wide sargasso sea.

I always mistrusted Mr. Rochester. And now I know why. Jean Rhys was right. Is right. Jean Rhys is right. He's awful.

I feel like I've read Jane Eyre a lot. Once in highschool, then we did it in English last year. And I'm the kind of nerd who doesn't achieve the marks that warrant nerdiness, but still, I've read Jane Eyre about three times. And not because it's my favourite gothic novel. Infact, I'm pretty disinterested in Jane Eyre, despite it being one of my favourite lectures series (which has more to do with the lecturer than the book). I guess I'm just a Wuthering Heights kinda gal.

Anyway! The point is - Jane Eyre has popped up frequently in my world so she's been on my mind. I watched the movie a couple of weeks ago with Tess (and we did enjoy it) then she got all excited about the book and read to me bits of Mr. Rochester's apology for harvesting a mad wife while I washed the dishes. And as I manoeuvred wine glasses, soap suds and bits of pancake scraped off the pan, I realised that Mr. Rochester is completely awful, despite his frowny wit and disgruntling appeal. Then I got cross with Jane. Then I decided the two deserved each other.

Then, whilst roving a bookstore last weekend, I came across Wide Sargasso Sea which I remembered Them telling us to read. The novel by Jean Rhys is about Mr. Rochester's Mad Wife before Mr. Rochester. And Jean Rhys was right. I'm not sure why, but after reading this book you think, "Aha! So that's what happened... why didn't Charlotte mention all this?!" Set in Jamaica, Wide Sargasso Sea tells the story preceding Jane and Rochester's Great Love; the story of Mrs. Rochester/Antoinette Cosway/Bertha Mason and her life before Thornfield. (Jean Rhys knew about the importance of names, just as Charlotte Bronte knew about the importance of Plain Jane's name.) And now I'm convinced that Mr. Rochester is a no-good, paedophile imperialist.

I would have loved to have been lectured on this book in addition to Jane Eyre. It's that good. To be honest, I sped through it quite quickly because it also has that gothic-y tense element of Jane Eyre which makes you want to turn pages. I may have been too hard on Mr. Rochester... I don't think British white men could help but be horrid in the 1830s. So yes, I got quite caught up with the plot and probably missed a bunch of really intelligent comments about whatever it is that intelligent authors comment on.

There was stuff about Victorian sexuality, imperialism, feminism. And that was all nice. But what interested me was how quietly menacing the book was. Especially in the beginning. Nothing specific really happens for a while, but the last time I was that terrified whilst reading was my childhood fascination with the Book of Revelations. A very still and quiet book... and absolutely scary. Scary in a classy, brilliant way that makes you only aware of your dread in hindsight when you're writing a pointless blog about it. Jean Rhys knew what was up. The whole time. She knew about Rochester and his quiet British terrifying charm.

Ok.

Attempting Country of My Skull by Antjie Krog now. But that might take a while. Until then I may treat myself to some Frank Herbert. But I have been enjoying this medley of female authors so maybe some Joanne Harris? Her books always make me hungry.

(Oh, and apologies for the lack of two little dots that should be present in Charlotte Bronte's name. I'm sure the dots have a proper name. But I don't know it, nor do I know how to make them appear when I want them. So yes.)

the god of small things.

I forgot how long it takes to read a book. During dull and studious moments I fantasized and romanticized about novels, longingly looking at my bookshelf thinking of all the breezy fun narratives I would encounter once exams are done. But I forgot that breezy stories take a while to unwrap and most of them aren't so breezy. Breezy. (Is it just me, or does the word 'breezy' suddenly sound sluttish?) And most 'good' books are just sad books really. Someone always dies. And so my funsy-novel-devouring-holiday has turned into a bit of depressing break from real life.

