Reading Journal

Tell Me I'm Here

noreply@blogger.com (TeeBug) — Wed, 27 Mar 2019 05:06:00 +0000

In the 1970s and into the 1980s, before communities were ready with services to cope with demand, deinstitutionalisation was carried out in the mental health area. These resulted in the neglect of people with severe mental health issues, leading to homelessness, abuse of medications, and even gaol.

Anne Deveson’s son, Jonathan, fell ill with a mental illness during these years. In her book, ‘Tell Me I’m Here’, she describes what it was like as a mother to have a child descend into madness during those times. She was unable to find help, or even a diagnosis for many years. , and many of them had side-effects. One doctor said it was schizophrenia, and another declared there was no such thing! When Jonathan became violent, her only option was to call the police, who often did not come, or when they eventually did, Jonathan had calmed down. A coercive intervention was not possible, and Anne bounced from one doctor to another, seeking help that was not available.

After revealing many of these and similar events, Anne writes, ‘I felt as if this was some monstrous endurance test, which would never end.’

We come to know both Anne and Jonathan as they live with and alongside mental illness. Anne shows her son as more than his illness. He is intelligent, playful, funny and tender. We see Anne as more than the public writer, researcher and broadcaster we knew. She is first and foremost a mother, with three children, one of whom needs her help. She loves her son, and he loves “Anne’ as he calls her, but there are times Jonathan sees his mother, as ‘the devil’, and these are the times he tries to harm her.

As one who had some experience of the lack of help with mental health issues in the 1970s, I understood a little of what Anne faced. It would not have been easy for her to write this book. At one point, well into the book, she says, ‘I do not want to write this book. I find it painful. It scratches old wounds so they have no chance to heal. I am sick of the word “schizophrenia”. I am sick of madness.’

In 2007, Anne wrote an afterword to her book, mentioning the improvements and treatments for schizophrenia. However, it remains one of the most serious of the mental illnesses and one that would be hard for any family member to bear, along with the sufferers.

The Shepherd's Hut

noreply@blogger.com (TeeBug) — Sun, 24 Mar 2019 07:16:00 +0000

Tim Winton is a master storyteller. His realistically drawn characters, their voices and the landscapes they move through bring his works to life. The Shepherd's Hut is no exception.

The story follows young Jaxie Clackton as he travels through a harsh and unforgiving landscape, seeking love and hope. Jaxie comes alive on the page, his voice clear even if his words are profane.

As always, Winton does not need to use quote marks in his work – the voices of his characters are so distinctive one always knows who is speaking. And the subject matter is so ‘now’ it gave me chills.

Jaxie crawled from the page into my consciousness; he’s one of those great literary characters that will live forever. It’s an incredible piece of work that I thoroughly recommend, a novel that will go down in Australian Literature as one of the greats.

The Rose and The Thorn

noreply@blogger.com (TeeBug) — Fri, 22 Mar 2019 21:57:00 +0000

We live in a world that is multicultural, rich in culture, customs and diversity. This is especially true in Australia today, and I find it helpful to have some perspective and understanding of these varied cultures and the people I meet and connect with. How better for a bookworm like me to do this than to read.

As a child of the forties and fifties, my view of Indian culture and history was greatly influenced by my elders. At school, I was indoctrinated with romanticised Colonial History. India was peopled by warring factions, and when the English arrived, they soon sorted this out. When they departed in 1947, we were taught that they left a functioning democracy.

The Rose and The Thorn, by Indrani Ganguly, informs and educates as it entertains. While it’s set against a backdrop of history, it’s about love - family, sisterly and romantic love. We read about women from India’s multifaceted society working together to fight for independence, and to improve conditions for women. To do this, they have to go against the men they love, who sometimes oppose, sometimes support them. There are also complex relationships with the English men, women and children and prominent and not so prominent Indians.

The first line of this novel - ‘Today is the eighty-fifth birthday of my two mothers.’ – heralds a mystery. This hooked me and kept me puzzling over its meaning until towards the end of the book.

As twins Mukti and Lila grow to adulthood and marriage, their sheltered life begins to change, paralleling what is happening to the political climate and of the social reforms of India during the early to mid-20^th century. When it came time for the twins to marry, Mukti asked her mother (page 110): ‘Why are mothers-in-law often so mean?’ Her mother replied: ‘They were often badly treated themselves and this is their way of getting back.’ As in many societies of the time, women had no standing without a good husband, (as Mukti’s Aunt Molly declares on page 115).

