Seamus Heaney and Saint Patrick

It's Saint Patrick's Day, a time for nostalgia; when the Irish everywhere dream of home and ache for the Ireland of the past, when things seemed simpler, when we were simpler and when the home fire and those around it were enough to sustain us through the cold, damp Irish days.  And so I come to Nobel laureate, Seamus Heaney, famed chronicler of Irish memory, to celebrate his most recent collection of poems, 'Human Chain'.

I bought my copy at the book's launch in Dublin, where Heaney delighted us all and moved more than one to tears, with his new verse and stories of how life had changed for him since suffering a stroke.  Somewhat smaller that I remembered him, he kept us captivated by the quiet lilting of his unmistakeable voice.  And what we few heard, who were gathered there in the half-light, was a wisdom, no less vital than the words of a saint or prophet, and as nourishing and soothing as that of a shaman.
The title of this latest collection comes from a poem that celebrates the things that connect people around the world, through our humanity, through the small things and, in this case, the lifting of a bag of grain.  It begins with the image of an aid worker passing out bags of meal  to a hungry mob, while soldiers shoot overhead and then, as in typical Heaney fashion, we are transported back to the Ireland of Heaney's youth, as he recalls the rhythmic swaying motion of lifting and swinging bags of grain onto a lorry.  Yet it is the letting go of the sack, 'that quick unburdening' that he dwells on saying, 'A letting go which will not come again.  Or it will, once.  And for all'.  The specific positioning of the punctuation in these last few lines of the poem dictates the meaning.  Heaney is not only considering his own death, but is reminding us, that, like Everyman, death comes to us all. r.

Another favourite poem of mine from this collection is 'The Butts', primarily because it reminds me so much of my late father.  It tells the story of a young Heaney, pressed up beside the cloth of his father's suit, not in a tender hug, for such a thing was not usual for Irish men of Heaney's father's generation, but as he leans into his father's wardrobe to search for cigarette butts to steal.  He is reminded of the stolen moments in the wardrobe as he cares for his elderly father, bathing and tending him, ' To lift and sponge him... closer than anybody liked...'  The simplicity and immediacy of the language is classic Heaney.  He takes us into the scene, the master story-teller that he is, and we imagine that we are listening to a friend recount the thoughts of the day.  Once again, Heaney is gently forcing us to consider the relationships between parents and children, reminding us that if we all leave home for distant shores, who will look after our old and sick?  It is a dilemma which is the source of much heart ache for those who emigration leaves behind and for those whom it steals away.

And then, Heaney celebrates place, his childhood  home, in Mossbawn. 'In Derry Derry Down', he creates the most beautiful and simplistic image of a world where beauty can be seen in an old bucket full of soaking, ripening fruit:

'The lush

Sunset blush

On a big ripe

Gooseberry'

Heaney reminds us of the joy of the everyday, in the simple things.  An it is this celebration of the small things that gives Heaney his power and relevance for Irish people today.  He is the bard in the corner, softly calling to the people of the house to listen to his words and reflect on what it is to be Irish, to remember a world where things were simpler and to remain true to their Irishness.
So if St Patrick saved Ireland from the snakes and the 'heathens', maybe we can say that Seamus Heaney is in a similar position; perhaps he brings the antidote to all the noise and chaos of modern living, that is distracting us from what is really important in life; our families, our home place; our Irish identities.

 Happy St.Patrick's Day.

.

A tale of Lost and Found - 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Jane Eyre'

This is the story of two books.  One was given to me as a present on my birthday some years ago.  I was thrilled beyond words when I opened the plain paper package to find a copy of 'Jane Eyre', by Charlotte Bronte, dated 1933. On the cover it had a picture of a golden Pegasus flying amongst the stars and I loved it immediately.  'Jane Eyre' is one of my all time favourite books and I couldn't have been happier.  I was told it came from an old book shop in Dublin and it took pride of place on my college book shelf.

Some years later, while visiting Haworth in Yorkshire, the picturesque village where the Bronte family lived and wrote, I took a walk along the cobbled main street and went browsing at a secluded book shop while sheltering from the rain.  Just as I was about to leave, a golden Pegasus caught my eye and it reminded me of something.  It was on the binding of a copy of 'Wuthering Heights', by Emily Bronte.  I quickly exchanged money for this treasure and buried my find at the bottom of my bag to protect it from the rain.  It wasn't until a few days later, when I had returned to Ireland and I was placing the book upon my bookshelf

that I noticed the similarity... my old Dublin copy of 'Jane Eyre' and this new Yorkshire copy of 'Wuthering Heights' were a matching pair!  Both were published in 1933, by Daily Express Publications London, both with a flying golden Pegasus on the front.   It took some seventy years, but I like to think that these tomes were reunited at last, not unlike the heroes and heroines of the books themselves, on my bookshelf, never to be parted again.

The life of Charlotte Bronte - available now on Etsy

One Romantic Deserves Another ~Shelley's Complete Poetical Works ~

Continuing my look at the most prized books on my shelf , I come to my cherished copy of Percy Shelley's Complete Poetical Works, edited by Thomas Hutchinson.  It is a leather-bound hardback copy, published in 1925, by  Oxford University Press, inlaid and edged with gold.  It was a very special birthday present from a boyfriend many years ago and I thought it the most beautiful book I had ever beheld, or held for that matter, being, as it is, such a sensual book to hold it.  The cold leather, the faint musky smell and the beautiful green, red and gold of the inlaid floral design on the cover, makes this a very special book indeed, and very much in keeping with the deeply sensuous, highly evocative matter within.

Of course, it is a book of poetry, written by one of the greatest Romantic poets of all, so to explore the world of verse that it contains is to travel to far and distant lands at the hands of a master.  Interestingly, the book itself has done its own fair share of travelling, passing from owner to owner for almost one hundred years. The original owner was someone called Shelia, for the book has a sweet inscription on the inside cover, dated Christmas 1929: 'To my dear Maureen from her pal Sheila'.  It is so poignant that this book, so beautiful in appearance and decorated with ornate flowers should be passed from one woman to another as a testament to their friendship and should come to be in my keeping some eighty years later.