It's a funny story about my copy of The God of Small Things... Friends came to stay for the weekend a month before I went to India at the beginning of this year, and as a thank-you-present my friend later posted a copy of The God of Small Things to me (excited for me to read it because I was going to the very place where the book is set.) It never arrived. I went to India without reading it. I returned. I had a birthday party where another friend... (I'm a popular gal. No. I'm not really. And I think it's because I'm ok with using the word 'gal')... another friend gave me a copy. The mailed copy still hadn't arrived. So I read the copy I got for my birthday.

In hindsight, that's not really a funny story. At all.

Anyway.

I really did enjoy reading this book. Aside from being surprised that I didn't finish it in one afternoon (and having my private, but properly smug thoughts of, "I'm going to read a-book-a-day!" appropriately crushed). Maybe that's another sign of a 'good' book. Generally sad, someone dies, and it takes at least 6 days to read. The God of Small Things fits all those things. Except it is also insanely beautifully written. I think this is because the author very clearly likes words. In the same way that some people like shoes, perfume, scarves, cars, puppies. There is a certain type of person that really likes words, as actual things, not necessarily for their purpose, just for their existence. How they look and sound. I think Arundhati Roy is one of them. And I like any person who likes words. She also happens to use them incredibly well and can mould them into a poignant and intelligent plot. Which is nice. It's nice when both of those things happen together.

Oh yes... almost forgot. Another thing that probably makes a book 'good'. (If I stop putting the word 'good' in quotation marks will you still know what I mean?)... The weather. This was yet another weather-filled book. Humid, soggy, damp. I would settle down barefoot to read it because it's a sweaty, outdoorsy type of book then wonder why I was freezing an hour later. Weather. It's relevant.

So, I'm tired. And I will conclude by simply stating that reading this book made me very happy, even though it was sickeningly sad. You gals should read it, too.

(I'm still getting the hang of writing down thoughtsaboutbooks again. Tried to make my blog prettier with backgrounds and stuff and couldn't figure it out. And the word 'gals' can refer to boys, too, right?)

mrs. dalloway.

Here is something brave to admit: Up until a week ago, I hated Virginia Woolf. As a girl with feminist tendencies and as an English student this attitude seemed sacrilegious and shameful. I avoided her and her books and this is why:

As it goes with younger siblings, I appropriated clothes, ideas, stories, catch-phrases, music, books, films etc. from my two very cool older sisters. This has lessened somewhat over the years as we've all grown older, but appropriation still happens. One of the things that trickled into my sixteen-year-old consciousness was the intriguing name 'Virginia Woolf' and her subsequent greatness. I remember surreptitiously stealing my sister's copy of To The Lighthouse (which I actually still have. Sorry, Shani, let me know if you want it back...) and settling down to read it. I got about halfway before my brain exploded leaving bits of wrinkled confusion splattered against the window. I put it aside and decided to wait a year or two, feeling terribly insecure about my stupidness and convincing myself that I would be much smarter next year this time.

And a year or two later I attempted In Between the Acts. And once more, I got about halfway and realised that the sentences were so slippery and frustrating that I had been reading the same page again and again. Woolf was nonsensical, utterly annoying, repetitive, vague, cloudy, long-winded and I was simply too stupid to see the supposed genius in all of the above. And this made me cross. What enraged me further was that my friends all seemed to be delightedly flying through Virginia Woolf, reader her as casually as one would pick up Archie Comics. They loved her and I couldn't see it. All I could see was some wolf-like shape of a woman throwing strange words at my face which I didn't understand.

So when I saw A Room of One's Own and Mrs. Dalloway appear on our course outline this year for English, I became all sulky. Damn Modernists.

Needless to say, all I needed was someone to iron out all the wrinkles, give me a bit of context, a bit of biographical information and tell me what to look out for when reading her books. (On a more personal note, I had to remind myself just to read Woolf slower than I read any other author). And I was converted. I no longer hated her... quite the opposite, it just shows that English lecturers can make or break a book. In my case, our lecturer salvaged an entire author.

