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The classics are classics for a reason. Earlier this year, I thought I best tackle and finish Wuthering Heights as some friends on Twitter (hullo @juzzash and @carly_b) urged me to. It was the kind of book that really made me want to throw it at the wall, so angry did it make me – Cathy is tortured, Heathcliff is tortured, both are horrid.

I didn’t think I’d fare much better with the other Brontë sister novel Jane Eyre. For a start, it was much longer and those Brontë gals seem to love abusive (straight) males as love interests, best summed up by this funny cartoon @mutemonkey directed me to. However, I think that Charlotte is more skilled when it comes to making the reader feel keenly for the main protagonist’s situation. Jane as a child suffers greatly but is also very attentive to her world and her emotions. One feels more ‘drawn in’ to her plight. It’s also a deliciously Gothic novel – an urchin experiences the severity of the world around her at a young age, works to better her situation, meets a mysterious, brooding man, is employed in a large house where things go bump in the night and so forth.

I was sad to finish it, but Jane will stay with me for a long time – she is a sensible, intelligent and deeply independent woman, which would have been quite the rarity in her time. She’s a bit of a role model – not because she suffered for her love, but because she suffered for her independence and stuck to her principles without being self-righteous.

Also, it’s the perfect read for winter when you’re nursing persistent sinus infection(s)! Being sick in bed was made much less miserable by this wonderful tome. Gush!

Sigh. After reading the first chapter of this book, as an atheist, I had very high hopes. Sadly, I don’t feel Hitchens delivered. At my most critical, I felt he does for atheists what Michael Moore does for the left-wing cause. Oh, don’t get me wrong – I love a good rant. But if you’re being paid for said rant and you are a journalist of some repute then I expect you to back up your facts and cite the shit out of your claims. Old arts students habits die hard.

Don’t expect close and erudite reading of the major religious texts, as promised on the blurb – I bought this book thinking it would ‘inform’ my atheism better. Oddly enough, I found myself defending some of the faiths Hitchens was supposed to debunk. I found myself questioning my atheism constantly. Jesus, I even found myself wanting to stick up for the Bible on occasion.

I read the second two thirds of the book in the last two weeks and I’m so glad it’s over. Time to hit up Dawkins now I guess.

One thing Hitchens can never take from me? My belief that the cheesemakers are indeed blessed.

I’d actually finished this novella a while back, but my copy has two essays – one on pornography by Susan Sontag and another by Roland Barthes. Neither of these essays are ‘easy’ reading.

Then again, Georges Bataille’s erotic classic isn’t either. Story of the Eye was originally published under a pseudonym and follows the erotic leanings of a male protagonist with his lovers Simone and Marcelle. It’s not just erotic but highly sado-masochistic too. Its brutality I feel is in its directness and lack of proselytising. As the title infers, the eye is an important metaphor in the story as are its incarnations.

Sontag’s essay on pornography is brilliant, draining and thorough. I probably learnt more from it than I did from Lady Chatterley’s Lover which is the stock text used to introduce university literature students to the ‘what is pornography’ question. Yes, what constitutes pornography and what constitutes erotica are entirely different things.

Barthes’ essay is devoted entirely to Bataille’s story and he gets deep and dirty with the Saussurian linguistics that is so integral to French literary theory. He focusses on the metaphor of the eye and how Bataille reworks this throughout his story.

There is something deeply unsettling about violence against the eye and in seeing the eye in other objects, Bataille explores this. Indeed, there are echoes of Spanish Surrealist’s Luis Bunũel’s film Un chien Andalou (The Andalusian dog). Barthes notes that Bataille makes use of the poetics of the surreal. I think it is the surrealist aesthetic which makes Bataille’s tale all the more threatening but also extremely exciting. If you’re not easily shocked, it’s definitely worth reading.

It’s August. Seventy-five books this year is looking very unlikely. Good thing then that I’ve spent most of the last two and a half weeks in bed due to a sinus infection that got to my ears and chest. When not sleeping, it gave me time to catch up on my reading.

Historical fiction is a guilty pleasure of mine and especially Tudor and Elizabethan historical fiction. I feel I should be reading some of the ‘classics’ but instead I’m reading fluffier things. Not that the subject matter is fluffy, but it’s entertaining and not quite as hard work as some of the books that belong in the stuffy canon.