And while I do think of this book as mine, I never open it without thinking of Sheila and  Maureen, who must have loved and cherished this book just as much as I do. I think about the life the women must have had, living as they did between the Great Wars, at a time when the Irish Republic was still very new and Ireland itself had just gone through a brutal and divisive War of Independence.  For I am certain, owing to the nature of their names, and the phrasing of the inscription, that these were Irish women.  The book's presentation is of such high quality, as is the specialised nature of the subject matter, that I believe the women to have been of the middle classes, who discovered, over afternoon tea, that they shared a love of poetry.
One only wonders where the book was between 1925, when it was published and 1929, when it was given as a Christmas gift: forgotten on some dusty shelf, or wrapped in a box, awaiting a sale.  I have a feeling that the book first belonged to Sheila and was passed on to Maureen, who proclaimed to her friend how much she admired the poet.  Perhaps Sheila did not care for Shelley, or it was a love token from a lost love or husband she no longer cared for.  Or maybe it was Maureen and Sheila who were lovers, and 'pal' is some secret code for their amour which, at the time, could not be spoken of openly.  The romantic nature of the verse would seem to support this, or perhaps I have been reading too many Sherlock Holmes stories.

Either way, I cannot help but wonder what became of these women and their friendship and how this volume came to sit on a shelf in a Dublin second hand book shop at the end of the last century.  The happy and sad thing is, that I will never know, and this is what I like most of all: the mystery of the book remains.  Perhaps every book should come with a log book of owners, like cars do, so that we may know the story of the story-book and love it all the more for that.  Sometimes, it is not just the story within the book that is interesting, but also the story of the book itself.  And as for the old boyfriend who was good enough to send this book my way, well, 'Reader, I married him!'

P.s.  An ageing ribbon bookmarks a page still, as it did when it first came into my possession and I like to imagine that it was Maureen, or Sheila, who left this page marked for their friend's attention and now for mine.  In the spirit of sisterly friendship, I think it says something to all women about empowerment and the truth that hopefully comes to us all in the end, that power lies within us.

                              From Hymn of Apollo
                                 by Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792–1822

.... All men who do or even imagine ill
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray
Good minds and open actions take new might,
Until diminished by the reign of Night....

And the pure stars in their eternal bowers,
Are cinctured with my power as with a robe;
Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine,
Are portions of one power, which is mine.

A Book Sonnets from the 19th Century - Available on Etsy

The love letter - the dinosaur of the written word?

We can learn so much about social history by studying the letters of the past.  Historians the world over love to spend hours pouring over them for any clues about the individual habits and customs of their creators.  Yet a letter can reveal the contents of one's heart just as easily as the contents of one's diary.
One of my all time favourite books, is 'Love Letters - an Anthology of Passion', by Michelle Lovric. And what a treat this book is.  It's a lavishly produced epistolary hardback, complete with luxurious illustrations and covered in red and gold lettering.  Inside the reader is presented with printed love letters from scholars and writers down the ages, featuring the likes of Dylan Thomas, Robert Browning and John Keats.

But the really wonderful thing about this book is the way that the publishers have included the actual letters, written in the hand of the original writers, folding out on the page or tucked in tiny envelopes as they originally were.  How delicious to hold Keats's letter to Fanny Brawne in your hand, an exact replica.  Here is where reading becomes a truly sensual experience and, for some reason, the words are all the more poignant for that.  Each page also features small extracts from the letters of other notorieties, as diverse as Ringo Starr and Abraham Lincoln.
There is something so personal about a letter; they contain interesting facts and witty observations and intense bursts of sentiment.  Even if the author has long since departed this world, a letter can bring them before us one more time with a freshness and an immediacy that is startling in its intensity and not to be found anywhere else.
And now, with the advent of the internet, it seems that the letter is becoming the dinosaur of the written form and should be all the more cherished for that. Does anyone take the time to woo their loved ones in such a way any more?  A text, email, or dare I say a tweet, certainly cannot compare to a well crafted letter that reveals the full depth of feeling over several pages.  How many ways are there to say those three little words?  Could you exchange them for something altogether more poetic and sensual?  Surely they have been said already, and possibly by a professional word-smith who can do a much better job than you or I.

And herein lies the crux of the matter: it is the craft of writing love letters that has all but disappeared, and not the appeal of the letters themselves.  They take too long to write perhaps, and the whole rigmarole of selecting the right paper, pen and envelope, never mind the correct stamp, just turns people off.    But when so much pleasure can be produced, at really so little cost, surely it is time to excavate this old dinosaur and bring back the original social medium of the heart.
 

And if you needed any further proof as to the power of this now out-dated medium, let me finish by quoting just one touching letter, from this delightful collection, written by William Pitt, First Lord Chatham to his future wife, Lady Lady Hester Grenville, October 3rd, 1754:

'The tender warmth of your feeling, loving, heart has almost sweetly robbed me of the only superiority I gave myself; that of loving you more than you could love.  If you dispute this superiority, I can, I believe, forgive you.'

The Secret Allure of The Secret Garden

At this time of year I love to dip into some of my favourite illustrated children's books and put them on display on my book shelf.  Nothing lifts the spirit better than Inga Moore's illustrated version of 'The Secret Garden', by Frances Hodgson Burnett.  Just to see it resting there seems to blow the cobwebs of winter away and reminds me that soon the warmth of summer will be here.
This timeless classic celebrates the joy of watching the earth come to life in springtime.  As each tender green shoot gently pushes up out of the soil, the main character, the cold and distant Mary Lennox, comes to life and learns to love.  Orphaned in India by her British parents, Mary has been sent home to Misselthwaite Manor in the wilds of Yorkshire, to live with her mysterious uncle Mr Craven.  He too is still mourning the loss of his beautiful young wife and spends little time in the big, old house.  It is here that Mary discovers the secret, overgrown garden and a secret, under-grown, cousin, Colin Craven, whose weak, twisted body is the visual manifestation of his father's neglect.

The novel is full of wonderful characters, such as the trusty Dickon, and the relentless Mrs Medlock, who all, in their way, succeed in helping the children come to terms with the loss of their parents.  Indeed, there is much sadness in the book, with death hanging like a shadow in the background, but ultimately, there is hope and joy.  The garden, with its vibrant potential for endless possibility delights and charms the children.
 Here they create their private universe, where grown-ups never venture and they can rule the world.  The garden, with its seasonal, never changing patterns adds structure to the lives of these children who have been so spoilt in the past by neglectful parents and compliant servants.  

The garden too allows them to remember who they are in the scheme of things: that they are young, and should be allowed to behave as such; to run, laugh and play without guilt or fear of being chided.  It is from the garden that the children gain the strength to cast off the chains of sickness and death, to move forward and embrace life.
Spring is ringing out from every branch on every page of this book.  And this beautiful, hardback, illustrated edition brings the soft, red, glow of the tiny robin, and the dizzying yellow haze of blooming daffodils, to life before our eyes in the way that only a children's' book can.  So, forget chocolate this Easter: order Inga Moore's illustrated version of 'The Secret Garden' today.  Your inner child will thank you.