A Room of One's Own is sad, hilarious and inspiring. And I have falling completely in love with every character in Mrs. Dalloway, jaw just about dropping at the patterns, connections and descriptive genius that constantly occurs throughout the book. I finished reading Mrs. Dalloway about an hour ago, sprawled on Rose's bed. (Rose's room is a magical room, the envy of everyone in the house because the sun insists on gracing her double bed almost all day. Tess and I sometimes sneak in when she's out to indulge in an afternoon of sunlit reading.) I read the last page and sighed happily because I am not a boy, because the sun is incredibly lovely and because Virginia Woolf and I are friends.

And so, I no longer have to avoid Virginia Woolf in conversation and in bookstores. I can now embarrassingly but comfortably join the ranks of other upper-middle-class feministy girls who read and adore suicidal females authors with gusto and enthusiasm.

the shipping news.

First Tessa's mom gave it to her, then Tess passed it on to me and now it is with Jess. I like how books can flit from one person to the next and never be labeled as 'whorish' despite how many people they go through. The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx is one of those books that simply must get passed on because one can only appreciate its true starkness and beauty if one reads it.

Although, I must admit that while Tess was reading it she raved and referenced the book so often that I felt like I had read it in some previous life. Annie Proulx has one of the most fascinating styles of writing I have ever encountered. She writes so casually and poetically that she can be talking about the most traumatic series of events and describe a darkly violent scene that you aren't even properly aware of it until a few pages later. You'll read something that is pretty twisted and sick, skip along a few pages and then pause, asking yourself the question, "What just happened? Did that just happen?".

And the names! Ha! Every single character in her book has the most bizarre name yet you couldn't imagine that character with a different name. I don't know how she thought up those names but it just shows that at the end of the day, imagination is still highly prized and important. And the plot, especially the beginning, is so sad but so matter-of-fact that you couldn't possibly get mopey about it, just deeply thoughtful and obsessed with the book.

So you can tell I liked the book. And so did Tess. And I'm certain Jess will, too. One of the nicest things about book-sharing is that once you've both read it you can rave about scenes and characters in a secret language that no one could understand unless they've read it. Even now, two weeks after both Tess and I finished reading it, we sometimes slip back into a 'Shipping News' conversation and after a grown-up, intelligent critical analysis of the book and its structure and themes etc. this conversation usually ends with us stupidly yelling at each other (quite loudly) with raised fists, "IT'S SO GREAT!"

I have boiled everything I like about this book into my two possible favourite things about this book. (That was nonsensical, awkward, adolescent sentence). Firstly, I love the fact that the main character is a middle-aged, overweight, unattractive man. It is entirely refreshing. Secondly, I love the fact that the book has weather.

This is a weather-filled book. It is mainly set in Newfoundland and the coast and tempestuous ocean seems to be another character who takes up quite a large portion of the book. I realised that when a book takes its own environment and surrounding into consideration it often slips into something more than a book and turns into a place that exists properly in your mind. And humans are greatly dependent on weather. I know that I am obsessed with weather. I'm not sure if this is just because I live at the Cape under a Mountain where clouds come and go with little warning, but weather brings out the human in one. This book did not shirk on the weather or the human. (Again, a completely nonsensical sentence?)

So here's the plan, put down whatever you are reading and read The Shipping News by Annie Proulx while I go find something else she has written.

the shattered chain.

I am struggling to write this post. Partly because half of my brain is thinking about Louis MacNeice and Modernist poetry (for an essay I have to write) and the other half is thinking about Marion Zimmer Bradley and feminist science fiction (which I finished reading the other day). I'm pretty sure you don't get two authors and genres that are more different. But let me try put that incredibly British man aside and focus on the American woman. (There are some labels you can't escape).

There is something shocking about Marion Zimmer Bradley's novels. Apart from her unforgettable name, her covers almost always involve a badly-drawn, out-of-proportion, semi-naked person. Which is slightly off-putting. But once you start reading, it becomes increasingly difficult to stop. Which is also a little disconcerting. The Shattered Chain is part of the Darkover series and this is the only one I've read from that series. However if I was going to become obsessed with a fantasy-land I'd be perfectly content with Marion Zimmer Bradley's world of Darkover, where patriarchy reigns in the most subtle and obvious ways and the only truly free women are the Free Amazons who have their own rules and boy, are they cool.

