February's last kick.

Graveyard down the road.

Of course it's a leap year: this is not the last day of February, however much I wish it was. I'm angry with February. February took my cat away, plunged us into great financial uncertainty, kept us cold, took away most of my time for blogging and reading, and more often than not disappointed me every morning with it's sullen, grey light. The days have begun, only just, to become noticeably longer, however I credit this to March trying to break through to end this dismal limbo of late-winter. Any good within this month is down to March, because nothing inspires hope and change quite like it. Not even New Year: however invigorating it may feel, light and colour is still at the very least two months away. March brings this, the early days of spring where one can forgive the grey light because it's so close to getting brighter. The weather, slightly warmer (February offers no comfort, no, none whatsoever, despite what it has done: utterly remorseless month); the colours; slightly brighter; the smells, slightly sweeter. I need Muddy March, and I was glad to return home from my walk earlier with my boots and hem of my skirt caked in thick mud (pictures from the walk here). So close, now. I'm looking forward to my "1st day of the month" post more than any other month. March can be forgiven for an awful lot, because I know that though the majority of March, in calendar terms, is officially the winter months, spring is so noticeably winning the battle.

As for February, well, it's legacy may well live on for the coming months. It has wreaked havoc on 2012, but I give up on it. I give up on waiting for it to be over, and anticipating any periods of calm. Yes, I am hopeful about March, but that hope has partly sprung from resigning myself to February's legacy. It has done what it has done, there's no undoing it. It is what it is, and there is peace to be found in accepting the chaos. You see, when I say "I give up", it sounds awful, like I'm planning on hiding under the covers until things calm down, but I give up on thinking things will calm down any time soon, and I give up on saying, "things can't get any worse" because the remorseless month has proved how foolish it is to say such things. I don't think there's any point any more in waiting for peace, no point in saying, "I'll wait until tomorrow to write my blog post" (there have been so many lost blog posts because of that), or, "I'll read later when my mind is a bit clearer". There really is no point in putting off the things I love any longer, because if I continue with this, I may be putting it off for months. My mind is as clear as it can be under the circumstances (which, I must say, is pretty clear: things are no where near as awful as they have been at various points of the last four weeks), so I continue against the odds. I give up waiting. 

And perhaps this is spring talking, saying quite suddenly that there is peace in accepting chaos. My hope hasn't disappeared, far from it. I'm just wading through it now, instead of hovering on the outskirts and wishing it would go away. It's there, and I'm here, and I have things to do, so do them. Yes, I think it is spring talking. I can't not feel excited by March. I can't not have goals and plans. I don't accept that things will continue as they have done, but for as long as they do I'll keep pushing forward. All this seems very contradictory, giving up and at the same time, not giving up on anything. But I do, all the same. And I look forward to March.

As for the last day and a half of February, well, all I can do right now is turn behind me, reach into the cupboard, and put the hot water on so I can have a bath after I've exercised. I do have a lot of plans for the final weeks of winter, which I will write about in my "first of the month" post, but for now: I'm behind with Les Misérables (only a little), and behind with The Bible (I should be up to Ezra now, however I'm only half way through 1 Kings). So I'll catch up on that, and keep reading The Old Curiosity Shop. 

Noble intentions.

I mentioned in my last post how frustrated I've been feeling of late, particularly with reading. Half of me wanted to put every single book in my 'currently reading' pile back on the shelf and start again entirely, whereas the other half thought that this would be, well, a bit if a shame. So I have done both, oddly. That is to say, last night I read Carry on Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse (the 'Jeeves and Wooster' series, as I read through it, continues to be absolutely flawless, nothing wrong with them, everything right with them). It wasn't on my list (any of them) and I just needed to read Jeeves and Wooster and that was that. And then today I finished Tom Jones, also very enjoyable however I must admit the length got the better of me.

And I intend to continue with my various lists, despite admitting that some of these books have not got a hope in hell of giving me any satisfaction other than finishing them (yes, Tolstoy, I'm looking at you). And why? Because I have noble intentions. I read mainly for pleasure, and part of enjoying a book is understanding it, and sometimes part of understanding it comes from knowing where it came from and what inspired it. Part of learning this is reading books that make you want to die whilst everyone else is telling you how marvellous they are. A perfect example is Shakespeare. I had next to no fun reading through the complete works, but how nice to be able to pick out and understand references in other novels without being prompted in anyway! I think to be a better reader, one has to put up with the dull.

