the book of not.

Is a sequel ever As Good? I’m not sure.

It’s confusing because often with sequels, you are keen and excited and salivating for more plot. (Sometimes you’re not – in which case you weren’t even aware there was a sequel and no one gets hurt). Tessa warned me against any sequel to ‘Dune’ by Frank Herbert. She simply said, Don’t do it. It’s not Good. Stay Away. Anything else written by him (or his sons) is not worth it. And I’ve listened to her quite happily since… (that girl has no idea the kind of control she has over me).

I’m glad no one told me to stay away from The Book of Not, the sequel to Zimbabwean author Tsitsi Dangarembga’s first book Nervous Conditions. Which I have already written about here and which I loved reading very much. When I found out there was in fact a sequel I became really excited and my sister and her husband bought it for me online (fancy, no?) for my birthday. Hooray.

It was so lovely to continue the tale that was already pretty fresh in my memory. Naturally it remains a different story. Tambu, the main character is a teenager now and not a child. Rhodesia is painfully and violently turning into Zimbabwe as the beginnings of the civil war seep into daily life. Most of the book takes place at her boarding school; she is one of the six black students on a scholarship at one of the best girl’s convent school in Zimbabwe and is doing her utmost best to prove herself as a legitimate human being by succeeding academically. And her life continues to be pretty shit.

It was a difficult read, not in terms of structure or language or plot. There was something else that made it difficult, a bit messy and all over the place. The book felt uncertain of itself in a vague, sort of violent way, it looped and repeated and faded off into tangents in a disarmingly tragic manner. Which is exactly it and exactly right, this unsettling tone is completely appropriate for such content. Set in a country that is changing messily and violently, about a girl uncertain of who or where she is in an always-shifting but never-changing quandary.

It became increasingly painful to read of this young girl thrust into political and social fuck ups without being equipped or told where and how to direct her anger and identity. There is not one adult or person available to Tambu to help her out and help her grow, she is isolated in a terrifying way. At least in Nervous Conditions there was the incredible character Nyasha who for some reason fades away in this sequel.

I think what made it most difficult was the ending, which just like Nervous Conditions, had no resolution or conclusion. And again you could argue that this is apt for the condition in Zimbabwe and almost every African country – very little sense of warmhearted endings. But the book cut off mid-way as though the author suddenly felt like she couldn’t say anymore and so didn’t. Apparently, she is working on a third novel to complete the series.

Either way, it was incredibly disheartening. 

I may take a break and delve into a new Ursula Le Guin book I recently purchased. My current feelings regarding this particular human race makes me long for stories set on an entirely different and imagined planet, please. I have also been reading some collected essays of Chinua Achebe (which I’m almost finished with). He is incredible and totally brilliant.

Ok.  

A picture of not the most aesthetically pleasing book cover there is:

brother of the more famous jack.

This book by Barbara Trapido is one of Katie's other most favourite books. Katie was my housemate and is one of my best beloveds. I had seen this book in our sweet little flat and kept meaning to read it. Now I've moved out of our sweet little flat and I'm all reminiscent and forlorn. So when I saw a copy in the second hand bookstore I frequent (the exact same edition as Katie's) - I bought it out sentiment for days now gone.

I assumed the author was British so kept it aside for next year but then I noticed the write up on Barbara Trapido and saw she was born in Cape Town, grew up in Durban and studied at the University of Natal. (Ha!) Which pretty much makes her South African, even if she emigrated to London. JM Coetzee is now an Australian citizen (gross) and he's still hailed as one the most prominent South African authors of our time. So there.

I read the book in one day. Which says a lot about:

a. How absorbing I found the book and
b. How unemployed I actually am.

I found the story to be funny and sad and sweet and charming and very, very British. It was so strange to be swirled into the delightfully sinister world of English academics and novelists who are witty and knitty and full of safe, deviant ideas of fun and sex, who outrageously say 'fuck' a lot in their charming English accents and who bravely write books whilst reading the Guardian and planting potatoes.

After reading about Angolan immigrants living in Johannesburg, the complexities of being a pseudo white South African liberal in the seventies and the grandiose ongoings of southern Africa in 1830s through the eyes of the Barolong tribe - I couldn't get enough of the frivolous conversations of the daughter of a greengrocer, Katherine and her introduction into the intellectual world of her philosophy professor and his jumbly family romping about with violins and Russian novels. (Excuse the length of the sentence).

