Grave Secrets – Kathy Reichs

In brief: Trilingual Canadian forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan goes to Guatemala to help recover remains for reburial from mass killings of Mayan civilians during hideous military violence in civil war. Other wacky things happen to do with more murders, corruption and violence. She is sad and cranky and homesick in turn. She washes her knickers in the sink of the hotel room and suffers from no existential angst or self-doubt of any kind. She has wild crushes on French and Spanish speaking men who have integrity, rippling muscles and dry sense of humours (senses of humour?) who both seem growlingly hungry to get in her (freshly washed) knickers. She wears a size 6 jean and has fine features, a cat and a daughter who is self sufficient, blonde and has fine features, a good grade point average and is conveniently miles away.

Yes this was my aeroplane reading of choice from Sydney to Vietnam. I had a busy schedule of a) catch up on sleep b) eat things from tiny little boxes on little plastic trays and choose beverages to match c) reading. I also had Chuck Palanhiuk’s ‘Non-Fiction’ which is, funnily enough, a series of non fiction pieces about sex festivals, wrestling meets, why he writes etc. Good stuff, but not quite as well suited to the aeroplane read as a little bit of crime fiction with bone descriptions and mini tutorials on genetics to boot. Plus it was a pass-me-on from my mum, who also eagerly indulges in a bit of crime fiction (what used to be called ‘mystery novels’ – an interesting change in focus perhaps? Did we once like the mystery and now like the crime itself?) as a literary palette cleanser / fun read of choice, so I was keen to read it so we can talk about it later.

Did I like it? Well I finished it in the bath in the hotel room after I arrived, so I guess that’s a good sign. I liked the spatterings of description of Guatemala and had yearnings for colourful handmade textiles. I wondered where I might meet a dark eyed, squeaky clean and wildly competent South American detective who is hard with all the right people and soft with the rest. I wondered whether I might like to do what she does as a job. I marveled at the fact that Reichs in ‘real life’ both works as a forensic anthropologist and also writes crime fiction based on her work. That her first novel went (sorry, ‘shot’) to number one on the Sunday Times bestseller list and that this is her 5th and that this was written a few years ago so she’s probably written more since then. Marveled at how efficient some people are with their time, to be so prolific in outputs. Mused that she probably has better filing systems and cleaner house than I do, probably has very shiny white teeth and a house with oriental rugs. But that’s by the by.

A friend at work the other day happily admitted to reading crime fiction between her other books, saying that everyone has a genre that is their easy reading material. I was pleased to find another ‘accomplice’ and will probably offer this one to her next. I am unlikely to run out and hunt down her other books though, I didn’t care about her main character that much, and in any case, whilst happy to be a bit of an author hopper, maybe there are only so many gnarly detective characters you can attach to and identify with without getting mixed up and forgetting who was an alcoholic and who suffered from pain killer addiction; who is on and off again with which other law enforcement staff; and who is deeply psychologically wounded b y which spectacular homicide / marriage break up. And I think maybe my quota is full, with Marlowe, Kinsey Millhone, Phryne Fisher, Detective Rebus and the Nancy Drew and Miss Marple of my childhood. No offence temperance Brennan, I just think I’m all full-up for crime fiction heroes.

And some not so good books...

Tried to read "The Wasp Factory" by Iain Banks, but got maybe 5-6 pages in and lost interest. Basically the plot as I guessed it is this (written in first person of main character - say this out loud in weasely high pitched voice for full effect):
"Oh I'm such an outcast/psychopath/wierdo - let me freak you out by alluding, in a way that I think is really cunning, that I did some REALLY BAD THINGS, but first I'll let you know in dribs and drabs how unconventional my life is and how abusive my father was to our family, then I'll let you know what I did in the last few pages of the book so you have to read to the end".
Humble apologies to anyone who has read and like it. We'll just have to agree to disagree.

Read "A Month of Sundays: how to go travelling withough leaving home" by James O'Loghlin. The plan was to read it to get inspiration about places to go in Sydney while my husband was on leave for 6 or so weeks, and we had time to hang out, and go places we'd never been before together. Kept reading... a few places of interest mentioned... lots of bits about the author's middle class Canberran upbringing... bits he didn't like about his career as a criminal lawyer... Got near the end of the book, and was wishing there were a few more places of interest to me that he might suggest and review.
Then got to the epilogue, and I quote: "This isn't one of those books where the aim is to encourage you to go where the author went. In fact, if you do that you may be missing the point." Bummer. Should have mentioned that at the start of the book. The point of the book (that you never know what's less than an hour from your door if you just take the time to look!) wasn't interesting enough to resonate with me at all, as I've always been the type of person who likes exploring the city they're living in. I actually was looking for a kind of guide book for my city, in a novel form, but instead got stories of places that were kind of boring, middle class Canberra, and career crises.