If boys dream about becoming a Jedi warrior, then I dream about becoming a Free Amazon. I would be able to run fast and fight with a knife and gallop on a horse and defend myself and have smart yet terrifying quips to any man who offended me. All the while being graceful and dignified. And I would have short sexy hair and be strong and alluring all at the same time. And I would be able to fly. (Ok, so the Free Amazons can't fly but I may as well indulge in the fantasy).

The thing I love about Marion Zimmer Bradley's fantastical world, is that it is never a case of men being the evil, domineering, bad-guys out to crush women. And the women are not always the brave and brilliant heroines fighting for the cause. Some of the female characters are just as awful and tyrannic as the male characters and some of the male characters are just as fair and lovely and charming as the female characters. Like a good feminist, she does not discriminate or simplify morals and gender. It is difficult to explain, but there are certain passages in her book where one thinks, "That's exactly it! Yes! Someone else thinks so too... Ha!" But those passages are difficult to pinpoint and describe.

It is interesting that she had to create an entirely new world in order to write about women who have total agency over their lives. But then, who, regardless of sex, has total agency over their lives? This gender issue becomes so circular and inter-twined that I find difficulty in talking (let alone writing) about it. This is where Marion Zimmer Bradley's avoidance of making things simply black and white turn into a highly confusing grey-mushy-philosophical question about men and women that is sort of making my brain explode right now especially because I haven't quite got rid of Louis MacNeice and his Oxford cronies teetering on the edge of my mind and this too-long sentence alone is begin to overwhelm me completely so I'm going to stop now.

This seems to be a messily-splurged post about something that I am not quite sure about. So, let me close off with my new-found suspicion of redheads. In The Shattered Chain there is a group of people who are can read minds and are highly psychic. These people are usually redheads. And now I don't trust them.

beginners & mcsweeny's.

The title of this post is not the title of a novel. Because I have still not allowed myself to embark on a new novel as I still have essays and things. (The only downside to university life - school work.) But as I mentioned before, I have been reading short stories. Beginners, a birthday-book from Dora, by American author Raymond Carver whom she likes very much. And a collection of various short stories by various authors for McSweeny's Quaterly Concern edited by Dave Eggers, also an American. One can't seem to escape them. Especially if one is reading short stories which the Americans seemed to have claimed but admittedly do very very well.

Short stories are like amazing train conversations with an interesting stranger. You know the encounter will end soon, but you're not sure how it will end. They don't really enter your real life but they do affect your life undeniably. Short stories do not belong to routine, like a half-an-hour-evening-reading of a novel when you get to know characters and catch up on what happened yester-evening. Rather, short stories break the routine. Leave you wondering and often dissatisfied but nonetheless pleased with what just happened. At least, good short stories do this. In my opinion, a bad short story is a too-long short story. But I am learning, the more I read, that this is not always so.

Beginners and McSweeny's are so different it's almost silly to put them in one post. But they do complement each other well. Because all the stories in Beginners are written by one author, writing in a very specific time and the stories tend to become somewhat repetitive, blurring into each other and following similar patterns. But it is a sad, beautiful and poignant pattern. McSweeny's on the other hand, jumps around like a schizophrenic dancer because each short story is written by a different person (and not all of them are American or male). The stories I have encountered in this anthology range from humourous to dark to uncomfortable to tragic to terrifying. And when I tire of this whirlwind I settle back in Raymond Carver's inherently American and sadly beautiful stories. It's a good balance.

In one of Ali Smith's short stories, two men have a conversation about the novel and the short story. They decide that the novel is a "...flabby old whore... Serviceable, roomy, warm and familiar, but really a bit used up..." and a short story is a "...nimble goddess, a slim nymph. Because so few had mastered the short story she was still in very good shape."

