Books @ Fed Square - Cult Book Group
Interested in reading and discussing books that have caused a stir or attracted a cult following? Fed Square’s free new book group is a chance to talk about controversial and challenging literature in a relaxed informal environment. The group meets once a month at Café Beer Deluxe in the Atrium at Fed Square. For more information email books@fedsquare.com
Sessions will be held at 10am on the first Saturday of every month, commencing 1 December 2007.
Reading list:
January: The Complete Maus, Art Spiegalman
February: A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess
March: Catch-22, Joseph Heller
April: Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury
May: Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole
June: 1984, George Orwell
July: Slaughterhouse 5, Kurt Vonnegut
Sunday, March 30, 2008
To see every bird on earth - Dan Koeppel
I guess this book is a memoir, as much as it is a novel, but it felt like reading a novel. It's subtitled 'A Father, a Son, and lifelong Obsession', where bird watching - and specifically bird listing is the obsession. At the time of writing, his father had seen over 7,000 birds. That's 7,000 species, not just 7,000 flappy squawky individuals. Seen and identified them, using all manner of field guides. Seen and identified them in all manner of hard to get to places. And then recorded them, meticulously, with cross referencing and reference to the official tally of species for a region. Changing the list as species are deemed to have been split or 'lumped' (as taxonimists decide that one species is actually two different ones that look pretty similar, or decide that two are really the one). To get this list his father dedicated huge chunks of time and attention to his pursuit, becoming more and more single minded about it as he grew older.
The story jumps from the past to the present, linking stories of Dan's grandparents' lives as they left Europe in war, and adapted to life in America, memories from his own childhood and his parent's marriage in it's early days, goes off on tangents about the history of bird watching, or of other famous listers, includes tales of adventure in far flung places as people hunt down birds to spot. And it does this all rather effortlessly, not a dry tedious detail book, but seeming rich with interesting stories that ebb and flow around each other. What I found most interesting was the author's own story of coming to terms with his father's reality, and the generous and philosophical way he looks at his dad's own childhood, and the pressures on him, and the joy and escape he got from watching birds (as well as the relentless family pressure to enter a career in medicine in give up any notion of being an ornithologist), and his conjecture that the repression ended up with the love of bird watching becoming an obsession. But he says it all so much more kindly and interestingly than I do. It was interesting to trace the author's own story of himself as a child and young man, and how his father and he interrelated, and to see that although there were periods of estrangement and hurt (when he wished his dad was different and more available to him) in the end he got to a point of trying to share their lives however they best could - which ends up with him with binaculors in the Amazon with his dad sharing the moment of him spotting his 7,000th bird.
It's quite interesting to look at the kind of behaviour in the book that is easy to say falls squarely outside the 'norm', and consider how these boundaries might gently blur - all the different kinds of tallies and lists that people make, all the different kinds of 'spotters' out there, as well as the garden variety tally-er (to-do, countries I've been to, books I've read, bands I've seen.. etc). Makes you wonder about (and the book explores this too) some general desire in humans to feel more in control through recording and counting, and maybe, in terms of bird watching, to feel connected to the wonderous abundance of nature. But maybe a little more the former than the latter.
If you like stories about people and what might or might not make them tick, tales of 'the life less travelled', how other people navigate their family dynamics, or you just want to appreciate birds just that little bit more, this one gets a double thumbs up.
The story jumps from the past to the present, linking stories of Dan's grandparents' lives as they left Europe in war, and adapted to life in America, memories from his own childhood and his parent's marriage in it's early days, goes off on tangents about the history of bird watching, or of other famous listers, includes tales of adventure in far flung places as people hunt down birds to spot. And it does this all rather effortlessly, not a dry tedious detail book, but seeming rich with interesting stories that ebb and flow around each other. What I found most interesting was the author's own story of coming to terms with his father's reality, and the generous and philosophical way he looks at his dad's own childhood, and the pressures on him, and the joy and escape he got from watching birds (as well as the relentless family pressure to enter a career in medicine in give up any notion of being an ornithologist), and his conjecture that the repression ended up with the love of bird watching becoming an obsession. But he says it all so much more kindly and interestingly than I do. It was interesting to trace the author's own story of himself as a child and young man, and how his father and he interrelated, and to see that although there were periods of estrangement and hurt (when he wished his dad was different and more available to him) in the end he got to a point of trying to share their lives however they best could - which ends up with him with binaculors in the Amazon with his dad sharing the moment of him spotting his 7,000th bird.
It's quite interesting to look at the kind of behaviour in the book that is easy to say falls squarely outside the 'norm', and consider how these boundaries might gently blur - all the different kinds of tallies and lists that people make, all the different kinds of 'spotters' out there, as well as the garden variety tally-er (to-do, countries I've been to, books I've read, bands I've seen.. etc). Makes you wonder about (and the book explores this too) some general desire in humans to feel more in control through recording and counting, and maybe, in terms of bird watching, to feel connected to the wonderous abundance of nature. But maybe a little more the former than the latter.
