Dolce Bellezza

The Secret Garden

2012-05-31T00:00:00.001-05:00

photo credit here

"Where you tend a rose, my lad,

A thistle cannot grow."

This edition, the one above which is illustrated by Tasha Tudor, was the copy of The Secret Garden I first read in 1973. I didn't love it then.

I loved the idea of a secret garden. I loved thinking of searching among the hanging ivy, finding a forbidden place, and making it beautiful again. But, the description became so very tedious for me.

I didn't understand the deeper meaning of the story. That the garden is a metaphor for strength. For joy. For Him.

The children call it Magic. Colin, who has long believed that he will be a hunchback, has practically made himself crippled because of the attitudes of those around him. Mistress Mary, once quite contrary, is the best thing that ever happened to him. She comes to her Uncle Craven's house, after her parents have died in India, as a spoiled, sour little thing. But first she is changed by Martha, the scullery maid, and Dickon, her brother. By the moor in which she is allowed to explore and listen to the wind "wutherin'".

("Aha!" I thought, "Wuthering Heights now has another connection for me!")

The three decide, Mary and Dickon and Colin, that they will show Colin's father how strong he is. It will be a surprise to see that his son is not an invalid, but in fact can walk.

Like all the truly great literature of old, this book has a story and a lesson. The lesson in A Secret Garden is valuable for children and adults alike: "To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live."

Read along with Book Journey who invited us to her garden party at the end of May.

Why I Love The Nook Simple Touch but Loathe The Nook Tablet

2012-05-29T21:27:00.002-05:00

It all started with the coupon from Barnes and Noble. "Save 15% on one item," it read. That seemed simple enough. Until I got to the cash register, with my Nook tablet and cash in hand, to hear the employee say, "This won't go through." After calling over the manager we discovered that we hadn't read the fine print. The print which says, "not eligible for purchases of the following products and services: Barnes and Noble Memberships, Gift Cards, Gift Certificates, gift-wrapping, textbooks, video games, digital content (including but not limited to NOOK Books, magazines, and periodicals, NOOK devices, NOOK accessories, other hardware and electronics, software..." You get the idea. In other words, you can have 15% off something you don't really want. Just like Macy's coupons.

Still, I bought the Nook tablet. Bringing it home, I was thrilled to have another gadget. A gadget on which to read and play. "Great," I thought. "I can blog in bed. I can check my email in Starbucks without my laptop. I can play games."

Not so fast.

The games which were free on my iPhone4s are not free on the Nook tablet.

The books which I wanted to download caused the screen to go black at random and inconvenient moments. I had to google the solution for restoring the page because the customer service was off line when it first happened. Not that I can understand the people from customer service in the first place.

The blogging platform which I use was able to show my blog, but I could not get in to write, or edit, a post.

Worst of all is that I dislike reading my books with a lit up screen. It's bright. It's harsh. It's like being at work.

There is absolutely no reason to pay $213.50 for an electronic device which will not function effectively as a tablet or an e-reader. If you're torn between the tablet or the Simple Touch, stick with the later. You will be able to read easily, while holding it in one hand and your beverage of choice in the other. It's light. It's small. It's inexpensive. It works. It's wonderful.

Or, of course, you could stick with the real deal. Because nothing equals the joy of turning a page. In paper.

p.s. Warning!!! If you buy a Tablet, or any Nook from Barnes and Noble, and try to return it later than fourteen days after purchase you will not get a refund. Period.

I Miss You

2012-05-26T10:48:00.000-05:00

It's Saturday morning. The washing machine is going, the dryer is going, the grading of papers is slowing. The end of the year is always a bit overwhelming, as I need to average grades, enter them into report cards, write comment cards, check off Everyday Math lists and organize cumulative folders for next year. I have to say good-bye to these children, whom I've seen more than my own dear son this year, this class who has begged me for more time to read independently, more time to listen to me read aloud, more time for meditation which we've recently begun to do after lunch. While listening to Japanese koto music while sitting quietly if that qualifies as "meditating." I'll miss them.