Lila, the twin who was born a dreamer, wanted nothing more than to settle into a life like her mother’s but this is denied her. Mukti, on the other hand, wants adventure. As both struggle to achieve their aims, as they are torn like plants from the soil they know, their love and loyalty are tested over and over again. Mukti’s husband, Krishna, tell her (page 315): ‘Before you tear down something, you must think through what you will put in its place.’ Something India was struggling to do as it reached towards independence.

By the time I reached the final words, the challenge thrown to the reader in the last sentence of the blurb was answered. But you’ll have to read the book to discover your own answer to this question.

The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

noreply@blogger.com (TeeBug) — Sun, 17 Mar 2019 01:20:00 +0000

Having grown up in a house and an area where domestic violence was the norm, and in an era when it was not spoken about, this debut novel from Holly Ringland resonated with me.

Alice learned to use flowers to say the things she could not speak. Her mother, grandmother and great grandmother had violent fathers and loved abusive men, men unworthy of them. They found a voice through the Australian wild-flowers they grew and Alice learned well from them. Too well perhaps as we come to see when Alice falls in love.

Each Chapter is prefaced with a wild-flower and its meaning and each section by an excerpt from Tennyson, Sappho, Emily Bronte and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The flowers become a sub-text for the plot, such as 'Black Fire Orchid' which introduces the fire that took so much from Alice, and 'Blue Lady Orchid' (Chapter 15) which means Consumed by love.

The settings are beautifully drawn and the different environments seem like characters; the ocean on the east coast of Australia, the deserts of the inland, the river that Alice dreams will carry her back to her beloved ocean home, and the brilliant sunsets over the red earth of the outback. Books also feature in the story as keys for Alice to discover and empower herself as she grows up.

Fairy tales are referenced in the text, along with the flowers and their meanings. And there are myths and stories from different cultures, told to Alice by Twig, her Koori carer, Lulu, a Mexican friend and Ruby, a Park Ranger, from whom Alice learns the power of story to heal.

For a long time, Alice thought her colour was blue, like the Alice she met in Wonderland, but when she flees from her family to find herself, she discovers that she is red. Her flower is the Sturt's Desert Pea, which means 'have courage, take heart.'

The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart shines a light on a dark subject, one that is finally being openly discussed. It is an absorbing story and will keep you enthralled until the very end.

A Life well-read

noreply@blogger.com (TeeBug) — Thu, 14 Mar 2019 22:33:00 +0000

I have no memory of how or when I learned to read, nor do I remember anyone reading to me, although my mother assures me that she did. She told me that she found me with a book when I was barely four, turning the pages one by one, looking for all the world as if I were reading. Many months would pass before she thought to test me. Much to her surprise, I read the passage she pointed out.

Unlike other children, I never read out loud, apart from those times my mother had me read to family and friends to prove that I could. I do not remember sounding out words, although I know I must have. I watched my own children learn to read. They struggled through the words to form sentences and built sentence upon sentence to finally arrive at a meaning. I do not remember this progression; it is as if I had always had the key that opened the door into those other worlds, allowing me to enter the story as a participant, flowing along with the words in a seamless river of understanding.

My earliest memory is of an old couch on the front verandah of my home, of rain beating a tattoo on the old tin roof and falling through the rusty guttering. There is a lumpy cushion under my head, and a prickly blanket tucked about my body, but I am warm and cosy. My nose inhales wet earth and wood smoke. My physical self curls up on the couch while the me who existed on some other plane fell down the hole with Alice.

When the weather turned warmer, I climbed the old apple tree and sat astride a large branch. With my back to the trunk and my young legs anchoring me to the physical world, I munched on tart apples and toppled into the water with Tom, the chimney sweep. I vowed to live my life as a Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby. Later, I searched my palm for A Star in The Hand, wanting to be the next Hans Christian Andersen.

I progressed through countless books, trying out different characters to see how they fit. I roamed the green world of The Jungle Book, and was shipwrecked with the Swiss Family Robinson, and became a cross between Pollyanna and Anne of Green Gables before Captain Marryat imprisoned me with The Children of the New Forest.

I wept when Judy died in Seven Little Australians, and again for Beth in Little Women. When I reached my teens, I devoured Lorna Doone, longing for a John Ridley in my life. Then I discovered Jane Austen, the Brontè sisters, and Charles Dickens.

Friends and family never had to wonder what to give me for my birthday or Christmas, but my mother worried about me and my obsession with books. ‘Your eyes will fall out of your head,’ she warned. She despaired of me when she found me under the covers, reading by torchlight when I was supposed to be sleeping. So much reading had to be unhealthy, she said.

