A Miscellany of Books

Hmm....so what exactly have I been reading lately? Well, I finished off Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna and enjoyed it very much indeed. I would have said 'immensely', but I thought the latter third was a bit too fragmented to qualify for that. Still, it was good enough that I ordered The Poisonwood Bible from the web for less than charity shop price (£2.76), although I haven't started it yet.
The visit of Pope Benedict to the UK inspired me to buy the biography written by Rupert Shortt - I didn't quite manage to read it in its entirety while he was here (which was my intention) but still managed it pretty swiftly and it was very good - although not quite up to date with the latest events - but it did only cost 1p (plus p&p).
Another book that spans the divide between my academic and personal interests is Diarmaid McCulloch's tome The History of Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years which is a monster paperback that's going to take some getting through! A small section at a time, I think. Bart Ehrman's Jesus Interrupted was another purchase and although it's interesting, it's not the earth-shattering work I think he thinks it is. At least, not to me with my background in textual criticism.
The Husband, making his way slowly through Bill Bryson's book on small-town America The Lost Continent got a rude awakening when it was recalled by the library for another borrower, having already clocked up a fine, and has had to settle down with another Bryson offering: Neither Here Nor There: A Journey Around Europe which should probably hit the spot.
Daughter #3 having read and enjoyed Long Ago and Essentially True has started on a charity shop edition of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, which was one of my personal teenage favourite reads. Everyone who reads it thinks that they're Esther.
I've also managed to purchase a number of academic books for my studies, the most interesting of which were a very lovely Douay-Rheims/Vulgata Clementina, which looks like a proper Bible and a print to order copy of the Septuagint (the Old Testament in Greek translation), which smells rather pleasantly of fresh ink and a tiny gold-edged, clasp-bound prayer book called The Key of Heaven: A Manual of Prayer for the Use of the Faithful, which has a picture of St Therese of Lisieux (her feast day today!) on the front and a crucifix concealed in a compartment within the front cover. It is very pretty, rather worn, and has obviously been used and loved well. I shall continue to love it and use it too.

The Very Last of Summer

Well, the summer's technically over, the kids are back at school and Monday will see me nose down in my doctoral stuff again. I've had a tremendous time reading purely for pleasure over the 'holidays' and can't say that I'm really relishing a return to the dry prose of academia.
I followed The Elegance of the Hedgehog with Zafon's The Angel's Game, which I thought was a lot better than his Shadow of the Wind. It was a gripping page-turner, somewhat overblown in style (although I'd got into his idiom by then), with aspirations to be far more grand guignol than it actually is. A good summer read.

I then polished off The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, and although I thought it was an excellent conceit (narrated by the omniscient and surprisingly compassionate figure of death), I didn't think it was quite as good as I'd been led to believe. The characters were a little too wooden and uninvolving to provoke empathy ,and some (like the foster-mother and Max), didn't quite work for me. I had the sneaking suspicion that the author thought that the situation would be sufficient to arouse compassion and emotion, but the overall effect was strangely distancing. I also couldn't quite decide who it was aimed at (not that that is important in the long run): the older child-reader or adults? The format (bite size chapters, explanations and large-ish font-size) heavily suggested the former, but the scope and ambition seemed to flag up an older audience. Enjoyable enough, but not really thought-provoking or engaging.

My last book of the summer has turned out to be Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna, which will last me a while, I think. As soon as I opened it up, I realised that the writing in this novel is streets ahead of anything else that I have read recently. It's superbly well-written, which came as a refreshing change (probably because she writes in English and hasn't had to undergo some half-arsed translation process). The story is a slow burner, and none the worse for that - one of the gripes I had with Zafon was, in fact, the ridiculously fast pace at which characters fell in love for life, or situations evolved and were resolved. I am enjoying The Lacuna immensely at the moment, and intend to seek out her earlier work The Poisonwood Bible as and when I finish this one off, which - given my imminent return to study - may be some time!

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!

Drood for the Road

Had a couple of days in Milan during the half-term (well, two half-days and one full day, half of which we spent up at Lake Maggiore) which was lovely. I needn't have worried that there wasn't enough to keep us occupied - we definitely intend to return and spend some more time exploring both the city and the nearby Lakes.

In the end I didn't take Wolf Hall with me, the reason being that I came across a book by Dan Simmons called Drood that really took my fancy. I was in Waterstones with the Bright-Eyed Boy who was trying to remember what book it was that he wanted to take away with him (Monster Republic by Ben Horton - he could remember the cover picture only!) when I went for a browse in the 'grown-ups' section. Simmons is better known as a sci-fi writer, not a genre that I am particularly keen on with the exception of his book Ilium which I absolutely loved. I tried to read the sequel Olympos, but..well..meh!...didn't find it that enthralling. But the blurb caught my eye, and a quick riffle through the pages to check out the writing-quality convinced me that THIS was the holiday book to take. It's a good thick book too, so no chance that it'd be devoured before the plane touched down again in England. And it IS very good, dealing with the fraught relationship between the narrator (Wilkie Collins, author of The Woman in White, The Moonstone int.al.) and a rather manic Charles Dickens. I'm not sure how much is based on real events (was he really involved in a rail disaster? I should Google it I suppose..), but the descriptions of the slums and the opium dens of Victorian London are shudderingly real. The story deals essentially with the disparity between Dickens public persona as jovial paterfamilias and well-loved author, and his self-centred private obsessions including one quest to trace a mysterious figure that he believes has a supernatural hold over him since the train accident. It's quite gripping thus far.