And it's weird with blogging, that ever since I took my break during Lent I've struggled with returning. I've felt numb inside and uninspired. Unsure of my voice. Uncertain of my audience. I've decided to resume with an attitude of friendship, rather than 'professional reviewer' (not that I ever saw myself in that way). I don't want to just post one review after another. I want to interject more personal posts. I've missed you.

Tomorrow is Bike The Drive. Chicago closes down Lake Shore Drive so that those who've signed up can cycle from Belmont Harbor to the Museum of Science and Industry. It's more lovely than I can even tell you. After that, we have three days left of school. Three days and one hour. And then? Then it will be Summer, and I'll be able to read and blog and visit you and resume my passions which require more time than I currently have. Because I miss you.

An Invitation to Join the Japanese Literature Challenge 6

2012-05-24T08:17:00.000-05:00

I have never been in a Japanese garden...

seen the cherry blossoms in front of Mt. Fuji...

eaten real Japanese food...

or worn a Japanese school uniform...

But, I have read Japanese literature. Not in Japanese writing, but in translation, and it has enriched my life. In 2006 I began the first Japanese Literature Challenge, and now the time has come when we can begin the sixth annual Japanese Literature Challenge. It runs from June 1, 2012 until January 30, 2013. It requires the reading of at least one work of Japanese literature (or poetry) written by a Japanese author (or poet).

For me, the best part of this challenge is having my knowledge expanded by what participants have read. From their reviews, I have gleaned a suggested reading list, and I have set goals for what I wish to read this year myself. Those books include:

and, of course, there must be something by Murakami. I'm thinking we'll have a shared read of this:

Of course, there are many more works of Japanese literature on my shelf. These are just a few of the ones most pressing on my mind. Won't you join me? Will you take the next six months or so to read one, or more, books of Japanese literature and share them with us? If so, please sign up with the Mr. Linky and I will add your name to the JLC6 review site. So hope to see you there!

Here is a button if you'd like to use it:

Clara and Mr. Tiffany (and Give Away)

2012-05-21T00:00:00.000-05:00

Clara and Mr. Tiffany is a work of historical fiction by Susan Vreeland, the author who also wrote The Girl In Hyacinth Blue. It is an eloquent look at the woman who designed the intricately detailed Tiffany lamp.

Clara Driscoll is the woman who works with Mr. Tiffany, the son of the man who began Tiffany and Company as we now know the jewelry store to be. He requires that his workers remain unmarried, which presents a large problem to Clara. Her first marriage was not a happy one, and when she pursues a romantic relationship with a man named Edward she wakes up after their first evening together to discover he has vanished. Completely.

However, she ensconces herself with her work by not only directing the girls who cut the glass for windows, but by designing the Tiffany lampshade on her own. There is much preparation to be done for the World's Columbian Exhibition Fair which is to be held in Chicago in 1893. There is much in her heart which longs to be expressed through the glass with its light and color, as well as with a man.

Praise for the novel comes from these high places:

“Vreeland’s ability to make this complex historical novel as luminous as a Tiffany lamp is nothing less than remarkable.”—The Washington Post

“A novel as sparkling and elegant as a Tiffany lampshade . . . a sensitive portrayal of women’s struggles in the nineteenth century . . . [Susan Vreeland] has captured the tone of an era. . . . The consistent elegance and vitality of her prose make reading her book a pleasure.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune

“As she did for a Vermeer painting in Girl in Hyacinth Blue, Vreeland traces the secret history of an objet d’art—this time, the iconic Tiffany lamp. . . . A fascinating look at at turn-of-the-century New York City.”—People (4 out of 4 stars)

“Vreeland’s writing is so graceful, her research so exhaustive, that a reader can’t help becoming enfolded in this fascinating world.”—Los Angeles Times

“There’s no excuse for any reader of high-quality literary fiction to let this novel pass by.”—Booklist (starred review)

I am able to give a copy of this book away to one reader. Please leave me a comment if you are interested in being considered for the drawing (US/Canada). You may also read an excerpt from the novel here.

Sunday Salon: Reading Irving 2012

2012-05-20T17:24:00.000-05:00

I've just begun In One Person which Simon and Schuster sent to me earlier this month. And it occurs to me that I have stacks of John Irving novels as yet unread on my shelf by the fireside. Stacks. Unread. Ridiculous.

