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.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
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!)
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!)
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
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'.
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'.
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