The story goes on to discuss this idea about short stories and whether or not it holds any truth. It is a marvelous story to begin a book of short stories with, I think. The story becomes increasingly funny and thought-provoking and you should all just go read it. Because it's great. And short. ('True Short Story' by Ali Smith).

I'm not sure a short story is a nymph. After reading Lolita (yes, I still think about it...) the word 'nymph' has a new, somewhat tainted meaning. But I would suggest you start acquainting yourself with short stories, they are fantastic things to have on your shelf and in your life.

(Oh, the other wonderful thing about short stories, is that they curl up in dark corners of your mind so that one day when conversation reaches a certain topic that reminds you of a short story you read, you can whip out this fanastic story and you are not quite sure where it came from... Did someone tell you this story? Is it a movie you once watched? Or did it actually happen to you? I would suggest you go with the last one and people will think you're a brilliant interesting person just because you happened to have read a brilliant interesting short story once... It has worked for me before.)

heart of darkness.

I have temporarily banned myself from any sort of novel that I want to read, as this is the week where essays deadlines begin to loom and test dates start to arrive like ominous-sounding mosquitos in the night. The only reading I should be doing is academic. I manage to keep sane by breaking that unbearably dull-and-intellectual reading with the occasional short story. (Recently received a book of Raymond Carver short stories for my birthday... but more about that later). But for English, we just finished reading Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. For the second time.

We did Heart of Darkness in First Year. However that seems to have gone unnoticed because now, two years later, our lecturer asks the class casually what Conrad we did in First Year. The large class dis-jointed-ly but semi-coherently mumbles 'Heart of Darkness' in response, our lecturer looks slightly concerned, whoops, ah well. Administrational slip-ups do happen.

So, as much as it is annoying to repeat a book it has - at the same time - been pretty fantastic. As a first year student reading Conrad, I was pleased with myself for managing to understand something of the plot. Set in "olden days", this British guy travels along a river into Africa to meet this other guy who eventually dies. Nor did I mind reading it so much, as it was short. So last weekend when I settled down to re-read it, I was overwhelmed and surprised at the sheer beauty, imagery and general brilliance of this controversial book. How did I possibly miss out so much in first year? Did I even read it? It felt like the first time I had ever read that horrid book because I do not remember it being that ... well ... good.

This comforted me. I have definitely become more intelligent since first year which is proof that on some level, university maybe works. Hm. An interesting idea.

I think you know when a book is really good which is it completely terrible yet simultaneously beautiful. That awful racist misogynist still manages to keep you reading. I'm not quite sure how. In literature conversation, there is the faded but never-ending debate "Should We Read Heart of Darkness?" I think any book that makes so many people start ranting excitedly probably deserves to be read.

Lolita is also one of these books. I know I mentioned Lolita in my previous post and I was going to write about it. But I don't think I am capable of commenting on what I think is the most complex and almost definitely the best book I have ever read. (Ok, so everyone knows such a thing does not exist, but if a best book ever was to exist, it might possibly be Lolita). Sick and exquisite Lolita is another one of those books that I will read again in two years and think to myself, "Did I even read this before? How could I have missed out on so much?"

But now I must go back to the books. Not the books I'd like to go back to though. I must return to the thicker, musty, vital and useless library books that hold very little exciting plot and fascinating characters but will nontheless help me write an essay.

Oh, yes... I assumed none of my house-mates would be bothered to read this blog but I was proved wrong when an affronted Tessa yelled from her room, "Nicky! I have never giggled in girlish rapture!" So, I apologise. People who read this, that was obviously a mistake. My darling Tess has never 'giggled in girlish rapture'. She probably just chuckled casually.

alias grace.

I haven't written in a while because I am currently struggling to do anything other than read Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita which is terrifying and beautiful and horrible and fantastic and sick. But I am not going to write about Lolita. I am going to write about the book I finished a little while ago - Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace.