So, as soon as I finish and review In One Person, I'm making it my goal to read more of John Irving's books before the end of 2012. There are eight months in which to read some, or all, of these works:

Find more about the book here.

Would you care to join me in reading one? Several? I'm not going to make a separate blog for this, it's just my own private endeavor in which I'd love you to participate with me if you're so inclined. After all, I've not met one person who doesn't love A Prayer For Owen Meany.

An Uncommon Education (One of Amazon's Best Books of The Month for May)

2012-05-15T00:00:00.000-05:00

"On the day after my mother's death, I returned to 83 Beals Street for the first time in fifteen years. I had stolen something from there when I was almost nine years old and kept it long after my reasons for holding on to it had lost their urgency. I suppose it was one of many talismans, real and imagined, I began collecting around that age to help me believe that what I told myself just might be true. Perhaps the strongest of these convictions, and the one it took the longest to let go of, was that believing that I needed to save those I loved from harm also meant that I could."

From the first paragraph of this book (above) to the last, I felt it to be a most piercing novel. A novel which tells of Naomi's education at Wellesley, but of the more valuable education that one gains without ever having to step foot into college. She battles her mother's depression, her father's heart attack, her best friend's move, and her own isolation with admirable strength. She tells of it with heartbreaking honesty. It is a story of self-discovery and ambition, and I found myself marking the book with tabs every fifty pages or so. Here are a few of my favorite passages because they felt so applicable to my own life experiences:

"I had enrolled at Adams High School that fall. With nearly two thousand students in four grades, it was huge when compared with Beacon Junior High and Kennedy Elementary, both of which had been small neighborhood schools. Although its halls were narrow, the ceilings were so high that it seemed full of empty space even when crowded with students. Its demands were empty, too: the right clothes, a light attitude, a willingness to appear to be having fun. I was able to meet none of the qualifications.

"It became easier and easier to bury my misery under my drive. And along the way, it became logical to believe that the more I saw those around me fall, the more I needed to lift myself up as compensation. Maybe it was because of that day all those years ago when I witnessed my father's heart attack and sidestepped the pain with a resolution. Maybe it was because my mother and Teddy persisted in slipping in and out of safety as I stood by. Or maybe it was just because I knew that I could never let any memory go and would have to learn to shut certain things out to keep my own balance in check. For all these reasons, and probably countless more I could not name, I nurtured the perfect juvenile solution to the pain of losing. I would win, all the time, at everything. It was that simple."

"Once broken, the heart will always remain able to split along its fault lines."

The lessons Naomi learns about her family, her friends, and most importantly herself, are the heart of this book. It reminded me a bit of Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye, and even the college life of Donna Tartt's The Secret History, but Elizabeth Percer writes of growing up all in her own touching style. A style which made me feel the lessons learned from my youth, some still unlearned, become fresh again.

I very much enjoyed reading An Uncommon Education and thank TLC Book Tours for the opportunity to review this book.

(An Uncommon Education has been chosen by Amazon as one of their top ten books in May. Find the link here.)

Winner of I Am Forgiven by Anouk Markovits

2012-05-14T00:00:00.000-05:00

After writing down the names of the eligible readers who expressed an interest in receiving I Am Forgiven

and folding their names in half, it was determined that the winner for this novel is:

Sara!

Congratulations, Sara, I've emailed the publishers with your name and address so you should receive it soon!

2012-05-13T18:59:00.001-05:00

Another Mother's Day has come and gone. The men were lined up by the Hallmark cards at Target yesterday, searching for just the right words someone else wrote for their wives. Or, mothers. I smiled as I saw them, torn between admiring them for buying the card in the first place and scorning how they were sucked into the commercialism of it all in the second.

I did my own special part to add to the festivities. When I came home from church to find the blackberries I'd bought for my mother's brunch all eaten by my son I screamed, "Did you eat all the berries?!" Not for my boy, to have a mother who will be remembered as always speaking in a soft voice. Never saying a harsh word. "Great!" I storm, "and thanks for saying Happy Mother's Day!"

I'm secretly mad inside he didn't come to church with us, and so I'm showing him my best Christian spirit as soon as I walk back in the door.