'The Hunger Games Trilogy' is genius. Real or not real?

The Hunger Games series, belies the simplicity of the clear, present-tense prose and the immediacy of the first-person narrative that makes the books so addictive.  Yes they are hugely popular and yes, you WILL NOT be able to stop reading them until you have turned the last page, but there is so much going on in these texts than first meets the eye. 
To start with, there is the food motif running through the text.  As such it reminds me somewhat of Dickens, with regular, detailed accounts of meals being prepared, cooked and enjoyed.  Of course, in a world where people are prepared to risk their lives to hunt for their next meal, it is only right that food should be so central to the plot.  However, on a symbolic level, it is no co-incidence that Peeta, one of the central characters, is a baker, and in particularly, a bread-maker.  If bread is the source of life, then that is what Peeta's function in the story is:  he is the one who protects life and ensures that life can continue in District 12 where the main characters, Katniss, Gale, Haymitch and others all live.  


The story is set in some future time on earth, in the country of Panem, which is divided into 12 districts.  The Capitol controls the districts and as a punishment for an earlier rebellion, the districts must send two children to trials by combat, where they fight each other, gladiator style, to the death.  The final surviving contestant is crowned the winner and so brings back much needed supplies and food to their district.
It is pretty barbaric stuff and deterred me from reading the books for some time. However, what people failed to tell me was that this is more a love story than anything else.  It involves a love triangle that is so thoroughly engaging that it makes for compulsive reading.  Will Katniss fall for the boy who bakes the bread or the boy who hunts in the woods? One is completely open and honest, the other silent and brooding.  We feel for Katniss, because, like her, we the reader can hardly choose between the two ourselves.
But Katniss's troubles go way beyond who to love:  she is trying to stay alive,  protect her family and ultimately save society.  As such, this text is about much more than teenagers in love.


In fact, Collins is actually considering huge ideas in this book, such as how society can ever trust those in positions of power.  This subversive idea runs through all three texts, but is especially important in the third book, 'The Mockingjay'.  From the start, Katniss has trust issues.  She clearly lives up to her name and is quite cat-like in a number of ways: the green-eyed girl, the solitary hunter who, who is slow to warm to people, is distrustful and likes to travels light.
On one level, the series is looking at what holds societies together.  It seems that a down-trodden people can be united by a story, the story of a boy who secretly loved a girl and promised himself to save and protect her and even to give his life in the process.  But could a story of self-sacrifice and love change the world and bring about a revolution?  It seems that history supports this theory.  One need only look to the bible stories and the life of Jesus to find parallels.  And so the irony is that Collins's post-Christian tale could be read as an essentially a Christian text?  It is just a thought... Or perhaps Collins is just echoing the much-quoted 1960s mantra, that ultimately, 'All you need is Love'.
The author is also toying with the modern fears about the environment and self-insufficiency that are such key-phrases in today's society.  This is taken too far in District 13, where food is rationed on the basis of the amount of calories one expends on any given day, and shoes are inherited from others, regardless of comfort or fit. 

There are elements of the story that are fanciful and quite fantastic.  We are presented with a semi-Cinderella figure, who hails from the mining district, the 'Seam', where people have coal dust deeply embed into the very crevices and wrinkles of their skin.  She is taken from the world of cinders and is transformed into the 'girl on fire', beautified and made-over.  Yet, there is much of the world of Panem that is not so very different from our reality.  A world of inequalities, divided into the haves and have-nots, those who consume more than they produce, countries on the edge of extinction because of starvation... all this rings true for planet Earth now as much as it does in Collins's fictional future version. 
She considers the frivolity of modern living, represented so brilliantly here by the citizens of the Capitol.  Their world is so superficial and cosmetic, that it's citizens no longer resemble real humans: some growing whiskers and green-tinged skin for visual effect.  And, finally, we come to what 'The Huger Games Trilogy' is all about: being human.  Collins considers the ultimate sin against humanity, the denial of one's basic right to protect one's young.  Katniss only finds herself as a tribute in the Games because she is trying to protect her young sister Prim.  Peeta however, once he has been selected in the reaping, decides to play a different game - his own game. In an act of rebellion, he opts not to fight for survival, but to fight for Katniss, to protect her, to be, ultimately, more than a slave, fighting to save his own life, but to be human.  This is Peeta's gift to Katniss. He teaches her what it is to love, to be human. 

Katniss is a product of her world and does not know how to demonstration real affection because she has forgotten to trust her human emotions. She is a victim of the times and it takes a long time for her to reprogramme herself, to learn how to deal with a full array of emotions and to re-humanise herself. 
This must surely be the case in all war zones and Collins is making a clear anti-war statement in this text or is she?  She seems to be saying that it is a natural, basic human right to want to protect your family, your loved ones, nay even your home-place and country when it is under attack.  Yet, she is clearly saying that such actions come at a price and that price is the loss of innocence.  Yet, when it comes to it, Katniss finally realises, submission to the enemy is illogical: the damage is already done, pain is already being inflicted and fear that someone might get hurt is not a reason not to fight.  There are, inevitably, some things that are worth fighting for.  

The three texts in this series are, 'The Hunger Games', 'Catching Fire' and 'Mockingjay'.  They are sold as separate books, but they flow straight into one another and should really be published in one, larger, volume.  Beware! You must purchase them all together to avoid delay/pain/withdrawal.  So, is the Hunger Games Series worth reading?  Well, as Katniss says at the end of 'Mockingjay', 'There are much worse games to play', and you could do much worse than to give some time to these thought-provoking and  entertaining books.  'The Hunger Games Series is genius'. Real or not real?  Real. 

Rest Easy Mr Yeats - The Faeries are Here to Stay

I'll always be grateful to W.B. Yeats for his beautiful faery poems, but there are some who feel they simply resulted in the whole leprechaun-isation of Irish identity and culture.  But I, for one, stand up for small people and take delight in the stories and poems that entice us to dream and imagine another world living alongside our own.

If British culture can celebrate a Tolkien, pint-sized, Hobbit and turn him into a global phenomenon, then why can't we?  It seems that people like' little folk', be they Borrowers, Lilliputians or just regular, garden variety, garden gnomes.
So, while Yeats, Lady Gregory, and the other members of the Irish Literary Revival,  were trying desperately to establish a separate, unique, Irish cultural identity, vastly different and unique from that of the 'British oppressors',' it seems, in the end, that faeries and elves don't just belong to the Irish, but indeed, are beloved the entire world over.