If you like stories about people and what might or might not make them tick, tales of 'the life less travelled', how other people navigate their family dynamics, or you just want to appreciate birds just that little bit more, this one gets a double thumbs up.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Plan B 3.0
A review of the new book by Lester Brown of the Earth Policy Institute on Global warming and eco-collapse. Interview too.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Real stories about women's leadersip for peace
Also from my trusty e-newsletter:
"Read the stories from an extraordinary group of women who are mediating conflict, caring for refugees, restoring communities and building more responsive governments. These 15 leaders came together for CEDPA’s (Centre for Development and Population Activities) Women lead in promoting peace and stability workshop, held Oct. 23–Nov. 17, 2006 in Washington, D.C. Each has a powerful story to tell about the conflict in her country, and how women are building lasting peace by rewriting constitutions, negotiating human rights protections, securing access to land and water, and changing mindsets that limit women’s roles in their communities."
To read the publication, please visit CEDPA.
"Read the stories from an extraordinary group of women who are mediating conflict, caring for refugees, restoring communities and building more responsive governments. These 15 leaders came together for CEDPA’s (Centre for Development and Population Activities) Women lead in promoting peace and stability workshop, held Oct. 23–Nov. 17, 2006 in Washington, D.C. Each has a powerful story to tell about the conflict in her country, and how women are building lasting peace by rewriting constitutions, negotiating human rights protections, securing access to land and water, and changing mindsets that limit women’s roles in their communities."
To read the publication, please visit CEDPA.
New book on Aung San Suu Kyi out soon
(This info from a women's peace e-network I'm on)
Perfect hostage: a life of Aung San Suu Kyi, Burma’s prisoner of conscience
Justin Wintle (Skyhorse Publishing), has written a timely and important new book. The book’s subject, Aung San Suu Kyi, has been under house arrest since 1990, when Burma’s brutal military junta deemed her political ambitions a threat to their power. Despite imprisonment, failing health, and vilification at the hands of the Burmese media, Suu Kyi has persevered in an ongoing campaign of nonviolent protest and become an international icon for the peaceful pursuit of justice. Wintle’s beautifully crafted narrative offers the most thorough biography of Suu Kyi to date, as well as a complete, up-to-date account of the violent suppression of 50,000 peaceful demonstrators in September 2007.
The book will be available from March 2008 in bookstores everywhere.
Perfect hostage: a life of Aung San Suu Kyi, Burma’s prisoner of conscience
Justin Wintle (Skyhorse Publishing), has written a timely and important new book. The book’s subject, Aung San Suu Kyi, has been under house arrest since 1990, when Burma’s brutal military junta deemed her political ambitions a threat to their power. Despite imprisonment, failing health, and vilification at the hands of the Burmese media, Suu Kyi has persevered in an ongoing campaign of nonviolent protest and become an international icon for the peaceful pursuit of justice. Wintle’s beautifully crafted narrative offers the most thorough biography of Suu Kyi to date, as well as a complete, up-to-date account of the violent suppression of 50,000 peaceful demonstrators in September 2007.
The book will be available from March 2008 in bookstores everywhere.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Melbourne Library
A friend took me to the Reading Room of the Melbourne Library when I was there last year for work. What a room! Lovely. Very high vaulted ceiling as you can see from teh pics, and lovely old wooden desks with green reading lamps. Quotes from authors on the walls above bookshelves. I recomend a visit if you haven't been.
A real life Book Club for those in Sydney
Sunday Book Club at gleebooks
February book is The Memory Room by Christopher Koch:
(they say) "The events in this absorbing novel take place in the final phase of the Cold War, but they are highly relevant to today, and Christopher Koch’s widely admired prose style gives them a contemporary freshness. The aims of The Memory Room go far beyond those of a thriller. A psychological portrait of a brilliant but eccentric spy, it is also an exploration of the mystical nature of secrecy."
Published by: Vintage Australia
With Morgan Smith
Venue: gleebooks, 49 Glebe Point Rd, Glebe
When: Last Sunday of the month
Cost: Free ($5 donation for wine)
RSVP: gleebooks - 9660 2333 or email events@gleebooks.com.au
February book is The Memory Room by Christopher Koch:
(they say) "The events in this absorbing novel take place in the final phase of the Cold War, but they are highly relevant to today, and Christopher Koch’s widely admired prose style gives them a contemporary freshness. The aims of The Memory Room go far beyond those of a thriller. A psychological portrait of a brilliant but eccentric spy, it is also an exploration of the mystical nature of secrecy."
Published by: Vintage Australia
With Morgan Smith
Venue: gleebooks, 49 Glebe Point Rd, Glebe
When: Last Sunday of the month
Cost: Free ($5 donation for wine)
RSVP: gleebooks - 9660 2333 or email events@gleebooks.com.au
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Why read 'why read the classics?'
‘The classics are books which, upon reading, we find even fresher, more unexpected, and more marvellous than we had thought from hearing about them.’
The start of a new year and so it seems appropriate to begin as I wish to continue – that is by writing something on this new, first day of January. I say this because writing more regularly is one of the things I aim to do this year. As is reading more of the books on my ‘I’ve been meaning to read’ list.