He left to wait tables at the House of Emperor ("You look like manager!" they tell him because he always dresses in black, so handsomely). There was nothing I could do but text him.

"Thank you," I said, "for the dozen yellow roses you bought me last week. And thank you for taking off work to come to the family dinner for your cousin's graduation on Friday. And I'm sorry. I love you."

I'm not one of those mothers who had plates of chocolate chip cookies on the counter when her son came in from school. No, I'm the kind who leaves out half, and hides the rest so they're not gone overnight. Like the berries.

But, I'd hate to think that my love was that measured out. I want to love unconditionally. I want to love with no expectations. I want to look at the good and forget what disappoints. I want to be the best mother he could ever have.

The end.

I Am Forbidden (and give-away)

2012-05-08T00:39:00.048-05:00

"Judith unfastened the clasp of her pearl necklace, Yoel's present, that she had already chosen as her sign to let him know when she would be permitted. She placed the necklace next to the prayer book and stepped away from the lattice. The women pressing forward to see Zalman Stern jostled her to the back of the gallery. Judith wound her way down the stairs and into the street, between the strollers and mothers. She turned the corner."

The novel I Am Forbidden by Anouk Markovits is a mesmerizing look at what it means to be an Hasidic Jew and it's impact over three generations beginning with WWII. We see in very beautiful prose how being called to be separate from the world can sometimes be a difficult thing, but following the law to it's very last letter is an impossible thing.

This novel begins with Zalman Stern who is brilliant in his knowledge of the scriptures and zealous in his heart for the Lord. He marries Hannah Leah Shaiovits with whom he begat a daughter, Atara. Through the tumultuous circumstances of the war, he adopts another girl, Mira, and the two girls become very close. But, Atara cannot bear the beating she receives one evening, for riding a bicycle in the Luxembourg gardens on the Sabbath, and thus begins the separation from faith and family in her heart. Eventually she leaves home, willingly leaving the favor bestowed upon her by being obedient.

When Mira marries Josef, a childhood friend who lost his family during the war, they are unable to conceive. She counts her cycles in a private book of days, she visits the doctor, she prays, she takes fertility pills to no avail. Josef, however, will not take tests to determine his fertility. He will not allow his seed to fall in vain as the tests require.

When we take matters into our own hands, force what we want over what is, the results are often disastrous. We can justify our actions, twist scripture to apply to our decisions, as long as we want; once a choice has been made its ramifications cannot be undone.

Mira makes a choice which will affect her life, her husband's life, and ultimately their offspring's lives for generations. It caused me to think deeply about what it means to be forbidden, and what it means to be forgiven. For I believe that while God wants us to be obedient, He knows our hearts and fallibilities. He wants us to live under grace, too. This, perhaps, is what Markovits believes as well.

"It was a reading Josef had taught Rachel at the Sabbath table, a reading he later taught Judith and her siblings, how the last letter of the Torah, (lamed), and the first letter, (beth), spelled the word (lev), heart. It was a reading Josef remembered from long ago: Every year, lev, heart, linked the end to the beginning."

The publishers have graciously offered one copy of this book to be give away. Please leave a comment telling me you wish to be entered in the drawing (U.S. and Canada only, please). Thanks to TLC Book Tours and Hogarth publishers for the opportunity to read and review this novel.

Anouk Markovits was raised in France in a Satmar home, breaking from the fold when she was nineteen to avoid an arranged marriage. She went on to receive a bachelor of science from Columbia University, a master of architecture from Harvard, and a PhD in Romance studies from Cornell. Her first novel, Pur Coton, written in French, was published by Gallimard. I Am Forbidden is her English-language debut. She lives in New York with her husband.

And if one read along in May isn't enough, how about The Secret Garden?

2012-05-06T16:40:00.003-05:00

In my blogging travels today I came upon a read-along invitation for The Secret Garden hosted by Book Journey. The idea is to read this lovely children's book and post on it May 31 with a garden party of sorts at Sheila's. Doesn't that sound like the most wonderful antidote to heavy novels? Gray-ish days? Finishing up the odd bits and pieces of one's school year?

My son, now 21 years of age, has long loved this film. A man-child with a beard, who against my deepest pleas continues to smoke Marlboros, will probably watch it with me when I've finished reading. Already, I'm looking forward to getting started.