It was strange and lovely to read such an oddly familiar story and almost, nearly unenjoyable but I had a very good time reading it and didn't like it at all. I'm in a bit of lonely, radical, idealistic place right now so naturally I found the feminist themes a bit too subtle and possibly even weak. And at the end of the day, us clever girls who get degrees, live independent lives, move to Italy, have many lovers and tell many stories will ultimately one day get to marry a British novelist, make quirky babies in a sweet rambling home and plant apple trees and then our dreams really will come true. Hooray for aspiring novelists who clean up after themselves! Oh! The husbands they will make!

I'm not sure what to make of this book. I think it is about how to be the wife of a British intellectual. And I don't know if I'm very interested in that.

Here are some book covers... I have put them in an order in which they get progressively uglier.

(This is the one Katie and I have)

(Quite nice)

(What?)

(AAAHHHHHHfuck)

mhudi.

I liked this book so much. Aside from enjoying the actual reading of the book (strange sentence), I actually loved the object, the book itself. It has these great pictures in it that I will scan in and show you. And yes - books with pictures in them are still marginally better than books without pictures in them. (Depending on, of course, the book and the pictures.)

This is the copy I have, part of the African Writers Series:

Isn't it beautiful? The first thing someone would say about this book (and it is the first thing I usually say) is that it is the first novel to be written in English by a black South African. Sol Plaatje, the author, was also one of the founders of the South African Native National Congress (today known as the ANC). It was definitely finished by 1920, possibly earlier (many people say 1913) but only published in 1930.

It is an epic historical piece of fiction set in the 1830s and there is a lot going on throughout the whole book. It reminds me of Shakespeare and tells of grand battles and grander love and all of those wonderful things that makes violent human beings so shitty and confusing and fascinating.

I don't feel like I am knowledgable enough to expand fully on this book... Do you mind if I quote from the back of the book? Cheating, I know, but surely that's what they are there for?

"Mhudi, a woman of endurance and courage, saves her future husband Ra-Thaga at a time when Mzilikazi's Matabele soliders raiding the Barolong in Botswana..."

Then Bessie Head says it's a beautiful book and I nod in agreement. But there is (much) more to the story than that. I've never read a novel about South Africa in 1830s that had no English characters. You read about the defeated Barolong tribe, crushed by the Matabele soldiers. But you also read about the Matabele and their king, the ruthless Mzilikazi and somehow Plaatje gets you to empathize with both. You read about the Boers and get a taste of the terrible things yet to come. Interesting and strange dynamics regarding gender, considering the extreme patriarchal set up our heroine, Mhudi, is pretty sassy and incredible. You get a sense of the magnitude of violence and injustice, when thousands of soldiers with spears die simply and quickly from the gunfire of White Europeans.

Despite all of this, you somehow feel good and the end of the story, I really can't say why or how.

I desperately wanted to be clever when writing about this book. And I promise I do have clever thoughts when reading but they go away when I try write about it. Egh. What's the point of a blog, anyway?

Here are some pictures:

(I have searched the entire book and I still don't know when these exquisite pictures were created or who made them... If anyone knows - let me know!)

going home.

My sister lent me this book by Angolan author Simão Kikamba and I finished reading it a few weeks ago, so it's not too fresh in my mind. But I did enjoy reading it. It's a pretty gripping story about a young Angolan man who grows up in the Congo, then moves back to Angola but due to political reasons he has to emigrate to South Africa. The rest of the story is basically about how shitty it is to be an immigrant in South Africa.

It is simply written for such an interesting tale. But there is always something a bit magical when someone writes in a language that is not their first. They show you something new about the language and tend to use words or phrases in an unexpectedly exquisite way. I think when you grow up thinking in one language and then become fluent in another language, your thoughts will always be affected and influenced by the language you grew up in. Which (I think) makes for incredibly interesting literature that brings up a myriad of new things to do with words. (My Thoughts About Language Are Riveting).

It is a pretty heartbreaking story but entirely worth reading. It ends abruptly. And completely unresolved - much like the dire situation of immigrant life in South Africa.

I was nervous about reading only African authors this year. I thought it would be too painful and awful and depressing. I'm amazed at how wonderful it is to read authors that are African, how important and good it is. I'm kicking myself for not doing it sooner. It is very difficult to write about these books for a number of reasons (like sounding ponsy, white and bourgeois being just one of them) but it's incredible to read them. Already I have learnt more about this continent than I expected. Sounds super cheesy but there it is.