"Timequake" by Kurt Vonnegut

We borrowed this from our local library after looking at "1001 books you must read.... etc" for inspiration of who/what to read.

This book starts off very unfocussed. It took me a while to work out where it was going. Fortunately, it was amusing and interesting enough to keep going. It jumps around between several threads - that of a writers clambake at Cape Cod, a timequake (I'll get to this later), and bits and pieces of what seems to be autobiographical material about Vonnegut's extended family and friends. I wasn't sure whether or not to believe some bits that appeared to be autobiograpical - did a quick wiki search on Kurt Vonnegut and it seems quite a lot of his life has been written about in this book (presuming whomever wrote the article was correct).

A Timequake is a wacky idea where time jumps back a number of years (in the book, it jumps back 10 years from 2001 to 1991), and everyone is forced to relive that parcel of time again, knowing what will happen next, but not being able to do a thing about it. People say the same things they said the first time, and do the same things they did first time around. Then, at the end "free will kicks in again" and people basically fall in heaps as they aren't accustomed to free will (and there are lots of accidents!). The author refers to the the first time he went from 1991-2001, when he was writing the first draft of the book. I can't help but think that the timequake is a creative metaphor for what it is like to re-write a book, because you or your publisher isn't satisfied - trawling through the plot... remembering why you wrote what you did... possibly arriving at the same point of view you did first time.

The whole novel is like sitting down and chatting to your eccentric great uncle or grandpa... and it's written from the viewpoint of an old man who wants to impart a few important messages in his book, about humanism, things that don't make sense, and what to celebrate in life. The author has lived an interesting and at times difficult life - his mother's suicide, 2 wives, fighting in WW2 and being held prisoner in Dresden (the topic of another of his novels, "Slaughterhouse 5"), a tragedy in his sister's family which leads to him adopting her 3 children on top of his 3 kids, being forced by his father to study science at college, but gradually trying to make a career out of writing, and moving away from his home state. I'd never heard of Vonnegut before, but suspect I'll read at least one more of his soon (especially if J lends one to me when she has finished it... :) .

January

So in January I enjoyed quite a bit of Christmas light reading. Just gobbled it down like it was a little piece of Christmas cake with a cup of tea. Read the two first 'Sunday Philosophy Club' books by Alexander McCall Smith, mostly I think because the main character was having even less of a social life / love life than me and I wanted her to get one. I kept hoping she'd jump out of character and madly shag the younger man, over the edge of a banister at a Edinburgh socialite party and scandalise all the other well ironed, well read, well spoken, nicely mannered welll behaved sorts. But she didn't, and neither did I. I finished 'Perfume' which I started just before Chrissie, and wondered if I was the only person left on the planet who hadn't read it. It made me worry for days about whether I was a bad person, whether I too was a dreadful narcissist - because I feel driven too sometimes (not to do awful things to people or steal their smells, just for the record) and am good at some things without knowing how or why. Are we starting to uncover a theme here - maybe I get too attached to the characters of books, too involved with the plot.

Then read an old Angela Carter I picked up second hand - only $4 thank you Glebe Books - 'Fireworks'. Hadn't read it before and quite liked it. Some short stories set in japan, quite a few nature themes, still fairytale-esque, gruesome, bleak, funny, one even a little bit sci fi in a 'when the revolution comes' kind of a way, some very self aware stories of the narrator in love. Liked it. All over the place, but somehow held together. Then started reading and still haven't finished an old second hand Margaret Atwood book of short stories 'Bluebeard's Egg' - at $12, not quite as good as Glebe Books but nice coffee, thanks Sappho Books. This has interesting connections to Angela Carter in some ways, as I think she also did a retelling of the Bluebeard's Egg fairytale, didn't she? Also as two very significant (I think) Northern Hemisphere female authors from the late 20th century, tackling edgy tales with a wry sense of humour and little squeamishness about human frailties... The Atwood collection I'm still going with. I think if anything, Atwood's work has a more consistent voice - these are all relationship stories, all set in the late 1970's, early 80's (it feels like) - and even though the perspectives shift around, the points change, the motivations and machinations shift about, the canvas is generally a relationship. But sad, or desperate, or louche, or self deluding, and often amusing. The Carter short stories covered more ground, had more breeze flowing through them, more shifting of the edges of things, were less 'even', in a way that I like.

Also on the 'to be continued' pile for January are the started but haven't got far Walt Whitman 'Leaves of Grass'. Started this around new years and made myself finish the poems Song of Myself and also I Sing the Body Electric, both of which I knew of and had seen snippets quoted from but not read. I know it's no great feat to read 2 single poems from a whole book, but it was a start, and to be honest I found 'Song of Myself' hard going in bits, because of the repetition, and because it's hard to sustain that sense of intense awe for as long as the poem goes. I am wowed by Whitman and even though he was an intense patriot, and that is very uncool these days (for lots of good reasons) he was so subversive in so many ways. His singing of praise for women as humans and sexual agents and moral beings who are not special wounded treasures or senseless voids is very cool for the mid-1800's. His abundance of feeling and his fascination with the world is lovely, if a little intense. It's all very mystical really, which is so not the image I had of him before I read his stuff - this bearded almost Hemmingway-esque man's man is what I had in mind - which in some ways he was, and in other ways not. (Which is not to say that Hemmingway wasn't moving too, just not so much into the magic of a leaf of a grass). A Deep Ecology posterchild, in verse.

