expenditure was in fact a very small proportion of my forthcoming 'stipend' (what a lovely old-fashioned word!) and that they might contain some insightful nugget that would illuminate my whole PhD. The lists comprises of Coles & Dodd's Reading German (for my upcoming German language-reading course in October), Reading Paul by Michael Gorman, The Deliverance of God: An Apocalyptic Re-Reading of Justification in Paul by Douglas Campbell and The Philosopher's Toolkit: A Compendium of Philosophical Concepts and Methods by Julian Baggini and Peter Fosl. Quite a list to get through. Quite a heap on the bedroom floor! Oh, and a second-hand copy of Your PhD Companion by Dr Stephen Marshall and Dr Nick Green from the Oxfam bookshop, which I read practically all the way through in Starbucks this afternoon.

Holidays and Beyond

Thoroughly enjoyed my two holiday books (The Unbearable Lightness of Scones and PopCo), managing to polish off the former in just under two days, the latter lasting until half-way through the four-hour flight delay on the return journey. Alexander McCall Smith's latest volume in the 44 Scotland Street series was the familiar comfort-reading that I'd both hoped for and expected. Nothing nasty, with enough amusing insights to raise the odd internal chuckle. Having fairly recently read Scarlett Thomas's The End of Mr Y I had an idea what was in store for me and was not disappointed. PopCo's heroine Alice Butler is far more sympathetic than her angst-ridden self-hating Ariel Manto. The plot is not what you'd call tight, but combined with the various digressions on specialist subjects (maths, cryptography. marketing techniques), it is absorbing enough to keep the pages turning. Characterisation is slight, with many of the supporting roles appearing as mere ciphers (haha! in a book on cryptanalysis! Geddit?) - but that's fine: I wasn't expecting Flaubert. It was fine holiday fare, in the same league as The Gargoyle. Better than The Raw Shark Texts, not as good as Fight Club.

Having finished PopCo before our flight took off I was desperate for something else to read and picked up Robin Wasserman's Skinned, which daughter #3 (12 years old) had completed a few days ago. It was immediately gripping, a tale set in a dystopian future featuring a girl hideously injured in a car accident (shades of The Gargoyle again!). The medical expertise is available (largely courtesy of her parents' vast wealth) to have her essential self 'downloaded' from her broken body into a replica mechanoid, perfect in every way except that it is not 100% lifelike. It will keep her 'alive' indefinitely as long as she follows the care protocols. And this is the interesting bit: is she 'alive'? What does 'alive' mean? What does a person consist of? Are they the sum of their bodies and their minds, or is it the mind alone that counts? We are asked to consider various ethical and moral dilemmas through Lia's angry confrontation with her old life, her friends, her boyfriend and society's reactions. It is very thought provoking stuff, deeply philosophical and gripping. I'm rather impressed.

Actually, I'm procrastinating.......various scholarly tomes are jostling for attention but, hey, I'm still in holiday mood!

Another Useless Doorstop

Can't do it: read Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon, I mean. I started it two nights ago and made a final effort at it this morning but it's.....well, I don't like to label....too blokey for my liking. The research seems admirably detailed (although he could be writing absolute mathematical bollocks for all I know) and I can cope with sketchily drawn (tautology?) characters and fast moving plot switching. But do you know what? It's like reading something written by someone with attention-deficit/Asperger's...or for them...syndrome: I'm not sure which. So with no little annoyance, I shall consign it to the 'help-yourself-anyone' shelf along with various other ill-advised purchases. I know what I'm going to get in replacement: Scarlett Thomas's Popco and AlexanderMcCall Smith's The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - pure undemanding beach pabulum, but with pretty coherent narrative strings. As far as I can tell. Thus far.