READ BOOKS! THEY MAKE YOU NICER AND BETTER. READ BOOKS WRITTEN BY AFRICANS! THEY MAKE YOU EVER MORE NICER. AND BETTER. DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO MY GRAMMAR.

A Picture:

a sport of nature.

The only vaguely disappointing thing about this book is the title. It's not a bad title, it's just a bit unimpressive, tricky to remember.

Other than that - this might just be the best book I've ever read in my life. Ever. I'm serious, I know that I speak highly of most of the books I read (which I like to think means that I have pretty good taste in books as opposed to being a book slut that gushes over anything I happen to come across) but I enjoyed this book massively (and somehow differently) to other Very Good Books I've read.

It is the first novel I've read by Nadine Gordimer, aside from a few short stories here and there. Written in 1987, it follows the life of Hillela, a white South African girl who has an incredibly interesting life that begins and ends in South Africa but journeys across Western Europe, Eastern Europe, America and much of Africa as Hillela embarks on what turns out to be pretty fascinating life and also political career.

The combination of how well Gordimer writes, how good at story-telling she is, plus her amazing knowledge of African and South African politics and history made this book not only Really Good but also Really Special in terms of literature concerning my own country. It's somewhat sad but ultimately true that narratives set in and pertaining to my home are still a novelty to me since up until recently I've been bombarded and enamoured with American and European stories. I am thoroughly enjoying the intentional change in literature.

As a character, Hillela is incredibly complex and slippery and she seems to keep herself at distance from the reader, although the reader becomes besotted with her odd sense of undeniable charm (at least I did). Even though she is clearly the protagonist, one is never quite sure of what is happening in her head but rather the action and other characters simply charge on around her and she somehow remains untouched. I felt as though Hillela was even able to keep Gordimer at a distance, such a rich and textured character she is.

I can't think of what else to write really, except for how this is definitely on my top 5 list of books right now, I think. My next Nadine Gordimer will be 'Occasion for Love'. I'm excited.

Also - I'm getting worse at blogging, aren't I?

Some Pictures:

First Edition Cover 

The cover I have

(She's so lovely)

nervous conditions.

I have made a vague but resolute decision to read only African authors this year. Last year it was no white men and that worked out very well for me, despite amusing grumbles of a few peers who claimed I was being 'sexist'. Ha! I found many new and wondrous authors and didn't miss those modern classics at all. (Although, I think I'll let Science Fiction and Fantasy happen this year... I didn't read one Terry Pratchett last year and I don't think I could do that again.)

This year, I hope to familiarise myself with the literature from my own continent. A few days ago I finished the  first novel of Zimbabwean author, Tsitsi Dangarembga, entitled Nervous Conditions (1988). The story of young girl, Tambu, growing up in impoverished, rural Zimbabwe in the sixties and her path of 'progress' as she gets the chance to go to her uncle's mission school and Be Educated.

It sounds like the kind of book that my gross-seventeen-year-old-self would have been totally uninterested in. But I loved this book wholly and I'm struggling to write about it because anything I write I will still be a white South African bourgeois voyeur liberal girly-girl who will always sound like a bit of a tool when dealing with this sort of content matter.

Ah, well. Here I go.

I think I loved this book because there is little pathos, there is no overwhelming sense of melodrama and tragedy, just a small narrative example of the fucking awful quandary of Africa. Of race, education, poverty, Europe and all that godawful kak that comes with engaging fully with the past of this continent. Or any continent. Just humans.

Every women in this book is a fascinating character but Tambu's cousin, Nyasha who spent half of her childhood in England is completely seductive and absorbing in her intelligence and spunk and gradual influence on Tambu herself. Themes of gender and race are quite subtle, but ultimately powerful in their quiet, pervasive presence.The book ends somewhat abruptly. But there is a sequel, The Book of Not that I'd like to get my hands on. The characters don't really resolve themselves, positive change doesn't really appear and I think this is a very honest way to conclude such a tale.

I'm really struggling to get across the value of a book like this. Also I haven't really said anything about the confident and beautific writing style of Tsitsi Dangarembga (who also makes films!). But I am sick and flu-y and pathetic in bed so all of my thoughts are jumbled and messy like the duvet and pillows and the only thought I can really hang on to, or express, is that this book is wonderful and beautiful and I want more of it...

(1990 Edition, I think???)

 (2001 Edition)

(2004 Edition)

(What I find interesting is the way these book covers have progressed over the years... Changing and also staying the same, y'know?)

novel on yellow paper.

