'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.