I don't see how it is possible for me to read everything I wanted to read in February with only a few days to go, but that's ok because some of my more abstract goals have been met. I may not have read Bleak House, for example, but I did manage to read Catch 22 and Portrait of an Artist. I don't feel bad about not meeting these goals, I think this month was so awful it's a miracle I achieved anything at all. 

Anyway, this is not an end of the month / beginning of the month post, that is, of course, for the 1st March (not that I don't have my plans!). The point is simply intentions, noble ones. And I do have noble intentions. I won't lie, a few times I have glanced through my 2012 challenges and curled my lip at it: I put that list together in November / December 2011, and it is now nearly March 2012: my outlook has changed, as has my mood. But what makes me want to stick to my lists is that these books I have picked are good. They may not be interesting, and I may well hate a few of them, but they are worth reading regardless of how I feel about them. Most of them on there have had so much impact on literature, knowledge, and society in general, they feel independent of me. I don't know if that is a useful way to look at books because it suggests that one oughtn't criticise them, but in my mind, their worth has been proved, however I still am entitled to make up my own mind. 

And so I keep going. I'm half-inclined to say I won't pick up a new book until my 'currently reading' pile has disappeared (apart from Les Misérables and The Bible), however Atonement keeps sort of looking at me. But definitely not tonight, for tonight I am reading (and enjoying!) The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins.

101st Post.

I've been thinking for a while about writing my 101st post (well, actually, I was thinking about what I would write in my 100th, but it turned out my 100th was about Effy and other notable, but not as awesome, cats). I've written a few words here and there, and yesterday when I was out walking I had one or two ideas, but nothing that I thought was particularly worthy. And this is my problem at the minute: this month has been exceptionally difficult with so many things going wrong or generally just being awful, and I haven't had the time to do anything I particularly love. When it comes to blogging, I'm over-thinking posts and not getting them written, when it comes to reading, I'm picking up a book and not having the time to get into it, and when it comes to walking, I've been so dazed by my own problems I've not seen much of what is around me. Half of what I have seen has been behind a camera lens. The reading is a particular problem right now: all my books are chunksters, and even with the ones I love I feel the old, "Oh, you again" syndrome I've complained about before. Nothing is changing, nothing is moving forward, and yet at the same time everything around me is a storm. It's almost like being in a bell jar surrounded by chaos. And I use the word "almost" deliberately, and without reference to Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. I suppose it is what it is, these things are sent to try us, worst things happen at sea, and it's all part of growing up and being British.

So I need to move forward. In non-bookish aspects, I am getting things together a bit more. Finances are not quite as in limbo as they were (though their a-limbo status are not as favourable as we would have liked), I'm about to clean the house for the first time in weeks, I plan on exercising at some point (though it breaks my heart!) and I will try and relax in the bath later. And read. Set at least two hours aside to just read. One thing I will not be reading is War and Peace: I'm putting it aside 'til April. It is no better the second time around, and I'm starting to think I don't like Tolstoy. So what, then? What to pick up? I'm torn between sticking to the "currently reading" pile because I will be most happy to finish everything I've started, or put them all back on the shelf for a few months and start again fresh. Either option would make me feel better: the first option would make me happy in a few days or week when I see some proper progress, and the second option would make me happy right now. I don't like putting books back unread, particularly when I have been enjoying most of the books. But Lord, I need a change. And it's a good lesson: take a chunkster one at a time! I'm feeling drawn to Dostoevsky at the moment, should I go with it or wait a while? I don't know. I think I may be entitled to instant gratification, though! I don't know. I'll decide tonight. It would be so good to have a fresh currently reading pile. 