The story of how I came to read Alias Grace is a cute one. As a 21st present, Tessa gave me a my first-ever-pair of lacey underwear, a book (Alias Grace) and some pretty cool sunglasses to remind me that I am (and I quote), "Sexy, clever and very very cool". This was sweet and fun and we giggled in our girlish rapture and revelled in our brilliant youth and all these warm, Twirling-Birthday-Girl feelings vanished abruptly when I started on the book.

Alias Grace is sad. It is based on reality (which makes it all the more sadder) but is ultimately a work of fiction. Set in Canada in the 1840s, it is about the young girl, Grace Marks, who was convicted of murder and her innocence/guilt is never quite settled into a feel-good plot, but rather amounts to a dark, somewhat twisty and unsettling story. Chunks of history and quotes from poetry, newspapers, court statements are beautifully interwoven with the gripping narrative.

I did like this book.

In the same way that I get tired of reading American authors, I get doubly tired of reading male authors. Margaret Atwood is both female and Canadian. Lovely. It was noticeably refreshing to read a woman's writing and perspective. When I glance at my bookshelf 70% of the authors are men. I don't particularly want to get tangled up in a feminist rant (right now), I am just constantly surprised that I have to go out of my way to read books written by females. The books that find their own way into my consciousness are almost always written by men and I have to make a concerted effort to read female authors. You never find yourself thinking, "Gee, when was the last time I read a book written by a man?" It's silly.

Aside from being sad and beautiful, there is no denying that this book is smart. Once again, a lot smarter than me. There was definitely a lot of historical research that went into the making of this book. And I have always like the idea of other books making books. (Which is why it's fun to find out what your favourite authors read). I also noticed, only towards the end, a fascinating and detailed structure that threaded its way cleverly and neatly throughout the whole book. Which made me wonder how many other clever bits and imagery I had missed out on.

If you like historical and well-written fiction and are bored to death with those white men confidently and constantly prancing around the library shelves, I would definitely suggest Alias Grace.

maskerade.

There is only one lovely thing about having the flu. When, on a friday night, someone walks into your room and sees you (a sorry mess in the blankets) still reading a book with about six empty mugs scattered over various surfaces, you can pitifully wave some tissues about and say, "I have flu!" Then you are promptly left alone and have successfully avoided being teased or bullied into going drinking and dancing.

That is the only lovely thing about having flu.

This weekend, Terry Pratchett kept me from spiralling into the deep self-absorbed pit of pity called 'Everyone-Is-Having-Fun-and-I'm-in-Bed'. And Granny Weatherwax happens to make up an entire social circle so I wasn't exactly lacking in entertainment or company.

Maskerade is Terry Pratchett's re-hashed hilarious version/opinion of Phantom of the Opera and opera in general. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even though I don't think it's his best. (Can anything compete with Lords and Ladies?) I particularly enjoyed it because last year sometime I happened to read Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera. This book is fantastic and dramatic and very different from the opera version. It is also apparently based on fact which makes it all the more exciting.

But back to Granny Weatherwax, I have realised why she is my favourite Discworld character... Because I actually want to be her. Her self-confidence, her scraggly, terrifying appearance and her independent and exciting spinsterhood are all weirdly alluring. There is a rude, old, brilliant witch inside of me waiting to get out. I wish I could march into a room and demand things, stare people into silence and (well, obviously...) fly on a broom. But I'm far too young and polite and well-brought-up. And of course our very dull world doesn't allow for broom-flying. Most figure this out at a young age.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Granny Weatherwax - well... I actually don't know how to finish that sentence. Hm. For those of you who aren't familiar with Granny Weatherwax - I guess... I'm sorry for you?

I think my enjoyment of this book was doubled because I had jumped so quickly from aristocratic Russians to the bizarre characters living atop of Great A'tuin. Yes, Anna Karenin has come to an end. Which seems unheard of and surprising since these Russians controlled my thoughts for about a month. But it's over now and I can't even think of it. Gone. They are all gone. Strange how a book can leave you so suddenly.