Wolf Hall takes on Tudor history and makes it fresh by imagining the story of Thomas Cromwell. Though his professional life is known to many a history student, there is virtually nothing about his personal life on record. Hilary Mantell, the author of Wolf Hall devotes her novel to painting a human portrait of this courtier who came to find himself indispensable when Henry VIII decided to break from the Catholic faith.

While I confess that a lot of historical fiction I read from this period is rather…pulpy, this novel is not. It’s hard work. Despite that, it ignited a child-like sadness when I found I finished it. Though Mantel’s imagining of Cromwell is not quite finished – that finishes with his execution which comes in the sequel. Yes, even though you know how it all ends (or can find out from Wikipedia), it’s still highly compelling. I shall be glad to get my hands on the sequel when it is released, but for now I’ll have to do with Philippa Gregory’s luscious and somewhat historically inaccurate novels and groan at their excess. Guiltily, of course.

Roll up, roll up! Don’t be shy, come forward and learn more about Doctor Fisher’s wondrous nerve tonic ‘Phospherine’! Calms down the hysterical housewife and invigorates the less than robust gentleman!

I can even tell you what poem of Brautigan’s first really got me fired up about him. It’s this one.

I like Brautigan more than Bukowski because Brautigan, I feel, speaks more to the everyday ‘common man’ that Bukowski purports to be. I get tired of Bukowski’s womanising and drinking – yeah, big deal dude, you’re a reeeeal writer (though I understand that at the time what he was doing for writing was a big deal).

For those who don’t really read poetry, or don’t even like it, the first poet I would recommend is Brautigan. Because he can be brief, funny, clever and doesn’t try too hard. Part of the inspiration behind this post is due to my friend Suz and her saying that she liked poetry as a child, but in adulthood doesn’t quite know where to start reconnecting with that love.

A secondary burst of inspiration comes from a lovely chap Mike that I’ve met through Suz who might be animating one of my Brautigania. Reading the great poets may be inspiring, but getting down and dirty with fellow creatives is fun! I’m pretty excited to see what he ends up doing to my very static words.

Third and last bit of inspiration was due to the lovely KJ from Twitter. One of the poems she posted on her excellent Tumblr hit home to me in a really big way. Given that Brautigan struggled with schizophrenia, it makes it all the more poignant (assuming antipsychotics were part of his treatment).

If you want to see a few Brautigan whatsits I’ve really enjoyed, check my poetic Tumblr. Tell me what you think!

Been up for two (!!!) hours now which is generally pretty normal for me on work days. I’m catching up on some blogging, listing of reading and gigs I’ve been to before I have to go to the doctor’s. You can see a book I’m reading at the moment (The Fairytale Tarot) and some issues of The New Yorker I’ve finished. The Field Notes notebooks are my record-keeping books. The ones pictured are: a personal mood/productivity diary, list of gigs and films I’ve been to and fragrance reviews.

9am

Choosing a fragrance to wear for the day. For the day, I went with The Caterpillar in honour of the same fellow from Alice’s Adventure In Wonderland. For the evening, I wore Endymion after Keats’ poem of the same name.

10am

Went into the spare room and saw Pusscat sleeping, snuggled up with my melodica in its case.

10.30am

Quickest visit to the doctor ever. Much awesomeness when that happens. They still remember me here too, hehe.

11am

Managed to get a train just as I found a stellar parking spot at the station. Hopped onto a City Circle tram to try and get some fancy lunch in the law district of the city. This is on the corner of Flinders Street and Spencer Street. I’m tram-tarded.

11.30am

The idea was to get lunch at Earl Canteen but because I took the wrong tram, I ended up at the newly opened Le Traiteur instead. Gourmet baguettes for lunch instantly gives me something to look forward to at work!

12pm

At work and thought I’d take a photo of how deserted the rest of our building looks. We’re the only project in this area at the moment which is kind of cool.

1.30pm

Lunch! Got some good writing ideas, so furiously jotted down my ideas in my notebook, which I’ve started carrying around with me again – a good sign as it means more writing! Alas, lunch is never long enough, hehe. Looks like I’ve jotted down next week’s shifts as well as some stouts I’m thinking of choosing for a beer tasting in the near future. There’s my imp of The Caterpillar fragrance oil too.

3pm

Coffee run! Said coffee had the worst crema ever. It was watery. Come on, soy milk’s not that bad!

8pm

Dinner date! Vegie rice noodles with a lot of rice noodles that I just couldn’t finish despite their supreme deliciousness.