And yes, the 101st post... I think I might save all the retrospective blogging for the first blogiversary (some months away). But I will say this: blogging has greatly enhanced my reading pleasure! I love writing about what I read, and I love reading about what you have been reading. I never intended for this blog to be about the classics, and in fact when I started out, I never particularly intended to blog about books. I just wrote about whatever I was thinking at the time (most of those posts got deleted when I started letting my friends read my blog!). But this is how it turned out. And I never set out to only read classics. I just happen to enjoy classics: not only the stories, characters, descriptions, and style within each book, but the process of reading them. Their history. Reading a book from, for example, the 1700s and thinking about who else has read it, feeling the connection with individuals throughout four centuries. And this is why I also enjoy blogging - this connection is felt even more when I read a post by someone who has read what I have read, is going to read what I have read, or loves a book I want to read. Of course, there is the added bonus of treating novels of the past as historical documents of a kind. This approach to studying history is naturally fraught with methodological problems, but still, one can glean information from the past from a book that never particularly intended to give a snapshot of a bygone era. All these reasons are why the classics are important to me. I do occasionally enjoy contemporary fiction - for example, I fully intend to read Twilight  just to see what the fuss is about, and on the other side of the literary coin I enjoyed reading The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes because it is so important to have at least some grasp on the zeitgeist (I hope it doesn't hurt Barnes to know that I wrote about him in the same sentence as Twilight!). 

So I'm happy with this blog, and I am happy to have reached the 100th, or 101st post. I fully intend this blog to get to 500, or even 1000 posts! I'm glad I blog, and I'm glad I'm where I am in the blogosphere, I've found some lovely people who I've learned a lot from. 

Cats in Literature

My cat, Effy.

When I think about cats in literature, the first thing (or the first cat, rather) that springs to mind is the Rum Tum Tugger from T. S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. I don't think it's unfair to say that Eliot is a good starting point when it comes to thinking about cats in books. Skimbleshanks is another favourite, along with Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer: two very bad cats ("They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and remarkably smart at smash-and-grab"). In fact (partly owing to Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats!), most of the cast of cats in that slim volume of poetry are memorable. Bustopher Jones, too, and Old Deuteronomy, Gus, Macavity, oh, and Mr. Mistoffeles! Eliot can be credited for writing about everyone's cat.

But, there are many other cats skulking about the pages of literature. Just in the last post, I wrote that I like Ray Smith of The Dharma Bums because after attaining enlightenment (of some kind, at least), he fed his cat. Ted Hughes wrote a poem called Of Cats (in Lupercal): "So we are held in utter mock by the cats". Cats do have a tendency to bring one back down to earth. 

Then you have Graymalkin of Macbeth, a name also found in Scottish folklore (also spelt 'Grimalkin'). "I come, Graymalkin", says one of the three witches. Grimalkin, another cat, is also in William Baldwin's Beware the Cat (1561).

Cheshire Cat.

But, they're not all evil. Dinah from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland was lovely, though also a notable hunter. And speaking of Alice, no one can forget the Cheshire Cat. Credited with being very philosophical, the Cheshire Cat is also supremely awkward: this latter point is more true, I feel, to cats. I know I don't credit mine with such intelligence, however much I have loved them.

Many authors we love have mentioned cats at least somewhere along the line. Montaigne famously asked, "When I play with my cat, how do I know that she is not passing time with me rather than I with her?", P. G. Wodehouse observed, "The trouble with cats is that they've got no tact", and Saki wrote, "The cat is domestic only as far as suits its own end".

William S.Burroughs wrote, "The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don't buy love for nothing. Like all pure creatures, cats are practical." Very true. And it reminds me of Elizabeth Wurtzel's love for her cat, Zap. Zap kept her in check as far as anyone was ever able to keep Wurtzel in check. I also remember a quite from an American writer, who I don't remember, who thanked her cat in her acknowledgements: her cat kept her typing, she said, because when it settled on her lap and went to sleep she didn't want to disturb it. Vladimir Nabokov is another famous cat lover who looked after Tom Jones, May Sarton's cat. Sarton wrote,

Tom Jones soon learned that he was welcome to install himself at the very heart of genius on Nabokov’s chest, there to make starfish paws, purr ecstatically, and sometimes — rather painfully for the object of his pleasure — knead. 

Yes, cats are scattered everywhere, and I haven't mentioned Hermione Granger's Crookshanks, Tom Kitten, The Owl and the Pussycat, or even the terrifying Church Hill of Pet Semetary. I love cats, they're the cornerstone of humanity. You come home to them, feed them, and if they love you then chances are you're an awesome human being. They're always there, somewhere.