This book is so intensely most brilliant. I'll just say it now in the beginning. I had to force myself to finish it, for it was not the easy breezy summer holiday read I thought, but rather it was quite tricky, slipping away from me and going all over the place with many genius ramblings stopped short by references to something that belongs to a different time. It may have read easier had I been in the mode of fitly reading cleverclever books for my English degree two years ago. But still I pushed through and it was worth it.

Stevie Smith is the author that makes you want to write. I stumbled across her poetry in the library a while back, intrigued by the fantastic drawings that accompanied her poetry. This is the first novel I've read of hers.

She is the one who writes about her life in a jolly fictional way with the Big Things constantly underfoot. She writes sweetly, determinedly, casually and oh-so-cleverly with wit. Above all, even though she wrote this novel in the mid-1930s in London, she will always be (even today) Cool. Stevie Smith was, and is, Totally Cool.

Novel on Yellow Paper or Work it Out For Yourself consists of the thoughts of a young secretary. Bizarre twists and turn, you have to keep up with the main character's convoluted thought process. Her name is Pompey (a name so glorious that I will have to name every plant, small animal, child, or other nameable object that crosses my way 'Pompey'.) The thing I enjoyed the most, was every time I felt exasperated at her confusing prose and impatient at the self-indulgent scattered style, Pompey would suddenly address me, the Reader and acknowledge my impatience with humour. Smith knows how slippery she writes and revels in it.

I wasn't 'Dear Reader'ed' like sappy old Fanny Price or even like conflicted, pathetic Jane Eyre. No, Pompey acknowledges the reader with unforgiving curiosity, which in turn makes you curious about the author.

Of course I think one of the reasons she turned out so interesting is because she was raised by a feminist.  But she is also interesting because in between many bouts of incoherence, a single sentence or paragraph suddenly jumps out at you as clear as day and that sentence makes you so happy because you think "OF COURSE DAMMIT" and and you are filled with triumph and the sentence stops and then you keep reading, sucked back into her word games and unfinished anecdotes.

Also, why have none of us heard of her? We get so few female authors of that time. At the height of Modernism, the world is bursting with men but we have to hunt down specifically those women making art in the 30s and 40s. In Highschool, we don't get given the sassy, live, hopping ones like Steve Smith here, we only get given the sad, suicidal, dead ones because that's how they convinced the Men that they were serious enough to make art, too. (Incidentally Plath was a big fan of Smith's poetry).

Eh. So it goes. I'm not sure if you'd enjoy it, read it to impress someone or prove something and then it will have been read and you won't regret it.


(Also, my friend Sebastian said I should add pictures - so here are some. They were all so lovely I couldn't decide which one so I chose them all...)

rebecca.

I missed most of Christmas because of this book. I struggled to stop reading. I lay in bed while my family talked and my neck got twisty and raged at me to stop – but still I read on.

It my housemate, Kathryn’s, possiblyfavourite book. She spent a long time hunting for the perfect cover of ‘Rebecca’ and I began to keep an eye out, too. (Book hunts are the best – I join them whenever I can. They give you every reason to stroll into a bookstore with purpose and a vague but rewarding sense of ambition.)

Tessa lent me her copy. Tessa doesn’t particularly like this book because the nameless heroine is so incredibly pathetic and since it is written in the first person, you get the full extent of her insecurity and feminine frailty. However, our protagonist has the most brilliantly odd imagination and also she wrote the book – so she must be slightly interesting. (When Tess heard my defense, she scoffed and responded, ‘No. It was Daphne du Maurier who wrote the book.” Which is true – but not the point.)

I understand perfectly why it is one of Kathryn’s favourites. I also understand why Tessa can’t stand it. I understand both of these partly because I know my friends very well. But also because it’s that sort of book. Clever, nauseating, very dated but always a classic.

It is gross and engrossing. 

It’s wonderful.

Our nameless narrator tells her sinister tale of falling in love with the wealthiest widower you’ve ever met. He is at least 20 years older than her. But he marries her neatly and brings her back to his massive mansion where they have servants and tea. His previous wife (who drowned) is Rebecca and she was beautiful and everyone loved her (maybe a bit too much) and the new little wifey feels she will forever exist in Rebecca’s glorious shadow, haunted by the perfect previous mistress.

There is a constant underlying creepiness throughout, aided by the ominous and (I think) semi-insane housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers. There is a lot of horticultural magnificence that goes on in this book. The weather and trees and plants are overwhelming.