Yesterday I cleaned out a bookshelf, putting some books in a bag to give away, maybe take to the backpackers for travellers to read over morning coffee or help amuse while buses are late, that kind of thing, and the others rearranging. I spent a while thinking about how to organise the books in some kind of order – not that there are so many that I wont be able to find them otherwise, but as a tool to help me plan and prioritise my reading for this year. I get excited in book shops and buy new books to add to my pile, then sometimes I despair at how many I have yet to read, how many authors who I already know I love that I haven’t managed to read the whole of their works. The list of authors I’d like to read but haven’t tried yet, or maybe have got half way through and then abandoned. The non-fiction in little clusters of topics that I think I will read and patch together an interesting picture of the state of play in a field, or finally figure out the range of arguments for and against and where I stand on the matter. My bookshelf has things I’ve read and loved (with gaps where I loved them and lent them out and haven’t had them returned), things I didn’t love that much and are now going to the backpackers around the corner, things I’ve bought and hope to read, a couple of guilty long term lends that need to be read and sent home, and the ghostly figures of books not there but dreamt of, the ones I sometimes think ‘oooh, wouldn’t it be good to read…’ (ancient philosophers and beat poets and mystics and recent releases by old favourites, that kind of thing).
Funnily enough one of the books I took off the neatly organised and newly inspiring bookshelf this morning was ‘The Literature Machine’ by Italo Calvino – a series of essays through the 1960’s to the early 80’s about writing and reading, as well as about specific authors and pieces of work, science and literature, philosophy and literature etc. He is one of my favourite writers, whose books are classics to me.
Generally I like his work because I find it clever and funny and awe-inspiring. His language (as I read it, once removed from the source, translated from the Italian) is clean and precise and lovingly used, not stale, not staid, it has depth and detail and contradiction and a lot of wry humour. He writes the reader into the work, often, and he writes in a matter of fact way about the foibles of people and the planets and the workings of nature. He tells silly little stories that have grace and meaning but aren’t overblown. Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m missing something, that he’s saying something that I haven’t quite grasped the meaning of, but I kind of like it, it’s like being a child around smart and capable grown ups who you know you will be like one day too.
Anyway, one of the essays, ‘why read the classics’ is brief but very engaging – he ranges through some definitions or key characteristics of what might make up a classic, and addresses the challenges in engaging in these works in a busy life, but talks about how they are valuable to a reader. The whole thing is great, and only about 10 pages long, so you may as well just read it yourself. I wont summarise but I’ll just talk about a couple of things that interested me.
Firstly, I liked the tone. I had a public school education and don’t speak French, Latin, Greek or Italian, so any opinionated writing about ‘the classics’ that sounds like dust and elbow pads and large country houses tends to annoy me. I don’t want someone to tell me that that unless I’ve read Dante and Montaigne and Plato that I really couldn’t possibly understand the human spirit, or that I’m seriously missing out on something wonderful and it’s probably too late to start now anyway. I am having to build my own relationship with the classics which is selfguided and tentative, any brow beating would be counterproductive. This essay is modern and light hearted (yet serious) and doesn’t tell you what you ‘should’ read, instead it supports the idea of being selective, and of there needing to be a very personal relationship with the books and the reader: ‘if the spark doesn’t come, that’s a pity; but we do not read the classics out of duty or respect, only out of love. Except at school.’
‘There is nothing for it but to invent our own ideal libraries of classics. I would say that such a library ought to be composed half of books we have read and that have really counted for us, and half of books we propose to read and presume will come to count – leaving a section of empty shelves for surprises and occasional discoveries’.
This paragraph made me happy because it reminded me of yesterday and felt very synchronous to be reading about what I’ve just done and only be in a position to read it because I’d done the thing.
Also, this talk of books yet to be read made me think about how reading, unlike many other ‘interests’ of ways of interacting with the world through others (compared, say, to listening to music, or watching films) has a different time scale about it. If I decide to get to know a film director who has interested me, it is plausible that I can find an all day Saturday screening of their most famous works; I could watch a DVD a night for a week and see all their back catalogue if I put my mind to it. On music, I could digest a few new albums a week and ‘really listen’ to them, plus relisten to favourites – I can do this while doing the dishes, while walking down the street to the shops, while typing reports at work, while enjoying dinner with friends.
With reading, there is more time involved, and it is something you do alone. Getting to know an author (outside a university English course, or community college creative writing course or similar) might take place over a period of several years (even if you are quite interested in them you might only read one of their books a year, in amongst other things you read, or ). It takes a certain peaceful setting, other people to not need your attention, over the hours it takes to read it. You may be lucky enough to dedicate a day / week/ afternoon to reading, or you may find yourself picking up a chapter here and there, revisiting and asking yourself ‘now where was I? And where were they?’.
(And I’m not suggesting it’s a special and noble pursuit because of this difference, just that it has some different challenges).
The unread books on the bookshelf can be distressing because you have chosen them knowing that you want to go there, you have it on good faith that you will enjoy them, you are intrigued to know what this author will say, how they will speak, what their tone of voice is like, whether they smile as they talk, or frown, how they speak of people and places and ideas you already know and who and what new they will introduce you to. You want to have this conversation, to listen in to the story and find your own responses to it, but you must wait, can only be reading one at a time (even if reading several at once). It requires patience, delaying gratification, and faith that you’ll get to the other ones later, in the face of that niggling (perhaps technology age aided) sense of anxiety about all there is to know and read and experience, in such a short span as a life.
That’s why I liked his description of the book shelf, because it validates the ‘yet to be read’ and also the unknown that might find its way into your hands and heart.