On my bookshelf I have placed Anna Karenin right in between two Discworld novels. With Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and all the kooky characters from Discworld surrounding Tolstoy's genius, I keep expecting to wake up to my bookshelf self-imploding. I go to sleep imagining the characters and plots bleeding across the pages and into the book-next-door and am always surprised that I wake up to perfectly ordinary, functioning bookshelf.

This evening I may begin a birthday book Tess bought for me. Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. Never read Margaret Atwood before but I do like Canadians.

anna karenin

Surrounding me, on my too-small-overflowing desk, are three very important (and possibly the most important) things in my life at the moment:

1. Tissues (I seem to have adopted a horrible cold that won't let me alone).
2. A Cup of Tea (since I am not addicted to cigarettes I figure I'm allowed to be addicted to tea).
3. 'Anna Karenin'.

My lime green, semi-scruffy, 'Penguin Popular Classics' copy of 'Anna Karenin' contains 100% recycled paper so not only is the reader of this book allowed to feel smug because he/she is reading Tolstoy, but he/she is also being environmentally friendly whilst being smart and bookish. I have been lugging this green brick around and self-satisfiedly whipping it out at bus-stops and on trains partly because - I'm not going to lie - I'm impressed with myself for reading Tolstoy... but mainly because a). If I ever want to finish this book I have to read it at every spare moment and b). I genuinely am enjoying it.

Tolstoy is not that difficult nor that terrifying. I think my fear of Russian artists began with my childhood devotion to ballet. Russian ballerinas are, in a word, terrifying. I had good reason to fear them. They are perfect and tiny. I think as a book 'Anna Karenin' might possibly be perfect but it is definitely not tiny. So I guess it makes sense that, as a tall girl, I feel quite comfortable around tall stories. Tiny things still make me nervous. And Anna Karenin herself seems (in my mind at least) quite stately and statuesque which is one of the few things I love about her.

I haven't quite made up my mind about Anna, whether I pity, adore or hate her but I think that's ok. I haven't finished the book of course, but thus far I have lost my heart to Levin. Sweet, complicated Levin. I'm glad he got Kitty, even though she seems slightly simple-minded. I know the story will end sadly but I really hope Kitty and Levin remain happy.

My friend Dora (who ironically is about half my height) and I were chatting about the book earlier today and we sheepishly agreed that it is basically a Russian aristocratic soap opera. Now, I know 'soap opera' is a dirty word (pun intended) but it's a very very good and brilliant soap opera. These character's lives are so absorbing that I really do wonder what they're up to when I'm not reading. The other soap opera-ish element is the deliciously short chapters. I love the way this book is divided every couple of pages by a friendly number so as not to dishearten but rather encourage your slow trek through the papery plot.

I have come to the conclusion that I couldn't quite reach with 'Middlemarch', - that Tolstoy is completely worth it and not scary at all. Eliot still scares me.

Hopefully, I will finish it this weekend and I have been saving up a much-awaited Terry Pratchett as a reward for my Russian conquest. And it's a Granny Weatherwax one too and those are my favourite...

(Imagine Anna Karenin and Granny Weatherwax in the same room! Ha!)

white noise.

I finished reading 'White Noise' by Don DeLillo a few weeks ago. Books tend to fade from memory once you've picked up a new one. But this book has left a thick residue across my brain that will not disappear quickly. And it is an after-effect that is not entirely pleasant as it is directly concerned with my now constant fear of death.

I never really used to fear death because I had never really thought about it. I had thought about dying certainly and imagined several new and exciting ways to die, but death (as I now can see, thanks to 'White Noise') is a different matter altogether. I think my youth is the only real thing I have to buffer myself against this new-found fear and I am holding tightly on to it, too. But certain daily activities like driving in friend's cars, taking the bus and crossing Main Road unexpectedly remind me of those bizarre situations that occurred in 'White Noise', and these reminders are accompanied by a shudder of the possibility of a lack of life. (Lots of 'of's').