My cat, Effy, died very suddenly yesterday. We had her for seven months: rescued from the forest. She was beautiful and lovely, and had exceptionally large paws. She was old, and we loved her, and her whole life ought to have been full of love and happiness, not just the last seven months. If I ever write a novel, she'll be in it somewhere. I was very proud of her. Considering she was at the least semi-feral, she was the cleanest, sweetest, little cat I've ever known. 

Perfection and 'The Dharma Bums'.

A few weeks ago I put a prism and two glass paperweights on my bedroom window sill, and I hung a glass wind chime and my Gran's crystal necklace from the curtain rail. The intention was that in the morning, the room would be flooded not only with light but with little rainbows, too. It wasn't until today that there was much morning sun to speak of, and I've been waiting so long for it I was almost euphoric, waking up at 9am (very early for me), wrapped in quilts with the electric blanket on low looking at all the little rainbows. And when I turned around and kneeled on the bed resting my elbows in the window sill, the sky was vivid blue, the sun was bright, and there wasn't a single cloud. I made coffee for me and Big C and picked up The Dharma Bums, and I only had about 40 pages to go.

But it was so lovely outside and I've been waiting for it for such a long time, it seemed criminal to stay inside just to look at the sun through the prisms and glass and not enjoy seeing it face to face. I'm still on my hunt for spring, and it looked nearer. Of course, simply by the date, as we're getting to the end of February, spring is undoubtedly nearer, but the point was it looks nearer and that there is the difference that changes a person's mood and outlook. So I went for a walk, early enough to see the people go into the tiny church at the end of the path. As the mornings get lighter, I'm more amiable to getting up earlier. Last summer, I would walk (sometimes run) at five in the morning and it felt so good. Summer mist and sun rise is like nothing else. 

I wonder why I enjoyed this walk so much, how yesterday impacted on my thoughts today, indeed, how today has altered my perceptions (today, six years ago, I found out what happened the night before), and also, to what extent The Dharma Bums shaped my mood. It's rare, for me at least, to come across perfection in literature, to read a book which is absolutely and totally perfect, but that is what The Dharma Bums is. It is perfect.

And so I went for my walk. To be honest, I wasn't looking for spring, I was just looking. I walked along the path on the very edge of the forest, and turned up the dirt road to walk over the ford. A man drove past me in a bashed up Toyota Hilux and when I stepped onto the verge he smiled and waved his thanks. It reminded me of the village where I was brought up. It used to be like that: people would always acknowledge you at the very least, because chances are they know your face from somewhere. More recently, this pretty village of small historical significance, that isn't so far from town, has attracted a lot of commuters. "Townies". They don't say hello so much.

And so I walked on, past the fields with a group of sheep close together watching me as I walked. The greige fields and sage-green barks of the trees looked washed out under the bright sun, but it wasn't like Hardy described it. It looked like a blank canvas. Even the air was waiting for something to fill it: to say the forest smells of decayed, rotten leaves gives a grim impression with it's insinuation of death. But that is the smell, and it's not unpleasant at all, far from it in fact. It's wet and rich, and stronger in the autumn and winter. Today it was there, but not so strong. When I went off the path and into the forest, my boots were only slightly damp from dew. Not so many weeks ago they would have been caked in mud, my skirt and hem of my coat too, I have no doubt. But not today, so I carried on. There was still hoar frost in the shadows, and the bracken as unyielding under my feet - it broke and shattered and crunched as I stepped over it, so hard it was. I found a sunny spot and listened to the birds and the rustling and was glad to be alive. And on the way back, I met an old man walking his three, wiry looking terriers.
"Lovely day, isn't it?" he said.
"Grand," I said, "So lovely."
"Yes," he said, "Really lovely. Lovely, lovely day."
I knew he felt what I felt, and there was a good chance he hadn't read Dharma Bums that morning. "But let the mind beware," Kerouac's narrator Ray Smith says, "that though the flesh may be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious." Most of the time, that's enough.