Finally, on the 'ooops, didn't finish you or even really get much further into you' pile, is Fritjof Capra's 'Uncommon Wisdom'. I had been meaning to read his 'The Tao of Physics' or 'The Turning Point' for a while now and mum kindly hunted me down a copy of the Tao of Physics.. but for some strange reason I started with this one first. Why? Because I thought it was a series of interviews - possibly forgiveable given the subtitle 'Conversations with remarkable people'. However, little did I know, this is actually a 'the making of' book, which basically weaves its way through his own personal history to telll the story of him writing the other two books, his own personal journey and the people he met along the way that inspired him. I think this is like watching a detailed 'making of' for a movie that you haven't read yet - probably not such a hot idea. I think I will keep going, especially because his meetings with Schumacher are yet to come, but overall I'm not such a fan of the structure or the writing style. I'm hoping the other ones were written in the heat of the rapture and this one is the retelling after the meal has gone cold, because otherwise I'm going to wonder what all the excitement was about with the others. I suspect I''ll still be reading this one come Christmas. I suspect that avoiding it was half the momentum for my other reading this month.

Oh I also started, accidentally*, Eckarte Toll's 'the Power of Now', which I almost deliberately didn't mention because it sounds so woo woo 'I swim with dolphins'. Which I don't, but actually would quite like to. And it in some ways is, and in many ways isn't. I think I quite respect him for having the guts to be raw and open and speak honestly with the world about the way he sees it. And even though that's paid off, in a material sense, you get the feeling that material gain wasn't where he was coming from. He apparently spent almost a year (I'm making the details of this bit up - too lazy to go find the book and find that bit to verify) sitting on a park bench, with no actual job or income, having given up everything after he had his revelation, processing, and thinking about how to do good in the world. And of course you could argue that he'd had a psychotic episode (any sudden flashes of meaning are routinely interpreted as mental illness in our society?), perhaps he just did let go of a heap of crap and suddenly want to share that new vision with people. Anyway. It is quite gentle and makes a lot of interesting points. I just haven't been able to finish it yet because it may require some actual response on my behalf, and I haven't wanted to engage. It is second only to Fritjof on my avoiding list.

*Grabbed offf housemates shelf, flicked and then absentmindedly carried to couch for chapter reads

Aunty B's book shelf floweth over

Hi fellow booknerds! I seem to be reading faster than I'm blogging at the moment. Must be those dragging summer sun-filled days. So if you're hungry to find out what's been in the bedside pile at B's - you get to vote! (And I don't mean dirty socks and knickers either) Would you rather hear about:

Clash of the fundamentalisms - Tariq Ali
Reading Lolita in Tehran - Azar Nafisi
Playboy Book of Short Stories - Various, including Keroauc, Nabokov et al
100 Years of Solitude - Gael Garcia Marquez
The Infinite Plan - Isabel Allende
The Men Who Stare at Goats - Jon Ronson
Dead Famous - Ben Elton

Ooh the tension is almost too much to bear.

"Stiff", by Shane Moloney

I read this basically to shut my Dad up, as he had been raving about these Shane Moloney books since October when he came to visit.

To quote Tony Wilson (another author): "His sentences have an effortless grace and humour and he brings Melbourne to life on the page." The writing is very easy to read, with casual humour inserted throughout, and metaphors and common sayings slightly twisted to suit the context of the story in a way that makes you laugh out loud, briefly. It's also good to read something Australian, set in an Australian city that I have visited many times.

This story is the first in a series, about a guy who works as an assistant to a State Labor MP in Melbourne's ethnically diverse northern suburbs. He's asked to look into the circumstances behind a death in an abattoir located in the electorate, to make sure there won't be any union or IR implications for the government. As he delves deeper and deeper into the characters involved, and series of chaotic events unravel in his personal life, involving his unofficially separated wife who has taken up a position in Canberra, his 7 year old son, whom he stuggles to pick up from school on time, and the roof on his house, which inconveniently collapses in the middle of all the action and during the middle of a rainy week.

Anyhow, all is revealed and resolves itself in the end. I have no idea how this character manages to have a series or mystery novels written about him given his profession (ie not a detective, but then neither was Miss Marple), but I don't think I am intrigued enough to find out. Not bad, easy to read, and entertaining enough to make you want to see how it ends.