Of course it sorts itself out. The end drags on a bit, but our heroine finally grows into herself and seems to mature. By ‘mature’ I mean she eventually becomes brave enough to boss the servants around and is no longer afraid of them. It takes a while, but she finally realizes she is in fact good enough to be an upper class snob. I sincerely mean it when I say, Good for Her!

But I thoroughly enjoyed despite seriously weird gendered and classist ongoings. Like any good British book, there is a lot of food and a faithful dog. Books with food are always good at Christmas.

the dispossessed.

Last night I finished Ursula Le Guin's classic novel of science fiction, 'The Dispossessed'. Whenever I finish one of Ursula Le Guin's novel, (oh! it is a glorious thing to write that name let alone say it aloud... by far the best science fiction author's name I have ever come across ever). Yes.

Whenever I finish one of Ursula Le Guin's (eeh!) novels, I am always slightly less than satisfied. Partly due to quiet shock that it's actually over. And partly because I think when your stories are that good and that epic and your name is Ursula Le Guin, you just have to choose a place to stop. And wherever you stop, it will always be a bit sad. (This is why, I think, Tolkien insisted on all those appendixes and whatnots).

'The Dispossessed' takes place in the same universe as the one in 'The Left Hand of Darkness', another book by Le Guin that is possibly my Favourite Science Fiction Book Ever. I have not written about it yet, which is bizarre. I talk about it a lot though. Anyway, 'The Dispossessed' takes place on an entirely different planet, actually, two planets. The plot bounces between happenings on the twin planets of Anarres and Urras.

Urras is not unlike our own world, capitalism and hierarchy and commerce and etc. On Urras, the evil 1% thrive pleasantly while most of the rest of the population slug away in poverty. (This is a crude, inaccurate summary but you get the picture). But 150 years before, a group of Anarchist revolutionaries, following the writings and philosophies of the female anarchist, Odo, leave Urras and colonize the twin planet of Anarres. Beginning an entirely new society based mutual aid, common humanity and an absolute lack of a single ruling power. All inhabitants are equal, free to do as they please and function in an absolute socialist volunteer type utopia that is not without its own problems but ultimately a very attractive society. Lots of clever and thought provoking stuff on politics, philosophy, humans, science, and all things interesting.

A young physicist, our protagonist, seeks to unite these two worlds and of course, fails. But it's still a really really really good book. I Googled it a bit and yes, it's a very clever book, that many other people (with important letters attached to the end of their names) have written books and essays about.

The problem with writing about science fiction is that unless someone has read the same book, you always sound like a bit of a tool or like someone who has entirely poor taste in literature. Because the author has spent a lot of time thinking up an entire universe. They have written a whole book describing the subtleties of the people, the language, the culture. Everything is set up very cleverly and you get drawn into a perfectly legitimate idea. But when you try and talk about said book to another, you sound bizarre. Unless you strapped your listener to a chair and talked for a very very long time explaining how the whole planet works, and who's who and what's what until your listener implodes from absolute boredom, they won't really understand what makes the book so incredibly good.

Which is why no one likes science fiction, except the people who read science fiction.

So I suggest you read it, so I don't have to strap you to a chair and bore you to death. If you want the first Thirteen Chapters, it's in the Anarchist Library: http://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/ursula-k-le-guin-the-dispossessed

'buckingham palace', district six

I haven't written in a while but I handed my thesis in about a month ago and I have decided to start blogging rigorously again in order to keep myself from spiraling into a dark deep pit of despair, also known as 'looking for a job'.

Today's book was written by Richard Rive in 1986 and follows the story of several characters living in District Six in Cape Town during the early 1960s before it was hit by the infamous and terrible Group Areas Act. Rive draws on his experience, mixing first person reflections on his childhood and third person narratives on various endearing characters who lived on the street he grew up in.

This book is naturally apart of my 'no white male authors for one year' decision but I got an extra kick out of this one because it is set in the city I live in. Once again I was struck by the thrill I always get from reading books that are set in my own country, something that doesn't happen often enough. Next year I think I may do a six month stint of only South African/African authors.

I get to empathize and envision so much more when I am familiar with the geography of a book and the geography in this book is important, something that is clear simply from the title. The references to Table Mountain, the descriptions of roads and routes and areas that I am familiar with made for bittersweet reading. Despite amusing anecdotes, it was sad to read about the forced removals not only because it always sad and wrong and outrageous to read almost anything that took place during Apartheid but also because I was reminded of how the Group Areas Act has had a long term affect on my city, one that is still not integrated to the degree it should be. (She writes cosily from her sweet little flat in white, safe Rosebank near the big safe University).