I enjoyed studying Buddhism at university. Theravāda Buddhism, to be precise. But I didn't connect with it until years later. I don't identify as a Buddhist, not at all, but it means more to me now than when I studied it. I wonder if my background enhanced my enjoyment of The Dharma Bums, but I'm not sure. Not necessarily. If you don't know about Buddhism read it anyway. And I loved Ray Smith, the narrator of the book. He's so human, all the way through, as he seeks to find Dharma, or enlightenment. He is easy to identify with, and so his at times extreme experiences that people who have not practised Buddhism (like me) will not understand do seem somehow to be attainable. My favourite chapter is when he returns home, and writes of being "tremendously depressed".

[I] threw myself right on the ground, and cried, 'I'm gonna die!' because there was nothing else to do in the cold loneliness of this harsh inhospitable earth, and instantly the tender bliss of enlightenment was like milk in my eyelids and I was warm. And I realized that this was the truth Rosie knew now, and all the dead, my dead father and dead brother and dead uncles and cousins and aunts, the truth that is reliazable in a dead man's bones and is beyond the Tree of Buddha as well as the Cross of Jesus. Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live. I knew this! I also knew that I was the worst bum in the world. The diamond light was in my eyes.
My cat meowed at the icebox, anxious to see what all the good dear delight was. I fed him.

This is why I like Ray. He's real. He's humble. He feeds his cat after attaining some kind of enlightenment.

And the whole thing reminded me of suffering, the Four Noble Truths - Dukkha (suffering), Dukkha Samudaya (the cause of it), Dukkha Nirodha (cessation of suffering), and Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada (pathway to freedom from suffering). The latter, Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada inolved the Noble Eightfold Path to attain enlightenment, or Nirvana. Part of it involves detachment, something I don't think I could ever attain (possibly because I don't have a true grasp on what it means). Nevertheless, it made me think of letting go, and not hanging on to the causes of suffering. I deleted Rich's number from my phone. I could never contact him now, but that attachment might keep us both from something. Suddenly, after questioning and worrying all week about not wanting to go out to observe this anniversary with the others, and hanging on to his mobile number after his death, seemed futile. I worried all this week about being disrespectful to the dead, but when I was in the forest thinking about where I was, what surrounded me, my small knowledge of Buddhism (something he was far more "into" than I was), and, of course, The Dharma Bums, it seemed more respectful for me to delete his phone number, and I knew I'd done the right thing staying at home last night. I want to honour his memory, and not cling on to his death. For what it's worth, I don't think people who keep the phone numbers of their dead friends or relatives are wrong, but I believe knowing what I think I know, it would be wrong of me.

So, you could say I read The Dharma Bums at the right time. No doubt about it, in fact. You can see why I describe this book as perfect. It is perfect, but you know why I think it. And, as ever, it makes me want to read more 20th Century American Literature.

As for today, well, I will be a very late entry to Cassandra's readathon. I don't know what I read or how long I'll go for, but I'm fairly sure I won't be sticking to my "currently reading" pile. I'll happily pick them all up tomorrow, I love the connection I feel from reading great literature, but today, I don't know exactly what I want to read or how structured I intend to be. I'll be picking up The Buddhist Scriptures without a doubt. I think I'll probably seeing what 20th Century American lit I do have and working through some of that. Aside from all of the above, Kerouac has also made me excited about America again.

Tao Te Ching and Dharma Bums

Today I'm reading Tao Te Ching, which I do every year, and Dharma Bums. I do like Kerouac, but so far I've only read On The Road, which was recommended to me by my friend Rich.

I used to work with him about seven years ago. We worked in the pub, and it was, to be all Dickensian - the best of times and the worst of times. I loved working with him, but my God, I didn't like working there. Saturdays with him were the best day. And it was he who encouraged me to check out Tao Te Ching, The Buddhist Scriptures (which I'll also be delving into later, too), and Jack Kerouac. He also got me into pizza toasties, but this is a book blog after all so I'll just leave that one. But yes, I'm forever indebted to him for opening me to all of these, and not just the pizza toastie. Or cigars and port, for that matter.