Holiday reading

I have a new years resolution (a real, heartfelt one, not a token one) to read more and watch less telly. Not that re-runs of The Bill at 2pm during E-chan's nap, or watching television series on dvd aren't a good way to spend your time, but I have more energy now that bub is 7 months old and have less need for passive entertainment like telly and radio.

So I thought during my recent trip to Adelaide, I should get at least one book finished. I'll get to that in a minute (above). I tried to read "The Guns of Navarrone" by Alister Maclean, which I grabbed off my parent's bookshelves, but about 10 pages in, I realised I wasn't going to finish it in time and wasn't interested enough to take it with me. Kind of a boys own adventure set in the WW2 mediterranean where the good old Allies hatch up a "daring, but it's just crazy enough to work" plan to shoot down some troublesome and strategically placed Axis guns (back then, the Axis was the Gerries and the Italians, and the Japs of course, but on the other side of the globe). Would have been good to read as a teenager, but alas that time has long past.

I'm beginning to think I'm not a fast reader. I stop and think too much, try to absorb every sentence, when some text should be skimmed over more. That must be why I've never finished epics like "lord of the rings" or dense work like that of Umberto Eco. However, I will get there one day. Perhaps I will linger less on every sentence as my reading picks up again.

The reason why I'm thinking about my reading speed is that over our holiday, C-chan got through a lot more.... Now that he isn't studying, he is really chewing through the books. I'll post about that, because I'm not sure he'll ever get around to it, despite being invited to join this blog a few times, and I'm ashamed to say, I'm to some extent living my life of books through him. He read half an Orwell omnibus ("Animal Farm" and "1984" - he's not sure he's actually ever read them before. I read them as a teenager, and remember them so vividly - talking about these books again made me curious about Orwell's less famous works, which are also meant to be good). He also read half of "1001 books you must read before you die", which he was given for xmas and any of you are welcome to browse through when you come over if you are stuck for ideas on what to read!

Before xmas, he read "Against a Dark Background" by Iain M Banks (which I also read many years ago, and remember enjoying) - a science fiction novel set way way into the future. Basically an adventure novel, in a time when people are not restricted by resources, science, or technology. Pure fantasy, I know, but Banks writes in a way that is interesting - the people and their flaws and desires are still the centre of his sci fi writing, it just happens to be in set in a fantastic backdrop. I don't read all that much fantasy or Sci fi, but read quite a few of Bank's stuff about 10 years ago. I'm hoping to read some of his regular fiction soon ("The Business", or "The Wasp Factory").

Finally, back to what I actually am reading: "A Month of Sundays" by James O'Loghlin of "the new inventors" fame and "Baby & Toddler Meals" by Robin Barker, which is a cook book I borrowed from my local library for inspiration.

And what I didn't read was also great

Check out this funny post of reviews of books not read in 2006 - I love the idea and plan to make up wild stories about all the books I didn't read in 2006.

Getting it Right (Heat 10, New series, 2005) - edited by Ivor Indyk

Aunty B got me a magazine (which is actually a bound book) on sale; one of those arty little anthologies of local writers - with short fiction, poetry and essay - called 'Heat 10 - Getting it Right'. Published for the Writing and Social Research Group at the university of western sydney.

Judging a book by its cover
Before I talk about the contents I must confess that I always find these things a little bit daunting - a little bit in-house and cosed door. The way this book is graphically designed is a bit off-putting, there's no easy to find by-line that helps you to figure out exactly what the thing is that you're holding in your hand. For example if it just said on the cover 'short fiction and non-fiction by Sydney writers Summer 2005' you would actually know what it was. As it is the title 'getting it right' implies to the lay reader that there is an actual theme, or some overarching question that this collection is addressing - but that doesn't seem to be the case. You don't know what the magazine *is* or who puts it together, or what it's focus is until after you've squirreled away in the inside first pages and pieced together a bit of a jigsaw. So I guess my general coment there is - hello, people, if you want to share what you do with more people, don't scare them away with cryptic cover art and maybe invest in a catchy para on the back cover that talks up what your publication is (how about 'Heat is an annual magazine showcasing edgy and provocative writers from Western Sydney who explore contemporary social issues... ' or whatev).

It's what's on the inside that counts
Anyways. I did the flick and dip style holiday couch and cup of tea read, and very much enjoyed the following:
- A short description of and some reproductions of Angela Brennan's beautiful text paintings .
- A longer piece called 'Badly hurt and beautifully loved' by Peter Kirkpatrick on John Laws (yes that John Laws, and the title is actually one of Johns') and the poetry he has written and published. It looks at Laws' views of masculinity and sensitivity, of romantic love and of his slightly inconsistent contempt for that high fandangled booklearnin'. It is a serious review and cultural analysis but with a strongly bemused tone, as it is fairly clear that, in a nutshell, the writer thinks his poetry sucks, big time. I would rewrite some of John's verse here but I really can't bear to as it is pretty awful.
- A short story called 'the dark wet' about a girl travelling in India, by Jess Huon
- A poem I liked about tequila versus wine by Anna Jackson because it was all very topical what with the silly season silliness and a few hangovers on my mind. Here it is (and if you like it she has a new book out which you can read about here):