But who are we kidding, Yeats had stylistically  more in common with  Hardy and Wordsworth and the other Major English poets, than ever he had with the old traditional Irish bards who wrote in their native tongue.  Yet, the new, fledgling Irish nation took him to their hearts, faeries and all, and made him an Irish icon.  As any student of poetry can tell you, there is more to Yeats than faeries and none who could so skilfully string a line of poetry together and make the words dance and sing.  Their love of word-smith Willie Yeats goes far deeper than that.
And so, while we await in anticipation for the completion of Peter Jackson's adaptation of Tolkien's classic, 'The Hobbit', we cannot but smile and think with confidence that the 'little people' are here to stay and W.B. Yeats can rest easy in his Sligo bed.

Least We Forget Shakespeare...

It's February 14th and the world has gone mad on cheesy cards, boxed-chocolates and roses, dozens and dozens of red roses.  And while I am quite partial myself to the odd chocolate or two, I have to admit, that nothing says romance to me more than a hardback book of poetry.
For the last number of years, I have forgone the usual St. Valentine's Day gifts in favour of a beautifully presented book of verse and I now possess a whole shelf-full of delights that I dip into throughout the year, when even the last coffee flavoured chocolates have long since been devoured and the reddest of roses have sadly quite faded away.
This year I'll be giving the elegant 'Penguin Clothbound Collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets' to the special person in my life, for there are few poets who have expressed so truthfully and beautifully the act of loving and of being loved, as William Shakespeare has.  There are some moments in life when only the lines of a poem can echo the sentiment in your heart; when only the soul of a poet can express the words that you dare or dare not say.  I, for one, am happy to let Mr Shakespeare help me out on that score.
And so, least Shakeaspeare be forgotten, here is a little reminder as to why the words of the bard are oh so much more preferable as a Valentine's gift, than a box of Cadbury's best.  Happy St Valentine's Day!

Love Sonnet 147
by William Shakespeare.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, 

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. 

The Shuttle ~ by Frances Hodgson Burnett

 If there was ever a period drama adaptation waiting to happen, it is this book by 'Secret Garden' author, Frances Hodgson Burnett.  It has everything you would want in a period drama: the fiery female heroine, the brooding hero, the despicable villain and the benevolent father.  Indeed, this novel is a mixture of all the best parts of my favourite novels: the undying sisterly love of 'Pride and Prejudice', the palpable, simmering violence of 'Wuthering Heights', and the impossible love of 'Jane Eyre'.  
     So, why had I never heard of this book before?  Published in 1907, this text has been forgotten, just like the garden in the author's more well-known tome.   Indeed there are moments in this novel when it feels as if we have returned to the secret garden, as adults, and are allowed to step amongst the ruins of a wonderfully, dilapidated landscape that is crying out for a make over.  
     Into this air-less, lost landscape, comes the beautiful Bettina Vanderpoel, a wealthy American heiress, who is searching for her older sister Roaslie, who a dozen years before married Sir Nigel Anstruthers.  He is a tyrannous English aristocrat who only wed Rosalie for the great wealth that she would bring to his English estate. Of course he was a cad and ruthlessly crushed and brutalised her spirit, leaving her a mere shadow of her former self.  He spent her money and left her to rot in his decaying mansion, with only their young, ailing, son for company.  
     Bettina is like a magical princess whose beauty awakens the tired and sleeping land and with her energy brings it and it's lethargic inhabitants back to life. She rescues her sister and begins to salvage what is left of her crumbling home.  The results are breath-taking. She uses her endless supply of money to employ the local tradesmen and modernise and rejuvenate wherever she goes. Not only do we find a garden that needs a make-over, but there is an entire English village and its inmates that have been completely neglected, along with its local artistocracy,Lord  Mount Dunstan and Lady Anstruthers, who are veritible Miss Havishams, creeking and web-draped in their various forgotten mansions, decaying and stagnant in a gothic nightmare-reality. 
      Miss Vanderpoel  is a wonderfully strong female character, clever and entertaining and full of sense.  Considering that the novel was written when women had not yet won the right to vote, she seems to be way ahead of her time.  This comment is a case in point:  'Eve has always struck me as being the kind of woman who, if she lived today, would run up stupid bills at her dressmakers and be afraid to tell her husband'.  The novel is full of such witty observations and as such reminds me a little of Austen at times..  
     But while Bettina seems to have everything that money can buy, she cannot have the one thing she wants - the love of Mount Dunstan, the owner of the adjoining estate.  Like Elizabeth Bennent, she begins to fall in love with this dark-red-haired, brooding man,  as soon as she sees his enormous house and grounds:  'It was beautiful. As she walked on she saw it rolled into the woods and deeps filled with bracken;... she caught the gleam of a lake with swans sailing slowly upon it with curved necks; there were wonderful lights and wonderful shadows, and brooding stillness, which made her footfall upon the road a too material thing...'.  
     She longs to bring the sleeping medieval manor-house back to life, but Dunstan is a proud man and does not believe in marrying for money.  If he is to save his land, he is to do it by himself.  Yet, he is not immune to the allure of Miss Bettina Vanderpoel.  We are told,  'On his part, he... found himself newly moved by the dower nature had bestowed on her.  Had the world ever held before a woman creature so much longed for?'  So, a conundrum.  
     Running alongside this deliciously understated love affair, is the battle of wills between Bettina and her evil brother-in-law, Sir Nigel Anstruthers.  The two are evenly matched but on the opposite spectrum of good and evil.  And he is evil,a fiend of the worst order.  The unfolding power-play makes for excellent drama and produces a novel that you will not be able to put down.  The last 50 pages flashed by at break-neck pace; leading to a thrilling ending that did not disappoint.  
      As someone who spent many years to-ing and fro-ing between America and England, Hodgson Burnett excellently captures the differences between the two nations, focusing on the good and bad of each.  Ultimately, she seems to be suggesting that, where there is love, there is everything to be gained by the alliance of the wealth from the new world, and the beauty and culture of the old one.  There is no denying how fresh, new money, and new blood, can only benefit the English aristocracy and their beleaguered estates, but inevitably, there is more than just money involved:  the energy of the New World is what is also lacking in old England, and ultimately the idea of 'working for a living' is a necessity for everyone regardless of class. 
     The characters in this book would not have been out of place in a Hardy novel and many of my favourite scenes took place within the tiny parlours of the village houses, where little kindnesses engendered so much warmth and humanity.  Mr Doby with his adoring dewy eyes and his clay pipe, being my very favourite. 
      I ask again, why has this book, all 500 hundred pages of it, been so forgotten by the masses?  Is it simply because of the poor title?  Where is its sumptuous BBC dramatisation?  I call on scriptwriter, Andrew Davies and television producer Sue Birtwistle to get their skates on... you might just get this in the can in time for next Christmas, if you start on it right away.  I look forward to seeing it.  In the meantime - make sure you get a copy (it's free on Kindle due to lapsed copywright) and start reading right away. 
       If you have ever read any of Kate Morton's books and enjoyed them, well this reads like the original archetype. I think she must be a huge fan of Hodgson Burnett, so similar are the writing styles.  It is 'The Secret Garden', for  grown-ups, with a hint of gothic-thriller thrown in. I see Liv Tyler as Bettina and Benedict Cumberbatch as Mount Dunstan...?  It is going to happen any day now.  One doesn't mind waiting when such delights lie in store. 
 clear