I've said before, rightly or wrongly, I don't like "rating" religious texts, but I will say I like reading Tao Te Ching. It is simple, though at the same time hard to grasp sometimes. My favourite passage is Chapter 29,

Those who wish to take the world and control it / I see that they cannot succeed / The world is a sacred instrument / One cannot control it / The one who controls it will fail / The one who grasps it will lose / Because all things: / Either lead or follow / Either blow hot or cold / Either have strength or weakness / Either have ownership or take by force / Therefore the sage: / Eliminates extremes / Eliminates excess / Eliminates arrogance 

But then, I have a lot of favourite passages, and one can't help but feel reading it all does a person some good. "Returning to the source is serenity", again from the Tao Te Ching, was written on the order of service for Rich's funeral. He died six years ago; six years ago tonight. The world lost an awesome, kind, gentle dude. I'm older than him now, which is one of the many hundreds of things I never understand about death. How could I be older than a dude who was two years older than me. And the age old question, where do these people go? I'll never know. But I hope it's to serenity.

 I'll finish with this song, one of his favourites, one we used to play over and over on the pub jukebox. Makes me cry, but it's great. If you listen to it, do me a favour - turn it up loud.

The right to write.

I was talking to a friend this morning about the release of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Sans Foer sparked by this BBC article and she had some very interesting thoughts I wanted to share and explore in a blog post. She said, in short, it was a pointless book: "there are plenty of real victims out there, why fictionalise one?" She found it irritating, said if she was someone who lost someone in 9/11 she would be offended, and asked me how I would feel if someone took a traumatic event in my life and fictionalised it, but never mentioned me.

It's provoked a lot of thought, however I can't go into it. Why? I don't know that I have the right to. I feel that thinking and writing about it would involve speaking about victims, of whom I know nothing about. I am not a New Yorker, I am not American, I didn't lose anybody in that tragedy. Why, therefore, do I get to speak about victims? I know 9/11 affected everyone, I know it changed everything. But one thing in all of this, the most important thing, is who directly suffered. So how can I presume to speak for them? Can I really say, "I think it is offensive to the victims?" or otherwise when I am not a victim?

This made me think about "the right to write". In the past, I kept a blog where I explored a lot of feminist issues that didn't directly affect me. The difference was, I learned the importance (the crucial importance) of educating myself fully. Shutting up, listening to people's experience, and not colouring them with my own theory. When I felt more confident, I would write a little, but I would always say about my lack of full education in the matter. I know the importance too of acknowledging my privilege. For example, if I wrote about trans women, I knew that it must be said I was cis female, white, British, with a middle class education (though I am not myself middle class). Even then, I got it wrong umpteen times (one example was I wrote "transwomen" instead of spacing "trans" and "women"). So, I learned also how to apologise ("I'm sorry you found that offensive" is not an apology). If you're writing about how issues affect people, you need to be educated. And, returning to Extremely Loud for a moment: I'm not saying JSF didn't educate himself - I've moved on from this: I am passing no judgement on this book, film, or it's author.

So what of fiction? What, when fiction resembles reality so closely, do you do? How do you interpret that fiction, is what I'm asking. If someone has written something about a real life event or person, or fictionalises a real issue of which you have no experience, how do you write about it? How do you do a blog post about it? Can you comment on whether or not it was appropriate? Of course we can write about how well it was written, how it moved or failed to move you, but what of the rest? And even if it is well done, even if you were moved by Extremely Loud, how do you feel about judging it? Can you get past nagging thoughts about "cashing in"? Do you think about how the "real victims" felt? And if so, how would you express it if you were me, a white, cis female, British woman with a middle class education and no direct experience?

It makes me wonder if fiction is for everyone. Someone once told me it was, but I disagree. For example, I've said before, The Catcher in the Rye was not written for me. My instinct, when fiction resembles truth so closely, is to shut up and listen. I feel that this book being written does not give me the right to start writing about things I know little about. You could ask where I drew the line? Should I shut up about Jane Eyre as well, if I've never been in love, or indeed, never been a governess? If I say (if I had never been in love) that it is silly and unrealistic, should I just have shut up? Perhaps. But this isn't Jane Eyre. Furthermore, if I was to write about marriage in Tom Jones, Clarissa, and He Knew He Was Right, I would want to write about the portrayal, and would wish to look further into women and marriage in the 18th and 19th Century.