One thing that was bizarre about reading this book was that I had bought it from a second hand store near my parent's home in Durban. I assume it was a prescribed reading for a high school in the region because there many adolescent, pedantic notes written in the margin, in pen (various colours) that I can only assume were written by a studious and serious young girl who had recently discovered the term 'irony'. Almost every note in almost every margin are the words "IRONIC - humerous" - even when certain exchanges or lines were not particularly ironic.

The cover of the copy I have is a fantastic sketch of sorts and all in all, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. (Don't know how to end off, am so out of practice with this blogging thing that it's been quite difficult to write this, ok. I think this one was quite dull, no? Just going to stop now.)

walk to the end of the world.

I have decided to start up this blog of mine again... Partly because I am still reading books and I still like talking about them. And partly because I am waiting in an airport for another five hours. But enough of lapses and relapses. I have many thoughts on Suzy McKee Charnas' book, Walk to the End of the World. 

So since my last entry, I decided that this year of 2012 I would not read any books written by authors who are/were white and male. Some of my friends thought this was sexist and silly - they are entitled to that view. I just figured that I read so many white men and have been reading so many white men for so long, I just wanted to see what else there is. Find some new authors, discipline and possibly change some reading habits. And it has been really fantastic.

I broke my rule twice, which is ok because I made the rules so I can break them. I read Watchmen by Dave Gibbons and Alan Moore, which I allowed because it was a graphic novel. And I thoroughly enjoyed it. And I also broke my rule for Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. I felt compelled to read it because I've been living in America since January and will be here until the end of June, and it is such a famous American novel. And Ray Bradbury traditionally writes science fiction and things, and it was cheap and short. And somewhat disappointing. I shouldn't have broke my rule for it, it was good, but not worth breaking my rule. Ah well, so it goes.

Anyway, now for Walk to the End of the World. It's a long clunky title, one that I always forget. I bought this book online (a shocking and terrible habit to get into... it's just so much fun receiving things in the mail!), it is three books in one, under the heading of Radical Utopias. (Carrying three books in one is always nifty when travelling, I feel. Like an almost kindle, but considerably more archaic). I started with Suzy McKee Charnas' science fiction novel that does not really take place in what one would call a 'Utopia'. The driving idea behind the book however is pretty radical. And incredibly interesting.

The book is set in the post-apocalyptic world, where technology, greed and power of men has ultimately self imploded into nothingness, an event referred to as 'The Wasting'. The men who survived 'The Wasting' have constructed a new society where women (referred to as 'fems') are not regarded as human, but as animals and slaves to be used as men need them. The fems are made out to be so far below human, so repulsive that men ultimately take other men as lovers. Resulting in a society so segregated that heterosexuality is considered 'perverse'. It is strange and thought provoking.

And bleak. The society is militant and crude and full of horrifically awful things that are very normal and unsurprising to most of the men and women of that society. There is also a huge emphasis on the age barrier of young men and old men, yet another damaging and terrifying segregated mode of control. Men are forced to perform their manly duty for the society by spending a prescribed amount of time in the 'breeding rooms', which is the only reason fems are kept around, for reproductive purposes. It's pretty kooky and tricky to explain. But she explains the whole system pretty well, so it doesn't seem entirely kooky. That's the thing about making new worlds, if you give enough history, background and full in the bits and pieces, it's pretty believable.

What's interesting, is that the author really sticks to this idea. To the extent that you know almost nothing about the one female character. She has no voice in the book, because she has no voice in the society. Until the very last section. Each section is narrated in the third person, but from the view of a specific character. There are four main characters and the last section covers the only female character. Which is really what made me keep reading this desolate story. I was so curious about the mysterious supposedly voiceless female and had to wait till the very end to find out about her.

It was good and not good, in the sense that it seemed angrily depressing. I'm glad I read it, the idea and theory was fascinatingly weird, the conclusion  just as bleak as the concept with only the most optimistic of readers to interpret the last few pages as a hopeful ending.

This new genre that I have lately embarked on, of science fiction-fantasy that explores gender and feminism - it is really great. It is so refreshingly different to what I'm used to reading. And I'll happily stay here for a while, reading these books about new planets imagined by ladies from all over. Yes. It's great. I suggest you put down your white male author for a while and start looking elsewhere, he'll always be there when you're done...

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.