Charles Dickens at 200

Hardly can I let the day go by without some reference to the great novelist Charles Dickens, whose 200^th birthday it would have been today.   I first read Dickens as a college student, and instantly fell in love with the numerous colourful characters that litter his books.  I was dazzled by his gift for language, dialogue in particular, and his ability to spin a good yarn with multiple twists and turns that could lead you miles from where the story first began.  Who could not fall in love with the tender young Pip, who was such a gentleman to begin with, although he didn’t know it, or the pillar box that was Wemmick, with his portable property, flag-pole and aged parent.  I was bowled over by the warmth of human kindness that flows throughout his stories;  the selfless deeds of ‘A tale of Two Cities; the brooding darkness and grime of ‘Our Mutual Friend’; and the warning against unsuitable marriage that was ‘David Copperfield’. 

But it was the sweet humour of ‘The Pickwick Papers’ that kept coming to my mind today when I thought of Dickens. Often his vast array of colourful characters are what he is most remembered for, the Scrooges, Steerforths and Little Nells of Dickensia, but let us not forget the slapstick, the witty retorts and the situation comedy that makes Dickens live on in his books, and leaves a lingering smile on our faces when we think on him.  

Happy Birthday Mr Dickens.

'A Study in Scarlet' ~ by Arthur Conan Doyle Versus 'A Study in Pink', ~by Steven Moffat

I can't really explain why it has taken me so long to read Arthur Conan Doyle, but I must admit to have been much inspired by my recent obsession with the BBC series, 'Sherlock'.  And where better to start than with the very first Holmes mystery; 'A Study in Scarlet'.
This little book is narrated by Dr John Watson, who, recently having returned from the Afghanistan war, with 'neither kith nor kin in England', happens to come into contact with Sherlock Holmes who, likewise, is alone and seeking a house-mate to share the expense of living in London in the 1880s.
I was expecting violin-playing, carriage-rides and plenty of fog, but I must say that the deserts of Utah came right out of the blue.  I had no idea that a Holmes novel ever ventured across the Atlantic, but it does so twice in this novel alone. One minute I was lounging around the rooms of 221B Baker street, sipping tea with Mrs Hudson, and the next I was in the American midwest, dying with thirst and planning to meet my maker, or Clint Eastwood at least.
Conan Doyle could have had a very successful career writing Victorian Westerns, but instead he conjured up the daring duo of Holmes and Watson, whose clever deductions and uncanny observations out-wit the wicked and out-manoeuvre the malevolent. And aren't we glad that he did, with some 56 books in the series in total for us to enjoy, not to mention the countless spin-offs and sequels, featuring the consulting detective in the deerstalker hat with a passion for puzzles.

I cannot finish without referring somewhat to the exceptionally good BBC series 'Sherlock'.  (Stop reading now if you have not yet seen the episode in question.)  Series creators Moffat and Gatiss, have adapted this text, calling it instead, 'A Study in Pink', which relates more to the case in question and just sounds more modern than 'scarlet'.  Indeed, everything about the new Sherlock is modern: the architecture, the décor and even the gadgets. Gone is Holmes's large spying glass, and in its stead is a tiny pocket one, (available from Amazon for £19) and everything from mobile phones, flat screen portable TVs and computer lap-tops all feature prominently in the cases.

Watson no longer painstakingly transcribes his journal using nib and ink, but recounts the details of their various adventures on his blog.  The lovely folks at the BBC have actually created John's blog and avid fans can read all about the additional cases on-line.  Here's the link:  http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/
In terms of the basic plot line, there are clear similarities between the original and the new adaptation.  The victims are dispatched in a similar manner, the murderers have the same occupation and affliction, and the stories both begin with the introduction of Holmes to Watson through a mutual acquaintance, Stamford.  However, the original text differs in that it explains in full detail the motivation behind the killings.  Indeed, in Conan Doyle's text, the word 'rache' scrawled in blood on the wall, does in fact, mean revenge in German, unlike the new adaptation, which opts to lengthen the word to 'rache..l'.

But, regardless of the modern glitz and soft-focus dazzle of this production, the heart of the story remains the same: a couple of lonely obsessives find friendship and mutual relevance while solving puzzles and combating crime.  Indeed, the archaic monikers of 'Holmes' and 'Watson' have been replaced by the altogether more socially acceptable 'Sherlock' and 'John', finally allowing the fans to be on first name terms with the Baker Street boys, played so brilliantly in this BBC series by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.
I highly recommend both the novel and the series.  Both lead naturally to the other, for according to Moffat, everything goes back to the Conan Doyle novels and already I see various references and nods to the original texts when I watch the dramatisations; the case of the speckled blond, a pun on the text, 'the speckled band', to name but one,which makes the viewing all the more pleasurable.
So, if, like me, you are still puzzling over the mystery left us at the end of series two, the answer should, if Messers Moffat and Gatiss are to be believed, be found in the original novels.  For consider how both Moriarty and Holmes jumped from the waterfall in the original 'Reichenbach Falls', but only Holmes survived... surely that tells us something about the identity of the broken body found on the ground outside Bart's Hospital?
And the various hospital workers who descend on the bleeding Sherlock, don't they all look a little bohemian to you, long haired with flared suits?  Perhaps members of Holmes's homeless network, who have thankfully replaced the non-p.c. 'Arab boys' street children of the novels, have once again come to his aid?  Of course it is Molly who is the ultimate friend here, with Sherlock so uncharacteristically asking her for help, and luckily she is at hand in the morgue, to supply Holmes with dead body-doubles and to fake official reports.
One cannot ignore the importance of John's position in the scene, given that Sherlock insists not once but twice that he stay where he is and not move.  'Do it for me', he begs.  That is one thing that Sherlock never does and perhaps this is the very thing that Moffat was referring to when he said that the solution to the mystery lies in Holmes's doing something that he never usually does.  As Sherlock tells us in 'A Study in Pink', 'I've never begged ... in my life!'.
But let us not forget the role played in this scenario by Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes's smarter brother, who has been so badly used my Moriarty as a source and must suffer considerable guilt at the role he has played in his brother's demise.  One cannot imagine that he would stand idly by and let Sherlock take the fall all by himself. (No pun intended!).  I would not be surprised if he were somehow behind his brother's disappearance, being so total and complete as it is, thus allowing the dust to settle but only until his brother makes a valiant return, clearing his name when the time is right.  With the help of a well placed laundry truck, a beautifully timed road accident and the angular geography of London, the mighty Sherlock seems to defy death and logic all at the same time.  Well, that's my theory anyhow.