Fifty Shades of Grey

2012-05-05T15:24:00.003-05:00

Can we talk about this book for a minute? Because a minute is about all I want to give it. In fact, I never thought I'd stoop to putting up a post about it on my blog, but truly, I'm curious as to how you feel.

My exposure to the book started like this. In the school at which I am a faculty member, where colleagues know I'm a reader, someone asked at lunch, "Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?"

"No," I replied, because at that time the furor was just beginning.

"It's the best book I've ever read!" exclaimed this person, and many others chimed in with exuberance that I simply have to read it.

So, I downloaded the sample on my nook. It began with trite, petty, ridiculous description that I wouldn't have read in my teens. Curious, I read on to page 100 or so. Until I got to the Red Room of Pain and beyond.

When I felt absolutely convicted.

I'm not a prude. I've been married twice, as my first husband died. I've loved with all my heart. But this is not love. This is not romance. This is pure and simple pornography.

Have you read it? Would you call it literature? Do you know why it's taking off in such popularity? Because personally, I think it's a case of nonreaders liking pulp fiction. Or rather, the preference of pornography over literature.

Excited About Armchair BEA (Book Expo America)

2012-05-04T20:08:00.000-05:00

which doesn't even begin until a month from today! But by then I'll be out of school and able to read (gasp!) and blog (gasp!) and cycle (gasp!) almost full time.

The schedule is listed here on the site, which I'll briefly summarize here:

Monday, June 4: Introductions where participants answer five questions, provided by the Armchair BEA committee, and visit one another's blogs.
Tuesday, June 5: Giveaways from bloggers, publishers, authors, etc.
Wednesday, June 6: Networking...in real life and how to become more involved with your book community.
Thursday, June 7: Beyond the Blog in terms of writing even deeper.
Friday, June 8: The Future of Book Blogging

Participant registration opens Monday, May 7, so be sure to visit Armchair BEA to sign up if you plan on participating this year.

I've already signed up to be a part of the commenting committee. Perhaps some year I'll be able to participate in the real deal.

One Nation, Under God: The National Day of Prayer is Today

2012-05-03T08:54:00.001-05:00

A few verses to honor this day:

^"I always thank my God as I remember you in my prayers..." Philemon 4:4
"...pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective." James 5:16
"The end of all things is near. Therefore be alert and of sober mind so that you may pray." 1 Peter 4:7
"Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord." Psalm 33:12

Will you be praying today?

In Which I Cry With My Class Because Of A Poem

2012-05-01T16:33:00.000-05:00

MY SKY

We were outisde
in the street
me and some other kids
kicking the ball
before dinner
and Sky was
chasing chasing chasing
with his feet going
every which way
and his tail
wag-wag-wagging
and his mouth
slob-slob-slobbering
and he was
all over the place
smiling and wagging
and slobbering
and making
us laugh
and my dad came walking up the street
he was way down there
near the end
I could see him
after he got off the bus
and he was walk-walk-walking
and I saw him wave
and he called out
"Hey there, son!"
and so I didn't see
the car
coming from the other way
until someone else-
one of the big kids-
called out
"Car!"
and I turned around
and saw a
blue car blue car
splattered with mud
speeding down the road
And I saw Sky
going after the ball
wag-wag-wagging
his tail
and I called him
"Sky! Sky!"
and he turned his
head
but it was too late
because the
blue car blue car
splattered with mud
hit Sky
thud thud thud
and kept on going
in such a hurry
so fast
so many miles to go
it couldn't even stop
and Sky
was just there
in the road
lying on his side
with his legs bent funny
and his side heaving
and he looked up at me
and I said
"Sky! Sky! Sky!"
and then my dad
was there and he lifted Sky
out of the road
and laid him on the grass
and
Sky
closed his eyes
and
he
never
opened
them
again
ever.

~Sharon Creech

Midnight's Children Read-along: Book Two (until Alpha and Omega)

2012-04-30T00:00:00.000-05:00

"After that, for several months, mother and ayah took it in turns to open and close my lids. "He'll learn, Madam," Mary comforted Amina, "He is a good and obedient child and he will get the hang of it for sure." I learned: the first lesson of my life: nobody can face the world with his eyes open all the time."