A beautiful theory isn't a poem, James

I still haven't written a duck poem although
the duck was good, what can I say, was so

good, but now it is more like three weeks later
that I am once again leaving an elevator

with James, and I have a theory I want to unfold
to him about tequila and wine: how wine will hold

the moment open in all its ripeness and let you sit
in the present tense for an evening, but tequila, it

is like a terrible vortex drink, that tries to pull
all the future and all the past into the swirl

of the moment you drink it in, and there you are
trying to relive some other night at another bar

on someone else's lap and James is referring to that
conversation you've never even had with him yet

about Diana's apples and the next morning, your
hangover is not at all the wistful melancholic despair

for the future and regret for the past that wine
induces, but an unrelenting present tense return

to precisely the moment you were trying to swill
yourself out of, a moment all the worse for being full

of you, and what you did. So, I get out of the elevator
three days after the tequila night, reborn as a stater

of tequila theory, and now James is waiting for me
to put it all into a poem. But a beautiful theory

isn't a poem, James. A beautiful theory is only
a theory.

The Sunday Philosophy Club - Alexander McCall Smith

Oh light holdiday reading. This was a nice quick read, not bad, loosely a mystery, with a little of intrigue towards the end and lots of cups of tea and musings of the 40-something main character who like Phryne Fisher (see review below) lives without a partner, is independantly wealthy and is concerned with living according to her view of how 'one should' in such circumstances. While Phryne muses more on the cut of her swinging 20's frocks and the quality of silk in her shortie nighties, drinks rather a lot and has wild elegant indulgent sex with talk dark quiet types, Isabel Dalhousie is a well-behaved, respectful (if a little nosie, but hey aren't we all), woman concerned with morality. I dig that not once did the book describe the cut of her hair or the jaunty swing of her ankle in a green ankle-straped heel - she is formless in the way that a male protaganist might reasonably expect to be in a novel: she is her life, her actions, her relationships, looking out of and acting from her body. She is not coquetish and flirty, but she does harbour a sneaky little crush on a younger man, which much to my diapointment was never consumated. I thought themusings on philosophy and little trite, just a little, but maybe a nice 'taster', and certainly not alienating to anybody. Her role as an acandemic (even a part time one) I found a little hard to swallow, as despite editing a journal she seemed little more than vagueley intrigued by the subject matter, but in a restrained, affable, hoby-like way - as if she was eighty and reading about hydrangeas for the local fair (sorry to be ageist). I guess what I noticed was the distinct lack of passion, the whiff of enquiry and personal scholarship that i would expect such a character to actually have. But whatever. I'm sure Alexanders' readers prefer her mild mannered and musing than driven and incandescent. She is someone you could pop around and expect an omlette from, with a well-ordered, comfortable existence and a mild curiosity that pulls her into intrigue. The mystery element was quite nicely crafted as something that was almost secondary to her life and partly constructed by her own inquiry. I hope she shags the boy in the next one. I hope she shakes things up a bit and has a wild jaunt to Italy and writes a book or two. Or maybe I'm projecting...

Sula - Toni Morrison

OK so this book says on the cover 'Oprah's Book Club' and you would be forgiven for thinking that this must mean that the book is sweet and comforting, that it involves baking and quilt making and sisterly love - right?
I've read a few of Morrison's books now and find that they are all a strange brutal mix of love, life, death, madness, poverty and the ache of everything. 'Jazz' was uncomfortable, 'Beloved' was down right wacky... they both kind of took the notions of 'good' and 'bad' and mixed them around a bit, fed them back to you in a strange combo whose flavours were unfamiliar. This one is about a town of people living up the mountains, tricked out of prime farming land in the valley by the white slave owners who gave it to them on their freedom, it's about two childhood friends, about sex and falling in love, about households of women, about black folk and white folk and seeing each other through their lenses of culture, about being a woman and how being in love affects you, about the love of children, about poverty and hope and hopelesness. And I suppose, if I really think about it, it's probably about the whole tricky notion of morality - of good and evil.

Sula is one of the childhood friends, she goes away, comes back. But it's not really about that - or not about just that - it's about everything little and big that happens in and around and before and after that.

The description of Sula's careless love for men, contrasted with the moment when she becomes hooked on one person, who then leaves her, is spine tingling. You feel her begining to see him in objects around the house, like her you want to inhale him, gobble him up; but at the same time you smell the whiff of her clinging desperation the moment he does, and like him you also want to flee. In the same vein, the account of a sexual betrayal of another character is also so real feeling you almost melt into the corner of the bathroom with her, watching dust motes twirl as your life unravels.