I also like the way that he recognises, in the essay, the particular challenges that a modern reader faces in ‘reading the classics’. Not in terms of time available (that is more my concern) but he talks about how to balance the intake of inputs eg the classics and daily news and whether one would ideally abstain from popular culture altogether or whether connection with the daily grind is an important part of placing the reader and the work in historical context.
‘Maybe the ideal thing to do would be hearken to current events as we do to the din outside our window that informs us about traffic jams and sudden changes in the weather, while we listen to the voice of the classics sounding clear and articulate inside the room. But it is already a lot for most people if the presence of the classics is perceived as a distant rumble far outside a room that is swamped by the trivia of the moment, as by a television at full blast.’
The start of a new year and so it seems appropriate to begin as I wish to continue – that is by writing something on this new, first day of January. I say this because writing more regularly is one of the things I aim to do this year. As is reading more of the books on my ‘I’ve been meaning to read’ list.
Yesterday I cleaned out a bookshelf, putting some books in a bag to give away, maybe take to the backpackers for travellers to read over morning coffee or help amuse while buses are late, that kind of thing, and the others rearranging. I spent a while thinking about how to organise the books in some kind of order – not that there are so many that I wont be able to find them otherwise, but as a tool to help me plan and prioritise my reading for this year. I get excited in book shops and buy new books to add to my pile, then sometimes I despair at how many I have yet to read, how many authors who I already know I love that I haven’t managed to read the whole of their works. The list of authors I’d like to read but haven’t tried yet, or maybe have got half way through and then abandoned. The non-fiction in little clusters of topics that I think I will read and patch together an interesting picture of the state of play in a field, or finally figure out the range of arguments for and against and where I stand on the matter. My bookshelf has things I’ve read and loved (with gaps where I loved them and lent them out and haven’t had them returned), things I didn’t love that much and are now going to the backpackers around the corner, things I’ve bought and hope to read, a couple of guilty long term lends that need to be read and sent home, and the ghostly figures of books not there but dreamt of, the ones I sometimes think ‘oooh, wouldn’t it be good to read…’ (ancient philosophers and beat poets and mystics and recent releases by old favourites, that kind of thing).
Funnily enough one of the books I took off the neatly organised and newly inspiring bookshelf this morning was ‘The Literature Machine’ by Italo Calvino – a series of essays through the 1960’s to the early 80’s about writing and reading, as well as about specific authors and pieces of work, science and literature, philosophy and literature etc. He is one of my favourite writers, whose books are classics to me.
Generally I like his work because I find it clever and funny and awe-inspiring. His language (as I read it, once removed from the source, translated from the Italian) is clean and precise and lovingly used, not stale, not staid, it has depth and detail and contradiction and a lot of wry humour. He writes the reader into the work, often, and he writes in a matter of fact way about the foibles of people and the planets and the workings of nature. He tells silly little stories that have grace and meaning but aren’t overblown. Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m missing something, that he’s saying something that I haven’t quite grasped the meaning of, but I kind of like it, it’s like being a child around smart and capable grown ups who you know you will be like one day too.
Anyway, one of the essays, ‘why read the classics’ is brief but very engaging – he ranges through some definitions or key characteristics of what might make up a classic, and addresses the challenges in engaging in these works in a busy life, but talks about how they are valuable to a reader. The whole thing is great, and only about 10 pages long, so you may as well just read it yourself. I wont summarise but I’ll just talk about a couple of things that interested me.
Firstly, I liked the tone. I had a public school education and don’t speak French, Latin, Greek or Italian, so any opinionated writing about ‘the classics’ that sounds like dust and elbow pads and large country houses tends to annoy me. I don’t want someone to tell me that that unless I’ve read Dante and Montaigne and Plato that I really couldn’t possibly understand the human spirit, or that I’m seriously missing out on something wonderful and it’s probably too late to start now anyway. I am having to build my own relationship with the classics which is selfguided and tentative, any brow beating would be counterproductive. This essay is modern and light hearted (yet serious) and doesn’t tell you what you ‘should’ read, instead it supports the idea of being selective, and of there needing to be a very personal relationship with the books and the reader: ‘if the spark doesn’t come, that’s a pity; but we do not read the classics out of duty or respect, only out of love. Except at school.’
‘There is nothing for it but to invent our own ideal libraries of classics. I would say that such a library ought to be composed half of books we have read and that have really counted for us, and half of books we propose to read and presume will come to count – leaving a section of empty shelves for surprises and occasional discoveries’.
This paragraph made me happy because it reminded me of yesterday and felt very synchronous to be reading about what I’ve just done and only be in a position to read it because I’d done the thing.
Also, this talk of books yet to be read made me think about how reading, unlike many other ‘interests’ of ways of interacting with the world through others (compared, say, to listening to music, or watching films) has a different time scale about it. If I decide to get to know a film director who has interested me, it is plausible that I can find an all day Saturday screening of their most famous works; I could watch a DVD a night for a week and see all their back catalogue if I put my mind to it. On music, I could digest a few new albums a week and ‘really listen’ to them, plus relisten to favourites – I can do this while doing the dishes, while walking down the street to the shops, while typing reports at work, while enjoying dinner with friends.
With reading, there is more time involved, and it is something you do alone. Getting to know an author (outside a university English course, or community college creative writing course or similar) might take place over a period of several years (even if you are quite interested in them you might only read one of their books a year, in amongst other things you read, or ). It takes a certain peaceful setting, other people to not need your attention, over the hours it takes to read it. You may be lucky enough to dedicate a day / week/ afternoon to reading, or you may find yourself picking up a chapter here and there, revisiting and asking yourself ‘now where was I? And where were they?’.