So...only 55 more stories to go... I might just have them finished by the time the next Sherlock series is due for release in about 2014..a somewhat elementary deduction.

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Authenticity ~ by Deirdre Madden

The joys of reading Deirdre Madden's novel 'Authenticity' were few and far between.  The sorry fact is that I did not enjoy reading this book half as much as I had hoped.  Set in Dublin in the recent past, the main characters, Julia, William and Roderick, are all artists of varying degree and talent.  They struggle with their creativity and egos as they try to find a balance between their inner, creative life and the social demands and obligations associated with family life,parenthood and financial survival.
Perhaps it is because Madden is trying to recreate the boredom of everyday life for an 'authentic' artist that she writes page after page of tedious details relating to the comings and goings of these characters.  There is an improbable love triangle of sorts at the heart of this text, but even that does not come to much and we care little if the various couplings ever get together or not.
By far the most interesting character for me was Dennis, the sober solicitor, who had the true soul of a painter and could see the world with an artist's eye for detail.  His were the most interesting sections, the most curious observations.  Indeed the best parts of the book, the long sections of descriptive language, when a stunning view or artwork is captured on the page, belonged to Dennis.
There was an interesting memory motif running through the novel, with objects and smells etc. triggering old, forgotten moments.  My favourite one of these was the apple, which reminded Julia of her mother.  The symbolism of the apple, with its traditional associations with Eden and The Fall etc. although a clever addition to the text, was not enough to save it and so 'Authenticity' remains one book I will not be on my great reads of 2012 list.  

An Austen Notebook to Begin the New Year!

A person in possession of splendid ideas must be in want of a place to write!

Death Comes to Pemberley ~ P.D. James

It is a truth, universally acknowledged that 'Pride and Prejudice' sequels are usually best avoided at all cost, but not so with P.D. James's 'Death Comes To Pemberley'. It is a rare thing to finish a novel with such a sense of contentment as I feel on finishing this delicious book.  Using the obligatory chocolate analogy, one would have to say that this book has all the feel of Galaxy chocolate, but with a slightly different flavour to it.  Mint or perhaps cinnamon? 
The true wonder of this book is how well ninety-two year old novelist P.D. James captures the nuances and sensibility of Jane Austen's writing-style. Her diction is almost an exact match, with her pages of dialogue being the most impressive.  There is not a syllable said by either Darcy or Elizabeth, now somewhat jarringly referred to as Mrs Darcy, that Austen herself could not have written.  It is clear that James researched her subject meticulously, indeed she is herself a self-confessed Janeite and an Austen aficionado of the highest order.
For me, P.D. James is to Jane Austen documentaries what Dame Judi Dench is to period drama: you really can't have one without the other.  So to learn that James had decided to write the one definitive 'Pride and Prejudice' sequel seemed too good to be true. The result was an overwhelming success and from here on in, a line can be drawn under the whole Jane Austen prequel/sequel phenomenon.  Quills down ladies - we have a winner!
Let us consider the plot of James's novel.  Without giving anything away, there is a murder at Pemberley some six years after Darcy and Elizabeth have set up home together.  There is an inquest and a trial and that is it.  In some ways the book begins and ends in the same way as 'Pride and Prejudice', with the arrival of a gallant stranger into the neighbourhood, with questions of the suitability of a possible suitor, and an ending very much in keeping with the Austen conventions that we are familiar with.
Yes,the plot is indeed that simple, but as with Austen, the real delight for the reader is the interplay of characters and the sparkling dialogue.  In this especially, James has kept true to the original style of the 'mother' novel.  It is simply delightful to hear Elizabeth and Darcy re-visit moments from their past and take up where they left off from 'Pride and Prejudice',as if the intervening two hundred years, were as unimportant to the reader as an ad-break to modern television audiences.  Similarly, characters like Jane and Mr Bennet wander into the story, using the phrases and idioms that we have long associated with these characters, and one cannot help but smile to hear them chime together in a worthy novel once more.  
And the resurrection of such familiar characters is not limited to the pages of 'Pride and Prejudice'.  No indeed! We hear mention of Emma and Mr Knightley, Harriet and Robert Martin, from 'Emma' and Sir Walter, Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth from the posthumous novel 'Persuasion', which serves only to enhance the pleasure for the more avid Austen fans.  Indeed, aspects of the story reflect other novels too, such as 'Sense and Sensibility' and even 'Mansfield Park', but to mention them here might impinge on the enjoyment of others.  
One aspect of the novel which is entirely James's own, is her knowledge of the legal system during the Regency period,and an in-depth knowledge of the the physicality of murder and the damage that a blunt weapon can inflict on the human body.  But fear not, this is not such a gruesome tale as all that, and the 'death' of the title, it seems to me, reflects more about the death of Darcy's pride than of anything else.  He is forced to face the flaw that almost cost him his happiness with Elizabeth in the original text and to put old grievances finally to rest. 
Similarly, the atmosphere of the novel is also true to Austen's style.  It glides along at a slow, elegant pace, with the quiet ease of satin-soled slippers on a marble floor.  And it is this aspect of the novel that separates this sequel from all others.  Being a novelist of such a high standing herself, P. D. James has, perhaps, not the pressures that less well-known, younger writers might have, believing that their novels must be rip-roaring page-turners if the reader is to remain engaged.  Here James shows her master card; being of a generation that was born between the World Wars, where life did move at a slower pace than today, James can easily slip into the more authentic Austen style of writing, where life moves to a more leisurely rhythm, which is something to be relished and enjoyed in such a novel.
The resulting effect of all this mimicry and mirroring, is to create a sense that the shadow of Jane Austen lurks amid the pages of this fine book.  It is as if the long dead Jane is standing just behind the shoulder of the author, guiding her hand and smiling.  There is nothing here to offend the staunch J. A. fan, so feel free to dispense with the guilt that Austen fans often feel as their hands reach out for the latest 'Pride and Prejudice' sequel.  I often worry that I should not be wasting my time with some second rate sequel when I could be re-reading an Austen original.  Yet here, we can have all of the enjoyment and none of the regret:  we can return to Darcy and Elizabeth, while savouring the joys of a highly crafted novel by one of the great living writers in the English language.  It's chocolate, but without the guilt?  Now there's a novel thought.  