I also loved the description of Sula's mother who lost her husband and proceeds to sleep with al the towns men both single and married, but in a gentle, natural, almost unthinking way, as she pulls them into the pantry for fleeting, passionate, unnatached sex, without shame and without spite and without remorse. This is contrasted with Sulas sexuality and the sexuality of monogamy and the sexuality of sex workers in a very interesting way. Like this:

Everything had changed. Even the whores were better then: tough, fat, laughing women with burns on their cheeks and wit married to their meanness: or widows couched in small houses in the woods with eight children to feed and no man. These modern-day whores were pale and dull before those women. These little clothes-crazy things were always embarassed. Nasty but shamed. They didn't know what shameless was. They should have known those silvery widows in the woods who would get up from the dinner table and walk into the trees with a customer with as much embarassment as a calving mare.

Anyway, there's lots of great prose, lots of 'hmmmm, that's interesting' moments, and lots of unertainty in this book.

Away with the fairies - Kerry Greenwood

So, the day of my housemove I found myself at central station yearning for some comfort reading. Something silly and quick to read, something to whisk me away to another time and place and make me feel all warm inside. So I bought this and proceeded to read it in two days (aah, long train journeys were good for something!). Mermaidgrrl bought me my first one in this series when I flew back to Sydney from Brisbane in September. She picked it out at the airport, after declaring that I needed a trashy romance (which I thouroughly agreed with - she is after all a nurse, I trust her diagnosis - and sunk into with relief on the plane). In brief, this series features a woman called Phryne Fisher who is an heiress in 1920's Melbourne, Australia, and although fabulously wealthy and happily whiling away her days with cocktails, lovers, philanthropy, being arch and witty and keeping an eye of her adopted daughters, does a little bit of crime solving in her spare time.

What busy working Aussie woman wouldn't entertain the fantasy of being swathed in silk, sporting a fetching classy bob, having servants (who are gartefuly emplyed as such, and ever so loyal and warm), being adored by men and women alike and getting to nut out juicy crimmes over a cool mint juleppe? No wonder she's gone ahead and written squilions of books.

So - any good? yeah kind of. Some firm feminist stances scattered through this one - which I thoroughly approved of - the requisite insight into some random piece of histo-geography (in this case, silk trading and pirates in the south seas), lots of outfits described in meticulous detail, bitchy suspects who are all either shagging or blackmailing each other, and some rompety pompety bedroom action for the leading lady (oh tasteful mind, ever so tasteful). Not sure that I need any encouragement to conjure up my inner style-queen-bossy-hyperpampered-girl around town though, so may read them sparingly lest I begin clisking my fingers for Astin Martins that don't exist and wearing drapey silk things to match my clouche hats and silk underwear.

Reading Russian Dollies

Does anybody else read several books at once? Like 6? If so, how do you do it? I tend to start one, pick up another, stop the first, read the second, until I pick up a third. It becomes this nested affair, like Russian Dollies, like Calvino’s notoriously wandering If On a Winter’s Night a Traveller. I sometimes dance back up the chain, read another chapter, keep them ticking over, but at the same time pick up more down the line. The line of nested reading that gets longer and longer. I finish one, it’s so exciting! I write out quotes from it and sometime write about it here. Meanwhile, there are brief breakout books – a book bought at an airport which I read in a day, a mystery novel or a light and easy book which is immediate satisfaction, and keeps me feeling ok about the others that decorate my rooms and refuse to be read quickly in an offhand manner. They are all quite patient. They don’t clamour to be finished. They’ve all been read many times before, by people far more exciting than me, they don’t need the reassurance and flattery of another reader, they can be taken or left. They are self-contained and require commitment and perserverence, require decent chunks of quiet time. They can not be gulped down in ad breaks or in a weary half hour before bed, or with half a mind still on work matters or relationship queries – they need a whole mind, a mind up to the task, nimble, well-rested, in top form, and keen.

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I stayed awake later than intended some nights ago, and finished Dress your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedarkis. He's very funny. I sniggered even lying in bed reading on my own and listening to wind howl. I picked a new copy up at a discount bookstore fafter browsing the very cheap table. The reason I know about the author? Read about it on a blog. A chick who went to a signing and desperately wanted not to say something bland. She's funny too.

'The Subterraneans' by Jack Kerouac (1958)

Preceded by On the Road (1957)
Followed by The Dharma Bums (1958)

"I want to work in revelations, not just spin silly tales for money. I want to fish as deep down as possible into my own subconscious in the belief that once that far down, everyone will understand because they are the same that far down."

— Jack Kerouac

I just read this book in its 1962 Panther Book 2nd reprint edition, picked up by Aunty B for $4 at Bondi markets recently. I love reading things in their tiny print, thin editioned, tacky artworked glory from the 60’s. It makes it more fun to read knowing that not only have countless others read the story, but that unknown numbers of people have owned and touched and read this particular actual book in all its three dimensional glory. Was it bought shiny and new and stuck inside a floral shoulder bag and taken on campus as a sign of cool, pissing off someone’s parents when they saw it on a bedside table? Who bought it since then from musty second hand shops and have read it over coffee in Sydney cafes?