(And I’m not suggesting it’s a special and noble pursuit because of this difference, just that it has some different challenges).
The unread books on the bookshelf can be distressing because you have chosen them knowing that you want to go there, you have it on good faith that you will enjoy them, you are intrigued to know what this author will say, how they will speak, what their tone of voice is like, whether they smile as they talk, or frown, how they speak of people and places and ideas you already know and who and what new they will introduce you to. You want to have this conversation, to listen in to the story and find your own responses to it, but you must wait, can only be reading one at a time (even if reading several at once). It requires patience, delaying gratification, and faith that you’ll get to the other ones later, in the face of that niggling (perhaps technology age aided) sense of anxiety about all there is to know and read and experience, in such a short span as a life.
That’s why I liked his description of the book shelf, because it validates the ‘yet to be read’ and also the unknown that might find its way into your hands and heart.
I also like the way that he recognises, in the essay, the particular challenges that a modern reader faces in ‘reading the classics’. Not in terms of time available (that is more my concern) but he talks about how to balance the intake of inputs eg the classics and daily news and whether one would ideally abstain from popular culture altogether or whether connection with the daily grind is an important part of placing the reader and the work in historical context.
‘Maybe the ideal thing to do would be hearken to current events as we do to the din outside our window that informs us about traffic jams and sudden changes in the weather, while we listen to the voice of the classics sounding clear and articulate inside the room. But it is already a lot for most people if the presence of the classics is perceived as a distant rumble far outside a room that is swamped by the trivia of the moment, as by a television at full blast.’
Saturday, November 24, 2007
the reader reading
‘A reader participates in the creative process when we let a work of art act
upon us as it acted upon the artist. To grasp its meaning, we must allow it to
shape us as it shaped him. . . plunged into the healing and redeeming depths of
the collective psyche. . . This re-immersion in the state of participation
mystique is the secret of artistic creation and of the effect which great art has
upon us.’ (Jung, 1971)
More here - http://www.falconastrology.com/pdfs/Fiction_in_Another_World.pdf - about 'participation mystique'; musings on how and why readers can become immersed in worlds that they know not to be 'true' nor even possible in some cases, but experience emotional responses as if they were.
upon us as it acted upon the artist. To grasp its meaning, we must allow it to
shape us as it shaped him. . . plunged into the healing and redeeming depths of
the collective psyche. . . This re-immersion in the state of participation
mystique is the secret of artistic creation and of the effect which great art has
upon us.’ (Jung, 1971)
More here - http://www.falconastrology.com/pdfs/Fiction_in_Another_World.pdf - about 'participation mystique'; musings on how and why readers can become immersed in worlds that they know not to be 'true' nor even possible in some cases, but experience emotional responses as if they were.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Indigenous Literacy Day, September 5, 2007
An event that Australian book lovers and book shoppers might want to support:
---
Our goal is to raise $100,000!
All Australians are invited to be a part of the inaugural Indigenous Literacy Day, Wednesday September 5, 2007. Indigenous Literacy Day is a single event to help raise urgently needed funds to address the literacy crisis in remote Indigenous communities.
On Sept 5 participating booksellers will donate 5% or more of their takings to Indigenous Literacy Day.
All funds raised go directly to The Fred Hollows Foundation to buy books and other literacy resources for remote Indigenous communities in Northern Territory and New South Wales.
http://www.worldwithoutbooks.org/ILD.htm
Sydney Writers’ Festival director Wendy Were will chair a panel including David Malouf, Tara June Winch, Catherine Jinks and Tommy Murphy
State Library of NSW from 6pm. Entry is by gold coin donation. Tel: (02) 9273-1770 or email: karen@worldwithoutbooks.org.
---
Our goal is to raise $100,000!
All Australians are invited to be a part of the inaugural Indigenous Literacy Day, Wednesday September 5, 2007. Indigenous Literacy Day is a single event to help raise urgently needed funds to address the literacy crisis in remote Indigenous communities.
On Sept 5 participating booksellers will donate 5% or more of their takings to Indigenous Literacy Day.
All funds raised go directly to The Fred Hollows Foundation to buy books and other literacy resources for remote Indigenous communities in Northern Territory and New South Wales.
http://www.worldwithoutbooks.org/ILD.htm
Sydney Writers’ Festival director Wendy Were will chair a panel including David Malouf, Tara June Winch, Catherine Jinks and Tommy Murphy
State Library of NSW from 6pm. Entry is by gold coin donation. Tel: (02) 9273-1770 or email: karen@worldwithoutbooks.org.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Atwood quote
Just read this morning:
..By this time he is almost an anecdote, and Julie is almost old
The Bog Man, from Wilderness tips (short stories)
Invisible Cities - Italo Calvino
This is another one of my all time favourite authors. Picked this book up at the second hand book shop that also has a cafe and occasionally music in the courtyard, was very happy to get a copy. Such a slim little book, chock full of intense readerly experience. It made me think somehow of 'concentration' of reading experiences - remining me that some books are kind of full of air, the interesting thoughts are few and far between, they are like eating fluffy white bread that doesn't reallly nourish or engage you in digestion, you can eat slices and slices before feeling satisfied. Other books, like this one, are intense dark rye, where just a sliver has such intense flavour that you linger over the sliver, and need time before the next slice. That was a laboured way of saying that I'm reading this book slowly, that I've stopped just 2 chapters from the end, because I worry that I've whizzed through annd haven't really given it the time for ruminating that I'd like to. Every few pages I smile, or snort in happy recognition, or want to write down quotes, or draw it, or read it out loud to someone. It seem wry and full of amazing images and like a kind of mirage, hinting at meanings, showing them, obscuring them.