"Our Bombay: it looks like a hand but it's really a mouth, always open, always hungry, swallowing food and talent from everywhere else in India."

"Midnight's children can be made to represent many things, according to your point of view; they can be seen as the last throw of everything antiquated and retrogressive in our myth-ridden nation, whose defeat was entirely desirable in the context of a modernizing, twentieth-century economy; or as the true hope of freedom, which is not forever extinguished; but what they must not become is the bizarre creation of a rambling, diseased mind. No: illness is neither here nor there."

"That was the day on which taxes were raised and tax threshold simultaneously lowered; my father flung down the Times of India with a violent gesture and glared around him with the red eyes I knew he only wore in his tempers. "It's like going to the bathroom!" he exploded, cryptically; egg toast tea shuddered in the blast of his wrath. "You raise your shirt and lower your trousers! Wife, this government is going to the bathroom all over us!" And my mother, blushing pink through the black, "Janum, the children, Please," but he had stomped off, leaving me with a clear understanding of what people meant when they said the country was going to pot."

Now our hero, Saleem, is nine years old going on ten. He has a prodigious nose, graphically described as being constantly running with goo; he has also acquired the ability to read people's minds. His father, Ahmed, whose assets were frozen has become impotent because his genitals were consequently turned to ice. His mother, Amina, answers the telephone of the Wrong Number only to flee so that she can meet her older lover, Nadir.

As to Saleem? He has met his 'twin' in Shiva. "Saleem and Shia, Shiva and Saleem, nose and knees and knees and nose...to Shiva, the hour had given the gifts of war (of Rama, who could draw the undrawable bow; of Arjuna and Bhima; the anient prowess of Kurus and Pandavas united, unstoppably, in him!)...and to me, the greatest talent of all-the ability to look into the hearts and minds of men."

The more Rushdie describes of India's distress, the more I see of America within his pages. America; the country I once believed in because I saw her leaders as moral, truly working for freedom of the people. Not themselves.

(Read along with us, if you choose. Find Arti's thoughts here, Gavin's thoughts here, Janell's thoughts here and ds' thoughts here. The second half of Book Two will be discussed on May 31.)

Baltasar and Blimunda

2012-04-29T12:25:00.000-05:00

What started as a joy to read quickly became tedious for me because I cannot read endless pages with sentences which have no punctuation whatsoever strung one after another filled with metaphor and allusion. One or two illustrations I can smile upon such as God having no use for a left hand since Jesus sat at His right others are beyond my point of reference.

Let me back up.

We begin in Lisbon, Portugal, the year is 1711. The friar Antony of St. Joseph promises King Dom Juao V, and his wife Dona Maria Ana, an heir to the throne if he will build a convent. This promised, their first child is conceived and born. Meanwhile, Baltasar Mateus, more fondly known as Sete-Sois (or Seven Suns) has been deprived of his left hand. Part of it remained in Spain, part in Portugal, while he was fighting in the war over who should occupy the Spanish throne: Austrian Charles or French Philip?

When Sabastiana Maria de Jesus, condemned by the Inquisition and sentenced to exile for having spoken of visions and revelations, is walking to her auto da fé, we are introduced to her daughter, Blimunda. She simply asks Baltasar his name, for he is standing close by, and in so doing their union is begun.

Padre Barolomeu Lourenco, the priest, accompanies Baltasar to Blimunda's house. Padre Bartolmeu is known as The Flying Man, because he is building a Passarola; a machine which can fly. And so the story continues, with the one handed man, the girl who can see visions, and the priest who can reach the heavens.

Having read Saramago's novel Blindness and throughly enjoyed every page, I am intrigued to find his illusions to blindness in this book. Blimunda fasts in the night, and breaks her fast in the morning by eating bread with her eyes closed. She does this so she can see with her unique ability to understand visions. "This is a day for seeing not just for looking, which may be all right for all those who possess eyes yet suffer from another form of blindness."

I also appreciate the introduction of Domenico Scarlatti, whose harpsichord music I loved to play while studying at Wittenberg University's music conservatory. Like Johann Sebastian Bach, I find his music brings an ordered elegance to whichever environment in which it's played.