I think this is a bit of an off the cuff blog post, but I would really love your thoughts on this. And I suppose my conclusion is that I feel that just because a book has been written for me to read, it does not give me the right to churn off blog posts on how it affects things, people, or events that I don't fully grasp. On the other hand, perhaps you could say everyone has the right to an interpretation, even an uneducated interpretation. Freedom of speech and all. I just think freedom of speech isn't a carte blanche to trample on people. 

But let me know your thoughts. And let me stress: I am not judging Jonathon Sans Foer or how he educated himself. I don't know anything about him or the process of writing this book.

Lack of time.

It's been a bad few weeks. Nothing has gone to plan, there's always been something major on my mind (some a lot more "major" than others), and when I have had time to myself I haven't had the energy or even the inclination to use it wisely. At the moment, things seem perhaps to be getting better, but I've said that before. So for now, well, I'm using my time to do something nice, which is to say hello and I hope you're all well.

Obviously, I haven't been reading as much as I'd like (which has added to the misery!). Furthermore, all the books I do have on the go are chunksters, so you will see no progress in my 2012 page! Mostly, I'm enjoying them. Les Misérables is absolutely wonderful, and I'm still trying to stick to reading a chapter a week, tempting as it is to rush ahead. I've also started reading The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins as a readalong with Adam. This book has surprised me: I have read the back of it many times and thought it rather unappealing, however it is on my list. So, when Adam asked on Twitter if anyone would like to join him in a readalong, I thought it would be good motivation. And, well, I am enjoying it!

I'm also reading Tom Jones. Ah, Tom Jones. I am sure this will get my first five stars on Goodreads (He Knew He Was Right missed out owing to a tedious sub-plot). It is not only brilliant, but it is the kind of book that makes you excited about reading. It makes me wonder why I love it if I hated Pickwick Papers. It makes me want to read more 18th Century literature, and it makes me gather little lists of books I want to read. It especially made me want to read Tristram Shandy. It makes me wonder what the crack was between Fielding and Richardson, and, of course, it makes me want to read Pamela. It makes me think even more about marriage and women in the 18th and 19th Century, and most of all, it makes me look forward to going to bed so I can pick it up again. I love it. 

On the other hand, once again, I have to say I'm having doubts about sticking to the War and Peace challenge. I have read it once before, and it is no better the second time around. The only thing that motivates me is stubbornness. And Middlemarch? Well, I will read it. But I can't read it as planned because I forget too much about what has already happened. And, frankly, I want it read yesterday. I don't like it.

Finally, I am still reading The Bible. All I can say is that it is a worthy read: I'm too uncomfortable treating it as literature. I may be reading it as literature, but it is still a religious text.

I do also have The Old Curiosity Shop by my bed, and I have started it, but I think perhaps with reading Tom Jones, The Woman in White, and Middlemarch, I should leave it a little while until at least one of those books is complete! I am enjoying it very much, so I don't want to spoil it in any way.

So there is my reading. I also have a few posts planned: one on Othello and He Knew He Was Right, one thinking about reading the classics, and another on something I found via Jillian - criticism as autobiography. I'm also just a few posts away from my 100th post, so I'm sure I'll have some words then!

Shamanic Elements of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

I read The Secret Garden in the last week of December 2011 and always meant to do a post on it, however the excitement of New Year got in the way and I never did. Because this week has been so busy and stressful, I haven't had much time for reading (although I have been reading a little - Tom Jones: one of the most brilliant books I've ever read!), but I did want to write at least something before you all thought I'd given up on blogging, so I think it's finally time I say a few words on Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden.

The Secret Garden is one of those books that will stay with me forever. In fact, I haven't picked it up since December, and yet I'm confident to write a little post on it. It just... it just stays with you. It's beautiful, sensitive, and inspiring, and it has astonishing depth. And, as you'll gather from my title, what is most interesting to me are the shamanic elements. In fact, it is so obviously connected that I cannot believe it is a mere coincidence, the understanding of shamanism and this book, I looked up Frances Hodgson Burnett to see if I could find any definitive link between FHB and modern anthropology.