The stories are all about cities, tiny little vignettes of mystical cities, but the characteristics of these cities are the characteristics of our cities, all cities, of us, of all people. It maps the spread of fears and desires and movements and change and lack of change, of ritual and interractions. It has a reallly lovely texture about it.
The stories are all about cities, tiny little vignettes of mystical cities, but the characteristics of these cities are the characteristics of our cities, all cities, of us, of all people. It maps the spread of fears and desires and movements and change and lack of change, of ritual and interractions. It has a reallly lovely texture about it.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Lighthousekeeping - Jeanette Winterson
"Words are the part of silence that can be spoken"
Well, I was excited a few months back to get this book from my local second book shop, one of the few of hers that I hadn't read. And I liked it. It is a fairytale of sorts, a few tales woven together - one of a young girl who is orphaned and goes to live in a lighthouse with Pew, an old blind man who can nonetheless 'see', and his ancestors, and a love and not love story of Dark, an unhappy and conflicted priest who inspires 'Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde', and also of fossils found on the cliffs of the oceanside town, which attract Darwin and his followers. It has lots of similar themes to her other works: dwells on the nature of love (Winterson is a big old softie and has great faith in romantic love as a force of transformation), identity, family ties (not the tv show), the joys of simple living, and the magical power of stories to create the world around us and the meaning the world has for us.
A passage about Dark:
"He grew to dread the hesitant tread on the stairs to his room that overlooked the sea. She carried the tray so slowly that by the time she reached his room the tea had gone cold, and every day she apologised, and every day he told her to think nothing of it, and swallowed a sip or two of the pale liquid. She was trying to economical with the tea leaves.
That morning, he lay in bed and heard the clinking of the tea cups on the tray, as she came slowly towards him. It would be porridge, he thought, heavy as a mistake, and muffins studded with raisins that accused him as he ate them. The new cook - her appointment - baked bread plain, and disapproved of 'fanciness' as she called it, though what was fancy about a raisin, he did not know."
Pew says:
"Don't regret your life, child. It will pass soon enough."
And later, the hero, grown up and in Italy:
"I unlatched the shutters. The light was as intense as a love affair. I was blinded, delighted, not just because it was warm and wonderful, but because nature measures nothing. Nobody needs this much sunlight. Nobody needs droughts, volcanoes, monsoons, tornadoes either, but we get them, because our world is as extravagant as a world can be. We are the ones obsessed with measurement. The world just pours it out."
Well, I was excited a few months back to get this book from my local second book shop, one of the few of hers that I hadn't read. And I liked it. It is a fairytale of sorts, a few tales woven together - one of a young girl who is orphaned and goes to live in a lighthouse with Pew, an old blind man who can nonetheless 'see', and his ancestors, and a love and not love story of Dark, an unhappy and conflicted priest who inspires 'Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde', and also of fossils found on the cliffs of the oceanside town, which attract Darwin and his followers. It has lots of similar themes to her other works: dwells on the nature of love (Winterson is a big old softie and has great faith in romantic love as a force of transformation), identity, family ties (not the tv show), the joys of simple living, and the magical power of stories to create the world around us and the meaning the world has for us.
A passage about Dark:
"He grew to dread the hesitant tread on the stairs to his room that overlooked the sea. She carried the tray so slowly that by the time she reached his room the tea had gone cold, and every day she apologised, and every day he told her to think nothing of it, and swallowed a sip or two of the pale liquid. She was trying to economical with the tea leaves.
That morning, he lay in bed and heard the clinking of the tea cups on the tray, as she came slowly towards him. It would be porridge, he thought, heavy as a mistake, and muffins studded with raisins that accused him as he ate them. The new cook - her appointment - baked bread plain, and disapproved of 'fanciness' as she called it, though what was fancy about a raisin, he did not know."
Pew says:
"Don't regret your life, child. It will pass soon enough."
And later, the hero, grown up and in Italy:
"I unlatched the shutters. The light was as intense as a love affair. I was blinded, delighted, not just because it was warm and wonderful, but because nature measures nothing. Nobody needs this much sunlight. Nobody needs droughts, volcanoes, monsoons, tornadoes either, but we get them, because our world is as extravagant as a world can be. We are the ones obsessed with measurement. The world just pours it out."
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Not...telling...you...anything...about...what...happens!!
ha ha ha!
But anyway, a quick, entertaining and easy read, with what I thought was quite a populist ending.
Before I read this Harry book, I was discussing JK Rowling with my Ma In Law, who is a School librarian. We'd read an article criticising JK's writing (ie that it's not very good compared with the writing of other child classics). I have to say, there were moments where the writing seemed a bit Ludlum-ish, spelling out things instead of painting the picture for you, e.g.: "It was chaos!!". I hadn't really paid much attention to JK's writing before, and the story is usually engaging enough that you don't notice. Not sure if that says something about the plot or not? But we agreed in the end that anything that keeps kids reading is good.