But, I must confess to becoming weary halfway through Baltasar and Blimunda. Tired of endless pages of philosophy and metaphor, with an extremely slow build up to either the building of the convent or the flying machine, I abandoned ship around page 200. Perhaps I will continue; perhaps Tom of Wuthering Expectations will so enlighten me about this work that I will pick it up again. If not, I'm glad that at least I had exposure to another Saramego book.

Mariana

2012-04-27T09:54:00.003-05:00

"I gathered by my courage and looked up. "I want to know what it was that Mariana saw through the window in the Cavalier bedroom. All my flashbacks are tied to a physical place, you see, and I have to be standing on that exact spot if I want to go back there."

"Yes, I know. But are you sure that you want to go back to that moment just yet? You felt the pain yourself."

I was silent a moment, remembering. "I have to know," I said, finally. "You should understand that. These people, they're all so real to me...I have to know."

Thus speaks Julia, who having bought the house which spoke to her as a child, finds herself able to go back in time to the life of Mariana. Using elements of time travel and reincarnation, Kearsley tells a story of love and passion which drew me in as, like Julia, I had to know what happened in Mariana's life. Their story is an intriguing one, with a wonderful, satisfying ending. This was a new twist on an ancient theme of love, and I thank Sourcebooks for the opportunity to read it.

"You can't cheat fate, Julia. If you don't go looking for the lessons of the past, then the past will come looking for you."

Of Lies and Deceit

2012-04-25T09:34:00.000-05:00

"There! You see!" said the Ape. "It's all arranged. And for all your own good. We'll be able, with the money you earn, to make Narnia a country worth living in. There'll be oranges and bananas pouring in-and roads and big cities and schools and offices and whips and muzzles and saddles and cages and kennels and prisons-Oh, everything."

In The Last Battle, by C.S. Lewis, an ape poses as an imposter trying to convince the people that what is wrong is right. He sounds like a leader I know of today who poses lies as truth.

Sometimes, fantasy isn't that far from reality.

Cheerful Weather For A Wedding

2012-04-21T20:10:00.001-05:00

Dolly knew, as she looked round at the long wedding-veil stretching away forever, and at the women, too, so busy all around her, that something remarkable and upsetting in her life was steadily going forward.

She was aware of this; but it was as if she were reading about it in a book from the circulating library, instead of herself living through it.

Cheerful Weather for A Wedding, by Julia Strachly, is an irony. With a mother ecstatically proclaiming at every turn how pretty! how cheerful! something is, how can her daughter argue? The weather is most certainly not cheerful for a wedding, not with its icy blasts tearing at the guests:

Out in the drive there, standing about round the motor-car, in the furious March gale, everyone felt as though they were being beaten on the back of the head and on the nose with heavy carpets, and having cold steel knives thrust up inside their nostrils, and when they opened their mouths to avoid the pain of this, big wads of iced cotton-wool seemed to be forced against the insides of their throats immediately, so that they choked, and could not draw any breath in.

An apt description of the weather, to be sure, but even more applicable for the way that Dolly cannot speak her mind, any more than her cheerless husband speaks his. Duty bound they are, bound by some inexplicable force which pulled them to the church before being pulled away from the wedding party.

They leave behind a most abject friend of Dolly's named Joseph, whose tongue becoming suddenly loosed lets fly horrendous news of Dolly's past which may or may not be true. Everyone seems to have his own agenda, one which is immune to the circumstances in which the characters find themselves.

Perhaps the most interesting quote in the whole novella is this: "Neither youth nor loveliness makes people happy. It takes something utterly different to do that." (p. 65) What might that be? Upon further contemplation, I can't help but wonder if honesty is the missing ingredient for true cheerfulness here.

The endpapers are a 1932 design for a printed dress fabric by Madeleine Lawrence.

Read-a-thon Post #2

2012-04-21T15:38:00.001-05:00

It is now 3:30, and all I have accomplished for the Read-a-thon are finishing the "required reading" for Midnight's Children which will be posted on April 30 and the first 80 pages of Baltasar and Blimunda.