Anyway, away from discussions of the book, and back to the book (if you know what I mean). Subterraneans is quite autobiographical, well it at least feels like it is and Wikipedia tells me so:
‘The Subterraneans is a 1958 novel by Beat Generation author Jack Kerouac. It is a semi-fictional account of his short romance with an African American woman named Alene Lee in New York in 1953. In the novel she is renamed Mardou Fox and described as a carefree spirit who frequents the jazz clubs and bars of the budding Beat scene of San Francisco’ (Wikipedia).

The main character Leo seems very much Jack. The story is basically ‘boy meets girl, boy treats girl badly through despite occasional bursts of intense passion mostly ignoring her by going on groovy beat benders listening to bop shagging beautiful young men and then skulking home to mums to get fed and try to write second book, boy looses girl.’ It is very stream of consciousness, so if long rambling sentences and wild asides shit you to tears, this book may not be your glass of cheap red wine.

I liked the texture of the excitement of the time and place, the musings on life as a so-far-so-good young writer, the raw and exposed outpourings of a flawed person, the swirls of madness, the ennui, the wistfulness, the slow dawning of love. The language is not tight and clean and structured, but like big dynamic brushstrokes that build up a composite image, it is language that tells you a lot despite not telling you much. You need faith that meaning will seep out from between the flurry of sentences, and from between the constant activity of characters: the characters meeting, being inspired, gearing up for nights out with a ripening sense of potential, getting blotto and then falling into despair and regret. But really, it’s less bleak than all that.

This is the ‘spontaneous prose’ style that he was famous for, and adored for, and criticised for. Like this:

also the sudden gut joy of beer when the visions of great words in rhythmic order all in one giant archangel book go roaring thru my brain, so I lie in the dark also seeing also hearing the jargon the future worlds – (insert made up words here) – poor examples because of mechanical needs of typing, of the flow of river sounds, words, dark, leading to the future and attesting to the madness, hollowness, ring and roar of my mind which blessed or unblessed is where the trees sing – in a funny wind – well-being believes he’ll go to heaven – a word to the wise is enough – ‘Smart went Crazy’ wrote Allen Ginsberg.) Reason why I didn’t go home at 3am – and example.

‘The novel has been criticized for its portrayal of American minority groups, especially African Americans, in a superficial light, often dramatizing their humble and primitive energy without showing insight into their culture or social position at the time' (says Wikipedia). I can understand that people now criticize the book for dodgy race politics, but at the time, as I understand it, he was pressure by his publishers about the including material about minority groups that it was too sympathetic. Tellingly, the film that was made of the book had a young French girl cast in the role of his girlfriend, rather than a black woman. Safer? More saleable at the time? And sure, Leo is clearly aware of the race issue, aware and sometimes distracted by it – but also aware of his awareness of it, and conscious of trying to rethink attitudes. In the book Mardou tells him not to hold hands with her as they walk down the street in the city in case people think she’s a hooker. He worries about whether if he marries her he wont be able to take her to the family home down south. This was the backdrop to their lives, it seems unlikely that these issues and attitudes wouldn’t have also formed part of the context for their relationship. Leo does indulge in some ‘black woman as primal earth mother, source of all life, vital and alive’ type stereotypes, and I guess that’s 2 dimensional, but also tied up with his views of women in general – which are interesting, not to mention his (not explicitly stated in the book but haphazardly demonstrated) bisexuality* and his highly claustrophobic and needy relationship with his mother and together these are possibly all worthy several PhD theses, but not neccessarily something that should deter you from reading the book.

Ultimately I’m torn between Leo’s offhand self-serving treatment of his lover and his wide-eyed and reeling notion of women as saviour, women as ‘good’. There is something both endearingly matriarchal, life-affirming and goddess-worshipping about such romantasising of ‘woman’:
‘knowing as I do from past experience and also interior sense, you’ve got to fall down on your knees and beg the woman’s permission, beg the woman’s forgiveness of all your sins, protect her, support her, doing everything for her, die for her but for God’s sake love her all the way in and every way you can..’ but also something on the nose about his guilt-informed idealization which seems to be the other end of the pendulum on his self-absorbed drunked adventures where she is forgotten and left at home. I suspect Mardou would have settled for some good manners and friendly treatment over being idolised and ignored in turn, but that’s just conjecture. Mind you it seems like his behaviour wasn’t deliberately hurtful but more a function of his immense capacity for awe and attention – when the focus is on her he is in awe and deeply in love, when the focus is on the magical connection between like minds and trying to get to the kernel of truth in conversation at a bar with jazz in the background, his attention is wholly there, and she is forgotten.