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand ~ Helen Simonson

It is perhaps fitting that I settle down to write this review with a cup of hot tea at my side, as tea-drinking, and all that we associate with that pleasure, (conversations started, friendships made, secrets shared etc.) is what I like about this book.  Indeed, reconsidering the cover of this novel, the artwork is perfectly apt.  A pair of tea cups feature greatly in the story, triggering old  memories and inspiring new. There is so much symmetry and possibility with a pair of tea cups: one just seems so forlorn in comparison.
   
And this is just how we see Major Pettigrew for the first time; solitary, overlooked and quite derelict in his dusty cottage.
Set in the sleepy English village of Edgecombe St Mary, the very name has inescapable echoes of the famed village of St Mary Meade, the setting of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple,and here too the world is never changing and steeped in the traditions and social hierarchy of middle England.

Still, this is a refreshing love story where the characters are of the more mature variety, on their second chance of happiness and who clearly know what they want from life: appreciating how good life can be when there is love and how lonely life can be without it.  They are no procrastinators. That is left to the younger generation, who give up on love for the sake of monetary gain, social standing and mere convenience. One flaw, I would say, is that the main characters seem much older than they really are, considering that the major is of the same generation as John Lennon and Mick Jagger.  It seems odd that he should be so affronted by the decadence of modern living.
That said, this novel reads like a ready-made script, just crying out for cinematic adaptation.  Indeed one can even predict it's Sunday night slot on BBC One.  I'm sure there would be a role for Maggie Smith in there somewhere, with, perhaps, John Cleese playing the love sick Major? The characters and events of this story would not be out of place in any BBC period drama: featuring impossible love; the avarice of younger generations; overbearing relations; stolen inheritance; runaway bridegrooms and dangerous old women with threatening knitting needles! In fact it seems quite incongruous when someone pulls out a mobile phone to check their messages,propelling us back to the twenty-first century with a stinging slap.

Author Helen Simonson presents us with a selection box of characters that we would expect in any text set in an English village from 'Last of the Summer Wine' and 'The Vicar of Dibley', to 'Middlemarch' and 'Emma'.  If you delight in such a story, 'Major Pettigrew's Last Stand' will not disappoint.  It's brimming with delicious descriptions of the English countryside, cottage gardens and coastal views.  And if there is one season that's best suited to the charm of this novel I would suggest that it is the Christmas holiday period.  One particular section wonderfully evokes Christmas in England complete with old lamps burning in cottage windows.   So I suggest this book be read deep inside a cushioned sofa, amid mountains of mince pies and between glorious sips of delicious, hot tea, for 'Major Pettigrew's Last Stand' is a fine book to escape into, as comforting as your favourite Sunday afternoon Miss Marple re-run, and just as familiar.  My one warning is that this is not a book to be rushed:time should be taken to really appreciate and enjoy this fine, flavoursome brew.

P.S. If you liked this novel, then I highly recommend Natasha Solomons' 'Mr Rosenblum Dreams in English' - reviewed here: http://www.mybookaffair.net/2012/08/mr-rosenblum-dreams-in-english-by.html

Galore ~ by Michael Crummey

If it were possible for a book to have a taste, then 'Galore', by Michael Crummey, would taste of salt water.  Every page is dripping with it: steeped as it is in the noise,and vitality of the sea. And what could be more fitting in a story about an isolated community on the island of Newfoundland some two hundread years or more ago.  It is difficult to tell when exatly the story is set, as the action occurs out of time and place, as we know it.  There is a blurring of reality and fantasy: a place where ghosts dwell amongst the living, where fishermen fall for mermaids, and where full-grown men are re-born from the guts of a whale.  As such, Crummey has based his book on a wonderful series of "what if's".  What if such a thing were possible?  What if Jona was actually swollowed by a whale, as the bible tells us.  And what would the reaction be if, one day, Jona were thrown up on a beech, in a place and time where superstitions were powerful motivators in society.  For the story of Jona - known here as Judah- is at the heart of this novel and immediately we are enthralled with the desire to finally learn of the fate of the character who for so long lived in our childhood imagination.  Like some sort of Boo Radley from the distant past, we yearn to know Judah's story and to learn what secrets lie behind those pale blue eyes. Indeed, the very first line of the book tells us the fate of Judah.  'He ended his time on the shore...'  To speak of endings at the very beginning of this tale is not enough for the reader and spurs us on to learn more.  Indeed, as time goes on, it becomes less and less acceptable that the narrator was telling us the truth in that first line.  In the world of Newfoundland superstition, even the rules of narrative fiction cannot be taken as gospel.  
Yet, there are other biblical echoes throughout this novel.  We see Mary Tryphena and Absolom Sellers sitting in Kerrivan's tree together  They are cousins, forbidden to fall in love. He takes an apple and passes it to Mary to take a bite and their fates are sealed. Similarities with the story of Adam and Eve are unmistakeable here.  Indeed, we find our very own Cain and Abel chracters, in the sons of Absolom Sellers, and something of Noah's tale in the slow building of the huge boat, that will ultimatley save the community from certain extinction. 
But it would be a mistake to limit the achievement of this novel to that of a modern re-telling of Old Testament stories.  This novel is so much more than that.  It's characters are revealled to us like a soul of a sinner is exposed in the confessional.  We learn about them from the inside out: given only the slightest hint about external appearances, but shown detailed accounts of the innermost desires and passions.  Like Joyce and Woolf, Crummey takes a light and shows us the inner-workings of his characters's minds.  We feel we know each character intimately, by the colours found within; the hue of their souls.  It is owing to such characterisation that we feel so bereft at the passing of each generation.  It is heart-wrenching to say goodbye to the knowlegde and wisdom of each character; their stories, their pain, their secrets.  Indeed, this feeling is best expressed by Devine's Widow, a natural-born witch if ever there was one, who says, 'She felt like she was being erased from the world, one generation at a time, like sediment sieved out of water through a cloth.'  It is no surprise to learn that Crummey is a fine poet  as well as an author of fine books. Yet the story belies such thoughts and actually reveals the cyclical pattern of lives and how one generation merges into another, with family traits being passed down through the family line.  There are patterns to be found and comparisons to be drawn.
The tell-tale sign of the poet is also apparent in the purity of the text.  Crummey writes of a world laid bare, without embellishment, with scant respect for the rules of language, reflected in the lack of punctuation in his writing.  Apostrophies highlighting dialogue are seen as unnecessary trimmings that are at odds with this tale of bare essentials, of life lived among the elements.  As such, Crummey's prose style is akin to the beauty of drift wood: rugged, stark and at times crude, but so steeped in narrative history, that it cannot help but be valued and higly prized.  This is a must read novel, for anyone who ever imagined 'what if', or  who simply ever imagined.  With 'Galore' you will be left with the taste of the salt -water in your mouth and gritty sand between your teeth, a pleasure truly not to be missed.