You mustn't think that I've been only sitting in my chair with a bone china teacup filled with Darjeeling, though. I've been to see my dear parents, read my emails from work, tidied the kitchen while preparing for dinner and wondered how it can possibly be mid-afternoon with so much as yet unread.

Interestingly enough, there are many similarities between Midnight's Children and Baltasar and Blimunda. While the former is set in India, and the later in Portugal, they both tell of the woes of a nation through spectacularly creative eyes. Bravo, Rushdie! Bravo, Saramago! But, more on that later. For now, it's back to my nook.

Read-a-thon Post #1

2012-04-21T08:58:00.000-05:00

As the day of the Read-a-thon dawns fresh and bright, I am nearing the end of my first goal: Book Two of Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children which I am reading with Arti and a few others. It took awhile to get back into Rushdie's writing, after completing another Hemingway; it's funny how transferring from one author to another takes adjustment.

And for the rest of the day? I'd like to read Baltasar and Blimunda, Saramago's Nobel prize winning novel, which I'm reading with Tom. I'd like to pick up, and finish, a Persephone...perhaps Cheerful Weather For a Wedding? Because it is. Cheerful weather for a Read-a-thon, anyway.

The Snow Child

2012-04-17T22:58:00.004-05:00

photo credit here

"Jack wasn't one to believe in fairy-tale maidens made of snow. Yet Faina was extraordinary. Vast mountain ranges and unending wilderness, sky and ice. You couldn't hold her too close or know her mind. Perhaps it was so with all children. Certainly he and Mabel hadn't formed into the molds their parents had set for them.

It was something more, though. Nothing tethered Faina to them. She could vanish, never return, and who was to say she had ever been loved by them?"

It's a raw book, obviously Ivey's first. Yet it cuts me to the heart, as it would any mother who's loved a child with all her being. Perhaps, in fact, too much.

The minute I start holding expectations, forming a mold for someone I love, is the minute that person starts to suffocate. And, the only place to go from there is far, far away.

by Eowyn Ivey

Sunday Salon: This Week I'm Looking Forward To...

2012-04-15T14:22:00.004-05:00

World Book Night, which is on Shakespeare's birthday, April 23, 2012. Today my husband and I went to Anderson's Bookstore to pick up the book I'm giving away. There were about 100 Givers there, so excited to pass out their books at movie theaters, schools, and shelters. Not to mention Wal-Mart and Starbucks.

And, the book I'm giving? Not Because of Winn-Dixie as hoped, but still a thrilling novel:

Leave your name in the comments telling me if you wish to win a copy in honor of this night.

Dewey's 24 Hour Read-a-thon! Sign up here if you've not yet done so, in order to dedicate Saturday, April 21, 2012 to as much reading as possible!

I'm also looking forward to a quiet week: no more formal teaching observations, no more preparing for Open House, no more report cards to write; there's only Book Club for which I'll be leading a discussion on Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. And, hopefully, a chance to get around and leave some comments!

The Boy In The Suitcase

2012-04-13T19:18:00.001-05:00

To me, the great favor which Scandinavian crime novels have enjoyed is greatly overrated. Stieg Larsson, Jussi Adler-Olsen, and Jo Nesbo write thrillers with a great plot, but also with an over abundance of bloody, gory, dehumanizing horror. I haven't really liked any of these crime novels, but I consider The Boy in The Suitcase by Lene Kaaberbol and Agnete Friis, to be the best of the bunch.

When Karin asks her friend Nina to pick up a suitcase in a locker, the last thing Nina expects to find is a little boy inside. When she does, she has unknowingly thrust herself into the middle of a very volatile situation. Searching for the boy is his mother, Sagita, and the man, Jucas, who has stolen him. Who will find him first? Will he be found alive? One wonders if this is yet another tale which involves nothing but destruction and death. Fortunately it is told with compassion, by authors who surely know what it means to be a mother. To have had a mother. Or, at the very least, to honor life.

“Here’s something you don’t often see in Nordic noir fiction — a novel written by two women about the criminal mistreatment of women and children, compassionately told from a feminine perspective and featuring female characters you can believe in…. the first collaborative effort of Lene Kaaberbol and Agnete Friis, and it packs an almighty punch.”—The New York Times Book Review, Notable Crime Book of 2011