The other disconcerting after-effect of 'White Noise' is that it has brought to life a small and unfamiliar bit of me that wants to be American. And I am generally very grateful that I am not American. (The only other person who has ever made me crave America is Jack Kerouac. But I mostly want to be Sal Paradise rather than be an actual American). Yet, there is something about 'White Noise' - the engrossing domestic descriptions, the odd and beautiful family dynamics, the irresistably surreal characters and genius side-rants - that truly make me want to move to America and indulge in that foreign and familiar world. I have been romanced by the idea of vile consumer delights and American unabashedness.

I am somewhat embarressed that I can be so intrigued and enamoured by American literature which is perhaps why I am now reading that voluminous Russian, Tolstoy. Inspired partly the desire to steer clear of yet another American author, but mostly this feeling that once I have read something by Tolstoy, I can read anything I want. (In highschool I had the same theory about 'Lord of the Rings'.) Once I reach the level of casually reading 'Anna Karenin' I will feel less guilty about all the classics I have not read and feel like I have the right to indulge in any shitty book I want because... pf! I've read Tolstoy. It's like storing up credits. One really amazing, famous, smart book roughly equals seven totally average mind-numbing books.

Anyway.

Read 'White Noise'.

middlemarch.

There are so many great books waiting to be read. There are also so many terrible books waiting to waste your time. This is a blog about books. Because books, even the bad ones, are worthy of much and a blog is the least I can do. And anyway, I like writing about the books I'm reading. Other people's fiction is generally always more interesting than my own non-fiction.

The blog is called 'february' partly because it is an abandoned attempt at blogging which I began last year in February sometime... and partly because the word 'february' is a fantastic word to look at. Not that great to say, but a very good-looking word nonetheless. (Hm, 'nonetheless' not a bad-looking word either). The title of this blog has mostly nothing to do with the month.

The title of this post on the other hand, has almost everything to do with - this post. 'Middlemarch', by George Eliot. This is a book that has been tormenting me for about 6 months. Last semester, our somewhat dashing English Lecturer embarked on a fifteen-minute tangent about the beauty that is 'Middlemarch'. "800 pages of pure poetry" I think he called it. One of the most beautific things to come out of the English language. I'm not sure why he was rambling about 'Middlemarch' as the Lecture was on 'Jane Eyre'. But he was very persuasive. It's easy to get excited about something when someone else is excited about something (and happens to have an astounding vocabulary).

So I started reading it. Which I think was a mistake. It's long. And daunting. And difficult. Most of the beauty and poetry, I'm pretty certain, is going way over my head. Books that are smarter than me naturally make me feel uncomfortable. I thought I had the whole female-author-English-countryside-19th-century-novel thing down. But Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters clearly have nothing on Miss Evans. When does a timeless English classic stop making you feel educated and intelligent and start making you feel an idiot and resentful towards any work of literature written before the 20th century?

Most of my good friends scoff and sigh when they see me trudging through 'Middlemarch'. Tessa, my digsmate, is mildly outraged stating that there are so many books to read, and one can only read so many, why waste precious reading-time on something so laborious? And more importantly, something I am clearly not enjoying? (This coming from the girl reading Frank Herbert's 'Dune' for the third, possibly fourth, time). And she does have a point. Is it worth it?

Maybe I should simply wait until I'm smarter and can pick up on the subtle qualities only a learned person notices. 'Wait until I'm smarter'? As if intelligence is achieved by waiting... Surely reading difficult books makes difficult books easier to read? Or is my 'Middlemarch' quest a intellectual snobbery thing? Probably. Do I push through just so I can say I've read it and smugly agree with the lecturer? Or is it really that good? Curse those academics! They lure you in with beautifully crafted sentences and classy, clever thoughts and then turn around with the very same lingo to strip you of any sense of dignity. Sigh.

So I've put 'Middlemarch' on pause. Again. And am struggling to return to it, as I've stumbled upon Don Delilo's 'White Noise'. Which is pretty much always within reach and very rarely closed. But more of that later...