The character is no hero, he is confused and flawed and contradictory and stuck, and the book is honest about the tensions between his feelings of responsibility to the people in his life and to his own aspirations. He knows when he’s been crap (the benefit of hindsight? Autobiography lets us paint the appropriate feelings in at the right moments to act as counterweight to our bad behaviour?). Nonetheless it’s interesting reading that kind of gritty self-appraisal and flashes of insight. He says, I guess referring to on the Road: ‘Mardou…who’d never read my first novel, which has guts, but has a dreary prose when all’s said and done.’

*Although as highlighted in discussions with mermaidgrrl a while back the word bisexuality might be replaced to good effect with ‘pansexuality’, which seems rather less ‘bipolar’ than groovily global and all encompassing in range.

"Oh the Places You'll Go" Dr Seuss*

OK so my 3-month-old is too young to understand this, let alone think this is his favourite book... And I know that at this age I could be reading him the phone book and it would be just as interesting because it's all about the tone of our voices and the attention we're giving him.

HOWEVER... I can safely say this is his parent's favourite kids book for the time being.

I was given this book as a birthday present from BSharp a few years back (thanks, mate!). It was written by Dr Seuss a year or so before he died, and it's like he's trying to pass on a message: Life has it's ups and downs; sometimes you won't know which way to go, sometimes you will; sometimes you'll just have to sit and wait for things to happen. But you have your brain and your feet and you'll be just fine. All done in Dr Seuss's wonderful wacky rhyme, with accompanying primary-coloured pictures of 4 limbed creatures and Escher-like buildings.

*I seriously don't have an attention span for anything longer at present

Oh hello this is your book club moderator

Too lazy to email these questions so i will just blog it and hope you all see it.
#1 Does anyone want to fix up the sidebar on this blog nicely so that it lists contributors? Add any new links? (More with the too lazy, yadda yadda.)
#2 Do any ardent book club readers (are there any?) want to be contributors? It's not hard, even I can do it and I'm a dead set luddite who can't program a video player. Maybe current members can email interested friends invites...
3# Low brow is the new high brow - seriously, any posts on magazines, radio plays, back of cereal packets, anything that involves words or stories is highly welcome

Ergh, this post is so boring and adminy I am even boring myself.

A poetry blog

yes that's right, a poetry blog (http://ronsilliman.blogspot.com/) which isn't just oodles of tense teen poetry on black background with lime green text that makes your eyes weep for all the wrong reasons.

Book Crossing

Hey bookfolk, have you come across this? Idea is you mark books with an ID number that you get off this website, put the book somewhere public and wait for someone else to read it and enter their thoughts into the website too - you track where your book has gone and who has read it and where it ends up.

The fascination with an individual objects story is a bit like that film 'the red violin',I suppose it's a tangible link between us and other people, us and time? So maybe this is a fascinating aspect worth tracking via this site.

The notion of sharing strikes me as a nice one, encouraging people to read second hand books and to pass on things when they're done. Whether this is the most effective way to do this (as compared, for example, to simply handing over your old books to Vinnies or the local second hand book vendour)is maybe not so clear. There is a sense of thrill though in finding something for free, something that someone else has left for you - is huge, a a bit like a treasure discovered. I love places that have a 'book swap' bookshelf set up - like some backpackers, or a cafe in Springwood near my dentist, or the train station at Blaxland.It seems very trusting - that people will give and not just take books, that a self-serve system works, and for that reason, the gesture of trust in people's good nature, I like it even more.

So, if anyone gets into the Book Crossing thing, let me know, and maybe I'll give it a burl too.

Ursula le Guin rocks

Totem
Mole my totem
mound builder
maze maker
tooth at the root
shaper of darkness
into ways and hollows
in grave alive
heavy handed
light blinded

(Ursula le Guin, 1979 from 'Buffalo gals and other animal presences' 1987)
I really liked this brief book of poems and stories, with an animal theme - the characteristics in us which are akin to those in animals, our relationship with non-human animals, the imaginary lives of animals. I'm digging stories with wolves as main characters. It's funny, because in our culture it is seen as infantile and only feminine to be interested in animals in a mythological / symbolic sense (ie in any way which is not entirely materially self serving and dominating), but in so many cultures a healthy respect for and interest in animals helped provide a story about how the world worked and what is mysterious and magical about being alive. Joseph Campbell writes lots about this in his book 'Myths to Live by' (and no doubt in his other books too but its the only one of his that I've read) and muses on the functional role that these and other myths play for people,in giving a sense of meaningful story to our lives. When I was little I loved animal books - Wind in the Willows, Cuddlepot and Snugglepie (with lots of lizards and other folk), even Waterbabies I think had fishie people in it. It seemed to make sense atthat age to be aware of the characters of animals, to talk with them, to see them as other, different, people populating the world along side us. Of course as an adult in an industrial consumer capatilst society that is seen as ludicrous, indulgant and pretty much bonkers.