When desperate for material, I turned to non-fiction but mostly read works of fiction. I often didn’t understand all that I read, but I persevered in the belief that if I read as if it did make sense, then perhaps it would. Usually, it did.

Books and words were as much a part of my life as breathing and eating, and as I grew older and began to read more contemporary works, I thought about the process of reading. What exactly was it? The words ‘fiction’ and ‘story’ are euphemisms for lies, so it follows that storytelling is an elaborate form of lying. Liars work hard to give their lies the semblance of truth and nowhere is this truer than in the world of fictional books. The writers of the books I read seek to convince in order to deceive. They also deceive in order to convince. They establish fictional realities that imitate real life and which contain the semblance of truth.

When I was in my early teens, I realised that much of what I retained from my reading was not the text – I was not blessed with a good memory – but something I, as a reader, created by putting together those parts that seemed to relate to me on a personal level. Books made their mark on me, and I made my mark on them. Through books, I gained knowledge and a way of understanding myself and my position in the world.

At the same time, I came to realise that books were my escape; they were windows and doors, and after passing through them, I could forget my working class life. In the world of the book, I was no longer the eldest of twelve children, and the ever-present noise that fills every crevasse of a crowded house faded, to become the sighing of the wind in the trees or the swell of the oceans in that book world. I could ignore the hunger in my stomach as I fed the hunger in my soul.

Nearing my fiftieth decade, someone I admire – another like me, who reads voraciously – asked me an astonishing question. ‘Do you feel that life has passed you by while you were absent from the world?’ When pressed, she admitted that she was sorry she had spent so much of her time living in her books, that she felt well-read but not well-lived. ‘It worries me that I have spent my life thinking about what life experiences mean, without ever having actually experienced them,’ she added.

I thought about what she had said for some time. After nearly fifty years of reading, I still loved the feeling of being at home in the fictional world, where I know the characters and care about what is going to happen to them. Those characters become real to me, and they continue to live in my mind long after the book is closed.

Up to that time, much of my experience of life beyond my reality had been vicarious so I took on board what my friend had said and began to travel. I had already seen most of what Australia has to offer so set out to explore the rest of the world. I haven’t seen it all yet, but have been to many of those places I have read about, and more. I continue to read as much as ever, but now I can add my own layer of reality to those fictional worlds and characters.

Now in my seventh decade, I can say that I would not trade my reading life for any other and will finish my journey as I began it – reading – and at the end will judge it a life well spent, a life well read.

Introduction

noreply@blogger.com (TeeBug) — Wed, 13 Mar 2019 23:29:00 +0000

About me:

I love books. I love to read and have been devouring books since the age of five. That's almost 70 years of reading.

A saying I once read resonated with me. It went something like: God put me on earth to read a certain number of books. Right now, I'm so far behind I may never die.

I never feel comfortable unless I have a stack of books waiting to be read.

Currently, I read five books a week. I know that some people find this hard to believe, especially when they know that I also write, teach about writing, prepare and distribute newsletters for three organisations and a course book for an educational group, and serve on two committees. I am learning Italian and I love to travel and blog about those trips.

I am a very fast reader, only slowing down if a book demands it, for instance when the text is lyrical and requires a slower reading to appreciate the language used, so five books take me no time at all. Each day, I also scan news and other articles and listen to some podcasts, and keep up with puzzles and word games to keep my mind sharp.

I belong to three book clubs, use three different apps for reading books from local libraries, and also have Kindle and iBooks for ebooks I purchase. 'Real' books are my preference. There's something about the feel, smell, and anticipation of what is behind that cover that satisfies me on a level that ebooks cannot reach.

Opening a book is like opening a door to an unknown world, where new friends are waiting for me, eager to share their experiences and knowledge. If it's a good read, closing a book is sad, but I carry a little of what I read into my life and continue wondering about the characters, as I do friends I don't see very often.

I find it impossible to part with 'real' books and this creates problems when it comes to housing them. When I downsized to my present home, I sent hundreds of books to two of my sisters who between them have a few thousand books. I do not exaggerate - they are both like me and love books. They live on 40 acres and are planning to build a family library on their property.

For many years, I kept a reading journal. This involved just the date, title, and a short piece about the book and my thoughts. Sadly, over time and many house moves, most of these journals were lost. I did, for a time, back in pre-internet days, write book reviews (for payment) from the Western Review (Perth) and have copies of these still.

This blog will replace those journals.