The Husband, suspecting that the Irresistable Inheritance of Wilberforce describes a depressingly downward trajectory looked well-pleased when I presented him with Lawrence Dallaglio's autobiography It's All in the Blood. The Husband likes to read about excellence in any field - I guess he finds it inspiring - but it really makes him wish he had been able to take part in sport at a top level. So far he has read and thoroughly enjoyed Lance Armstrong and Steve Redgrave's autobiogs. I though they came across as knobs, but as the Husband says, they have to be to get as far as they have.....!

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!

May: the (Parcel) Force Be With You!

Well, the books continue to flood in - faster than I can read them, really. Most of them are studies of consciousness and the concept of 'I', but as interesting as I'm finding the whole consciousness studies business, my supervisor has hinted (rather heavily) that I need to forget the interesting digressions and get nailing specifics. At this point I realise how far I've drifted from the core of my thesis and am currently simultaneously panicking and trying to pull myself back on course!
Language, grammar, style....that's the meat in the sandwich, and that's what I'm going to concentrate on! To that end I made my way to the Brotherton Library at my old university. It was a visit that I was really looking forward to. Feeling nostalgic, I caught the train to Leeds, walked up to the uni, stopping en route at the Opposite coffee shop for a large latte and a piece of brazil-nut chocolate brownie, which was every bit as delicious as I remember it to be. I was very cheered to find that my Birmingham approved 'SCONUL' card entitled me to borrowing rights and I wasted no time in getting stuck into the catalogue to pick out a few juicy winners. (Actually, I had to go down into the circular basement and walk around the radial shelves just for the sheer fun of it, breathing in the wonderful smell of OLD BOOKS. OK, so I am a bit weird).
I knew in advance that they had a couple of titles that I needed for my forthcoming seminar paper as I done an online search on COPAC, so I still had two spaces on my card to fill. Rummaging around, I came across a copy of Robertson's 1909 Grammar of the New Testament in the Light of Historical Research, a whopper of a book, but sadly a reference volume only. I resolved to track down a copy of this grammatical behemoth online, and turned my attentions elsewhere. A few hours later saw me trotting happily back down to the station with a bulging and very heavy backpack, which has made my back rather bad in the past couple of days. I loved being back in Leeds and, because I have books to return, I have an excellent excuse to go back soon!

As I have my upgrade panel next week, and have to deliver a seminar paper a week later, in adddition to revising/expanding my current thesis chapter, I've had to be absolutely scrupulous about dividing my day up into work parcels. It's working well thus far, and is staving off subject burnout. I also managed to find, during my lunch-break, through AbeBooks a copy of the Robertson grammar, which should be arriving early next week. Amazon has been working overtime on my behalf too, although I experienced my first book-failure from one of their marketplace subsidiaries. Dunn's Unity and Diversity in the New Testament got lost in the post, and, after a visit to the sorting office and an exchange of emails, I got a full refund with no hassle at all. It didn't really matter as I had sourced a copy down in the Birmingham campus library. Books are piled up on my desk at the moment: I have a prodigious amount of reading to do!

Recreation-wise, I'm still trundling through Neil Gaiman's American Gods when I have the energy to stay awake and read. It's OK, but I'm not exactly gobbling it up. The Husband has just finished his Stardust and thoroughly enjoyed it. I've lined up Paul Torday's The Irresistable Inheritance of Wilberforce (charity shop 80p bargain!) for him next. He's already read Salmon Fishing in Yemen and says he's looking forward to starting on it. I was quite annoyed when the woman in the shop hissed 'Drinks himself to death' as I handed over the cash. Talk about a spoiler! Suppose I'd bought it for me? I kind of bought it as a holiday book, as we've booked a couple of days in Milan, but never mind. I'll get another before we go. Seeing as it was the Husband's birthday, I'd got him a copy of the Eyewitness travel guide to Milan and the Lakes. It all looks very exciting, and he sits up in bed happily planning our itinerary.

My insomnia hasn't been too much of a problem recently, despite a trapped nerve in my neck/back which can wake me up unexpectedly. In fact, my lack of insomnia has been a problem - I haven't been able to do my 5am stint of reading for a few weeks now. Before it 'disappeared', I'd got into the swing of waking up, getting a cup of tea, reading for an hour or so before falling into the most delicious doze complete with lucid dreaming. Excellent! But now I am sleeping right through until 7 o'clock. Shouldn't complain I suppose!

**BTW, why do I get so many Chinese comments? Are they comments, or is it in fact, spam tags? I am deleting them to be on the safe side, as I haven't a clue what they say!***