12am

Went to a gig at the Northcote Social Club. Was trying to take a photo of the room generally but some dudes decided to clown about. Gig was ace and the crowd were really cool. Met up with some Melbourne Twitterers too!

One of my most productive days – worked, did stuff I love and enjoyed some local entertainment. Things are looking good of late!

I finished this novel quite a while ago but have been stalling on my review because it was such a deeply affecting book. Sensual, ripe description and captures the ennui of leaving an old world and an old regime for a brave new one. The so-called ‘Leopard’, the nobleman Don Fabrizio watches these changes but not in anger as one might suspect, but with a somewhat fatalistic attitude.

Visconti’s adaptation of this novel was spot-on though the film finishes at a Romantic spot (yes, Romantic, not romantic) whereas the book continues on to talk about the two beautiful youths Tancredi and Angelica in their old age. Having seen the film before reading the novel didn’t spoil it for me at all. I would call this book historical fiction of the highest calibre, except that it’s not really fiction – the author was himself a nobleman at a similar social precipice to Fabrizio.

In some ways it reminds me of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin but with more decadence and social climbing. The Leopard is a good deal shorter but more concentrated. As much as I hold the ‘canon’ in disdain, this novel deserves to be a part of it.

I make mention of this because when I reflected upon Animal Kingdom as the end credits rolled, all I could think about was Das Unheimliche – this is a really important concept in modernist literature and art. A lay translation and explanation would be finding the seemingly familiar very unfamiliar and thus freaking you the fuck out.

Animal Kingdom executes this brilliantly. It’s not often I get to see any audio-visual media set in my now beloved adopted city of Melbourne (no, believe it or not, I must be the only Melburnian that didn’t watch Underbelly). And how jarring and dissonant it is to see such familiar environs in so tainted a light.

(I do feel it fair to warn you that from this point onwards, I will discuss the film in detail so stop reading now if you don’t want me to spoil the film for you.)

A teenage boy, ‘J’, (James Frecheville) comes home to discover his mother slumped in the sofa as Deal Or No Deal blares in the background. The door is open, but the security grille is closed, and one assumes it’s a warm, sleepy day after school. Paramedics burst through the door to revive his mother and it isn’t till then (J’s face gives no indication of what has passed) that we realise his mother has had a drug overdose.

J has had little contact with family relatives but is compelled to call his grandmother and stay with her as he remembers how well she dealt with the practical matters attached to his grandfather’s death. He is reintroduced to his uncles who are armed robbers and open drug users. Through J’s induction into the world of crime his extended family live in, the viewer is exposed to a reality that posits that such a way of life is not always something one can ‘avoid’. Within the family dynamic, it becomes clear that it is criminality by association can be due to bullying, a fear of one’s own safety – less common types of psychological abuse.

As J’s uncles are picked off one by one when his eldest uncle ‘Pope’ (a deliciously creepy and sociopathic Ben Mendelsohn) returns, the nature of the abuse becomes clearer. J’s loyalty is tested. While criminals can be brutal and act above the law, so can the law enforcers. We are shown this in the cold-blooded murder of two of J’s uncles by supposedly ‘provoked’ cops and in the lawyer Ezra (played by Dan Wyllie).

Leckie (Guy Pearce) is not that kind of cop. He looks to J to choose what side to be on. He genuinely cares for J’s welfare and knows before J does that the family will look to dispose of him if he doesn’t toe the party line. As soon as I saw Guy Pearce’s tribute-to-Bargearse porn ’stache, the stereotype alarm bells started ringing which was rather stupid because Pearce is a beautifully understated yet deliberate actor. He does the corny but calm paternalistic figure well: Leckie looks to be what he feels J lacks.

It seems deliberate that Janine (Jacki Weaver) prefers her Cody boys according to how old they are: Pope is blatantly the most volatile and unlikeable of her sons and yet she chooses to ignore this. The family unit is very parasitic and Janine says she is nothing without her boys. The way she longingly kisses and touches them begs Freudian psychoanalysis and suggests sexual molestation: are her male children husband replacements? This might explain her blinding adoration of her eldest, given that he would be closer in age to her husband. It would also explain why she has no qualms ordering her grandson’s execution, him being the youngest such replacement. This film’s power lies in the abhorrence of its insinuations – the crooked cops, that J is impassive, that family would kill each other. It is confronting and I personally cannot vouch for how realistic it is, but it feels realistic and that is all the more terrifying.