* It's a bit silly, as my child is too young to watch movies or read on his own, but in my mind I've started partitioning books and films into:
a) ones I can watch with him or he can read himself one day soon
and
b) ones he can't watch/read until he's 15 or so
(ie children's versus grown up books/films)
Never used to discriminate. I suppose my brain is working out what I might do if I ever have much time to myself versus things I'll do with my son.
ha ha ha!
But anyway, a quick, entertaining and easy read, with what I thought was quite a populist ending.
Before I read this Harry book, I was discussing JK Rowling with my Ma In Law, who is a School librarian. We'd read an article criticising JK's writing (ie that it's not very good compared with the writing of other child classics). I have to say, there were moments where the writing seemed a bit Ludlum-ish, spelling out things instead of painting the picture for you, e.g.: "It was chaos!!". I hadn't really paid much attention to JK's writing before, and the story is usually engaging enough that you don't notice. Not sure if that says something about the plot or not? But we agreed in the end that anything that keeps kids reading is good.
* It's a bit silly, as my child is too young to watch movies or read on his own, but in my mind I've started partitioning books and films into:
a) ones I can watch with him or he can read himself one day soon
and
b) ones he can't watch/read until he's 15 or so
(ie children's versus grown up books/films)
Never used to discriminate. I suppose my brain is working out what I might do if I ever have much time to myself versus things I'll do with my son.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
"Under Milk Wood", Dylan Thomas
I haven't read Dylan Thomas in a long time - probably the last time was high school english poetry.
Under Milk Wood is a radio play. There are so many beautiful bits I want to quote it all. Instead, here's a paragraph from the opening scene, describing the night:
"Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewoman and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jolly, rodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sky, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.
You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing."
Sure, it's of another time, but I can fully imagine a little Welsh town, asleep at night, while at the same time get an idea of all the people who live there. I love how he transposes adjectives - e.g. "wetnosed" used to describe the damp night yards the dogs are in instead of the dog itself.
This book is a Dylan Thomas omnibus, so hope to dip into some of his poems along the way.
I haven't read Dylan Thomas in a long time - probably the last time was high school english poetry.
Under Milk Wood is a radio play. There are so many beautiful bits I want to quote it all. Instead, here's a paragraph from the opening scene, describing the night:
"Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewoman and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jolly, rodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sky, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.
You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing."
Sure, it's of another time, but I can fully imagine a little Welsh town, asleep at night, while at the same time get an idea of all the people who live there. I love how he transposes adjectives - e.g. "wetnosed" used to describe the damp night yards the dogs are in instead of the dog itself.
This book is a Dylan Thomas omnibus, so hope to dip into some of his poems along the way.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
After us they’ll fly in hot air balloons, coat styles will change, perhaps they’ll discover a sixth sense and cultivate it, but life will remain the same, a hard life full of secrets, but happy. And a thousand years from now man will still be sighing, “Oh! Life is so hard!” and will still, like now, be afraid of death and not want to die.
- Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
- Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Read these recently
The Pratchett was lent to me when I ran out of other things to read in Vietnam (apart from work books and really didn't want to read work books), the Phalahniuk was a airport impulse purchase, and the Ian Rankin was a birthday pressie from my flatmate. The green self help book was another impulse purchase when I was in the shop getting a copy for my other flatmate as a 'get well' present (she'd told me about it and said she'd like it).
Pratchett and rankin were as you'd expect. The Chuck book grated a bit at first with it's dense lists of factoids assembled as paragraphs (in the section 'people together' which are mostly essays for magazines on zany cultural events), but then became more interesting for me when he weaved in more personal stories (in the section 'portarits' and 'personal'). I think the one 'Almost California' about his own experience of going to LA for the making of the screenplay of fight club and the disconnect between his wildest dreams as a writer in the past and then what it felt like having those be realised is very poignant and extremely raw, very good stuff. That junction of writer as celebrity and writer as teller of eth story behind celebrity is interesting. The stories about his dad's recent murder were amazing. That this most horrible, pointless and suddent event is just woven into a couple of the stories makes it even more powerful - like you wonder 'fuck, how can he get it together to keep functioning and concentrating on all this other stuff when that has happened?' - his processing seems all the more powerful because it is restrained.
More on 'refuse to choose' later.
'Bluebeard's Egg' Margaret Atwood
This was unsettling really. A bit early 80's despair at impending nuclear winter and desperation in the face of tiny tight lives with unfeeling husbands, or egoistic young men picking up random women from grimy diners. I don't recommend it if you've recently had a break up or are feeling pesimistic about people. It's not all like this though, there are lots of larger than life characters, and interesting look at possible lives, ways of living lives.Loulou the hefty full-of-life potter who lives with a multitide of waifish poets who make fun of her and gather around her light with eagerness, and Yvonne the artist who lives alone and paints strange men, Emma who survives a boat down Niagra Falls and then beleives she is invincible, the narrator going home to her parents and watching her father get sick and time rush by, Joel the smug ideologue and activist who slowly drives his girlfriend to drastic actions... these people are jam-packed with hope and pain and confusion and wry humour. It's hard to read this and not see parts of yourself and the people around you.