The Help ~ by Kathryn Stockett

From the very first page, I knew I loved this book.  Little Mae Mobley, the child her mother didn't love, wandered up, wrapped her tiny fingers around my heart and wasn't letting go.  It is fitting that this book begins and ends with this little girl, knowing, as we do, that this novel was written by a white woman, Kathryn Stockett, who was, herself, raised and loved by a black house maid, called Demetrie.

It seems to me that Kathryn Stockett and Mae Mobley have much in common, and I like to think that they are one in the same, because that would mean that the good work begun by Aibileen, one of the narrators and heroines of the book, was not for nothing.  Here was one little white girl who was going to learn that' coloured people and white people were just the same'.  For this is a book full of heroines; wonderful, brave, strong women, whom I will never forget.   But this book is as close as I will ever get to meeting them in person, although reading, and living, their stories comes in as a good second best.

There are three narrators in this novel:  Aiblieen, Minny and Skeeter.  The former two are black house maids, the latter is a white writer, who convinces them to tell their stories in a book; a very dangerous undertaking in Jackson, Mississippi in 1962.  Stockett uses the personalised vernacular of each character in turn, each with a slightly different accent and idiosyncratic phraseology, to create a realism that is startlingly effective and compelling.  I have to admit that Aibileen is my favourite character. That woman just oozed   goodness with a capital G.  It is for her sake that I found myself praying while reading the book, hoping that she would survive the tale, that she would escape the malicious revenge of  Hilly Holbrook; the nasty, racist, society queen/bully.

And the prayers don't stop there.  The tension is palpable on every page: we can never know what danger lurks around the corner for these women; what the racist population is capable of.  Balanced between the intimate relationships that exists between servant and family, are the twisted, un-written laws of behaviour that dictate how blacks and whites should co-exist.  The hypocrisy and double standards are obvious to our 21st Century eyes.  However, Stockett cleverly and artfully, uses music, fashion, current affairs, and a lot of hairspray, to take us back to that 1960s mindset, until, we too, see the insurmountable mountain that is social integration, rise up before our very eyes, casting its long, impossible shadow.  Every crunching footstep on the drive sends a shiver down our spines; every unexpected knock on the door leaves us in a cold sweat: their fear is our fear and Stockett could not have come up with a better way to enlighten us about the reality of life for thousands of black Americans living in the southern states at that time.

I love that this is a book about the power of the written word and reading.  With books come words, and with words come voices.  By writing their stories down, the characters are given power, given a voice; just as 'The Help' itself gives voice to the untold stories of so many black women who gave their lives to raising and loving generations of white children.  Indeed, this story need not be confined to the southern states of America and black house maids: it could be easily be transferred to India, England, Singapore or anywhere where an inequitable system exists of maids and masters.

Twice, Harper Lee's classic, anti-segregation novel, 'To Kill a Mockingbird', is mentioned in this text, and I believe that there is a little of it's main character, Scout Finch, in the person of Skeeter Phelan; the tom-boy who loved reading more than playing with her dolls, and who, despite the racism that surrounded her, could at last declare that 'folks is just folks'.  'The Help', echoes Harper Lee's book but tells the story from their maid, point of view and it makes for fascinating reading.  It is about human relationships, false impressions and the boundaries that we all place between ourselves and others.  I think these two books make wonderful, complimentary, reading.

Finally, the title, 'The Help' is loaded with extra meaning:  we see three women help each other, support one-another, to make meaningful, positive changes in their lives.  Each gives a gift of some sort to the other, each becomes a better person because of their friendship.  They help each other in ways that they cannot imagine or quantify - and isn't that what we all long for in a relationship?   Yet, this book does not just teach us about friendship: it says so much about parenting and motherhood too.  I will never forget the image of Aibileen taking her little charge by the hand and pressing her thumbs down in Mae Mobley's palms telling her, 'You are beautiful.  You are smart.  You are important'.  If that isn't the job of every parent, I don't know what is.  This is a hugely important book: I urge you to read it, and afterward to see if you can ever look on a uniform, a colour or a little child, in the same way again.
  Blooming Brilliant!

Water for Elephants ~ by Sara Gruen

'Water for Elephants', by Sara Gruen was just what I needed on a busy weekend in September.  Once started, I couldn't leave it down for long; it demanded that I give it the attention it deserved.  On a macro level this is a story about a young couple in love;  a small clown; a drunken angel; an elephant; a monkey and a circus.  There is  no denying the allure of the big top.  Gruen tantalises the senses with her descriptions of circus life in 1920's America.  Her language is so evocative, that the pages wreak of peanuts and candyfloss.  You loose yourself amidst the blurring of colours and the cacophonous din of the wild menagerie.  The equally colourful characters, we are told at the back of the book, were often times based upon real people who lived the life of travelling circus entertainers.  Their hitherto forgotten stories were happened upon by Gruen during her research.  It is almost unthinkable that so much of this novel is non-fiction, yet who could ever consider that Rosie the elephant was a figment of someone's imagination; she is so vibrant and alive on the page. 

But what this book actually left me with has nothing to do with jugglers and circus performers and is not half as exotic as we might wish.  It made me consider how older people are treated by society.  The book begins and ends with Jacob Jankowski, an elderly man, (of 90 or 93 years old; he can't remember which), who has been left in an old folks' home by his children to simply fade away.  His treatment at the hands of busy, bossy, carers left me livid.  To see this once vibrant, vital, man being treated so, was tragic.  He is shown to be yet another victim of our disposable culture: along with throw away razors and milk-cartons, throw-away parents.  It was not as if Jacob was suffering some horrendous illness; he was just an old widower, still with his full faculties, but suffering from terminal old age.  In this, I find that Gruen's novel is somewhat reminiscent of Nicholas Sparks's The Notebook; it provokes the reader into reconsidering our understanding of the experiences of the older members of society.  She makes us ponder what the future might hold in store for us, and it does not look good!  

I haven't seen the movie of this book, so I cannot comment on it, but I do know that it is well worth reading, if only for the way it will make us pause and take notice of the senior people in our lives, for who knows what wonderful stories lie hidden beneath the surface, just waiting to be told.