'Yvonne has had to learn how to take care of herself; she didn't always know how. She's like a plant - not a sickly one, everone always comments on how healthy she always is - but a rare one, which can flourish and even live only under certain conditions. A transplant. She would like to write down instructions for hertself and hand them over to someone else to be carried out, but despite several attempts on her part this hasn't proved to be possible.'
The 'to read' pile
here are pictures of my 'to read' piles :) Not getting any smaller, but I have vowed to pause on my second hand book buying so that I might catch up a bit on the backlog waiting to be read.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
"The Crying of Lot 49" by Thomas Pynchon
This is an interesting book, and one that I really don't know how to begin to describe. Perhaps with a loose synopsis of the plot, and we'll see what that brings forth.
Set in late 60's, main character, Oedipa, is a lady in her late 20's, is married to a disk jockey who questions the value of his profession (at least when he sold used cars, he did something solid). One day, Oedipa receives a notice that an ex-lover has died, and has made her co-executor of his estate. She heads off in her car to stay in the ex-lover's town and sort through the estate. She meets the lawyer who is her co-executor, has an extramarital fling, and they go out to a bar one night. In a toilet cubicle, she finds some graffiti with a strange symbol (like a musical horn) underneath with a message and a phone number. The rest of the book traces her attempt to find out the meaning of the symbol.
The symbol seems to be linked to a rogue mail service (that's right, we're talking postal services here). She goes to a play with her lover, and finds more references that seem to be linked to whatever she is hunting down. As she trawls through the ex-lovers' estate, she finds connections and references to the symbol. Her journey takes her to talk to English professors at nearby Universities, to shops selling rare editions of books, and up to San Francisco. At San Francisco, she wanders around through the night, finding symbols plastered around, helping an old down and out man to deliver mail to a loved one through the rogue mail service. She comes across a man in a gay bar who has sworn chastity, to avoid becoming reliant on another person.
I started to wonder at this point whether, given Oedipa's visit to San Fran is supposed in the late 60's, she might be on some giant acid trip. Next, she goes to visit her shrink, because she is aware she is paranoid about the whole symbol/mail service thing, and she isn't sure whether the whole thing is coincidental, whether the dead guy set it all up for her to find while executing his will or whatever. This is made worse when some people she is hunting down suddenly die or go missing. Her shrink has lost it when she arrives, and holds her hostage in his rooms. It he has some issues to resolve from working for the Nazi's during WW2. When she gets out and ambulances and police arrive, Oedipa is reunited with her husband, covering the siege for his radio station.
At this point, you realise she is not on acid, because her husband has taken up the habit since she left on her journey. He is openly taking drops of the stuff, and is losing touch with reality. And instead of being overly concerned, Oedipa heads off to continue attending to her ex-lover's estate for a bit. Then the novel ends quite suddenly when the meaning of the title is revealed.
What's it all about? Lots of things and nothing. It's mostly about counterculture, but in a strangely conservative and educated way. The main character gets engrossed and researches a topic much like a writer must when researching their novels. An interesting read.
Set in late 60's, main character, Oedipa, is a lady in her late 20's, is married to a disk jockey who questions the value of his profession (at least when he sold used cars, he did something solid). One day, Oedipa receives a notice that an ex-lover has died, and has made her co-executor of his estate. She heads off in her car to stay in the ex-lover's town and sort through the estate. She meets the lawyer who is her co-executor, has an extramarital fling, and they go out to a bar one night. In a toilet cubicle, she finds some graffiti with a strange symbol (like a musical horn) underneath with a message and a phone number. The rest of the book traces her attempt to find out the meaning of the symbol.
The symbol seems to be linked to a rogue mail service (that's right, we're talking postal services here). She goes to a play with her lover, and finds more references that seem to be linked to whatever she is hunting down. As she trawls through the ex-lovers' estate, she finds connections and references to the symbol. Her journey takes her to talk to English professors at nearby Universities, to shops selling rare editions of books, and up to San Francisco. At San Francisco, she wanders around through the night, finding symbols plastered around, helping an old down and out man to deliver mail to a loved one through the rogue mail service. She comes across a man in a gay bar who has sworn chastity, to avoid becoming reliant on another person.
I started to wonder at this point whether, given Oedipa's visit to San Fran is supposed in the late 60's, she might be on some giant acid trip. Next, she goes to visit her shrink, because she is aware she is paranoid about the whole symbol/mail service thing, and she isn't sure whether the whole thing is coincidental, whether the dead guy set it all up for her to find while executing his will or whatever. This is made worse when some people she is hunting down suddenly die or go missing. Her shrink has lost it when she arrives, and holds her hostage in his rooms. It he has some issues to resolve from working for the Nazi's during WW2. When she gets out and ambulances and police arrive, Oedipa is reunited with her husband, covering the siege for his radio station.
At this point, you realise she is not on acid, because her husband has taken up the habit since she left on her journey. He is openly taking drops of the stuff, and is losing touch with reality. And instead of being overly concerned, Oedipa heads off to continue attending to her ex-lover's estate for a bit. Then the novel ends quite suddenly when the meaning of the title is revealed.
What's it all about? Lots of things and nothing. It's mostly about counterculture, but in a strangely conservative and educated way. The main character gets engrossed and researches a topic much like a writer must when researching their novels. An interesting read.
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