Firstly, let me clarify what I mean. Shamanism is a problematic term to define, but it roughly relates to understanding on the relationship between 'our' world and the spirit world. It involves communication: the shaman literally communicates and has a relationship with the spirit world, and one of the implications of this is it allows the shaman to heal, perhaps more specifically the soul of the sufferer. This is fantastically complex and I wish I had the time to write about this further, but for now this mediocre definition will suffice.

This belief centres on the belief in animism: literally, "soul" or "life" (from the Latin anima). All things are animated, all things have life, even the non-human. Nature: rocks, the moors, animals, trees, weather, everything. Everything has a soul. Stahl defined it as, " "doctrine that animal life is produced by an immaterial soul."

Now, think of this in terms of The Secret Garden: you have one very damaged young girl (Mary) and one very sick young boy (Colin). Then you have the shaman: Dickon. You even have a "power animal", the guider and protector - the robin, who shows Mary the way into the garden. Here's an example,

"Where's that robin as it callin' us?" he said.
The chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and Mary thought she knew whose it was.
"Is it really calling us?" she asked.
"Aye," said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
....
"Do you understand everything birds say?" said Mary.
Dickon's grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head.
"I think I do, and they think I do," he said. "I've lived on th' moor with 'em so long."

Most people have at least seen the film of The Secret Garden so you will know that it was nature that healed both Mary and Colin. They both overcame their demons from the Secret Garden, which is a metaphor for nature, and it was the guidance from Dickon and the robin that inspired and enabled this.

As it happens, there isn't a great deal written about the shamanic elements of The Secret Garden (unless I haven't given myself enough time to search and delve, which is entirely possible). But the link, in my eyes, is far too strong to be a coincidence. Shamanism is ancient, and it wasn't something that was "discovered" in the 19th and early 20th Century, and there is always elements of it in literature without any specific reference. But this? This is almost a fictional outline of a late 19th / early 20th Century understanding of what shamanism is (The Secret Garden, incidentally, was published in 1911). So, I did a little Googling and was reminded of one of the main men of the time was Edward Burnett Tylor. So far, it seems that that "Burnett" link is a coincidence, but I'm sure she must have read him. She must have read something. I wish I knew what. I found that her husband, Swan Burnett, had a side interest in anthropology so it is entirely possible she has taken a similar interest. There is very little information on Swan Burnett, so I don't know exactly how much interest he took.

There's a stronger link. I feel like if I look hard enough she was involved or at least greatly interested in modern anthropology. If anyone knows anything more, do let me know. For now, well, time constrains me, but I will look further myself...

Charles Dickens' 200th Birthday

Charles Dickens is two hundred years old. Never mind that he died on 9th June 1870, Charles Dickens is two hundred years own because Charles Dickens has lived on through his words. It didn't end on that day in 1870, we're still reading his works, still reading about him in biographies, blog posts, Tweets, and newspaper articles, and we're still watching television and film adaptations, as well as the documentaries on various channels all over the world.

He lives on. I used to hate him. I found him long-winded, unbearably so, and having read Hard Times for my A Levels, I never managed much more until late last year when I read (and loved) Oliver Twist. I never would have imagined I would go on to at least attempt to work through his major novels, let alone find any pleasure anywhere in it. But I did. I quickly came to loving his novels, and still (even though I disliked Pickwick Papers) am thoroughly enjoying reading him. And he is more loved in society than any other author I know. He's an institution, and rightly so. 

Tonight, I am reading The Old Curiosity Shop (I would have liked to have made a day of it, but things didn't run accordingly). So far I'm loving it, not just the story but feeling the connection - the book, all of his books, connect many millions. I like that: I like knowing that since 1841 when the book was published, so many have read the same words as I have read. One hundred and seventy years ago, there was no doubt a young woman who sat in her bed when she ought to have gone to sleep and read and loved it. It's the same scenario for all of his works, and we're connected to so many through two centuries by reading them. So many people have read and will read him, and I have that small link with them all.

Is anyone else having a Charles Dickens night? If yes, leave me a comment and tell me what you're doing or have done to mark the occasion :)

Weekend Reading.

I managed to complete those figures! This has been a great source of stress, despondency, and a little resentment, so I am thrilled with this!  I also finally set up my Flickr account and took some pictures (one on the left, and the rest here), so I'm getting back with my New Year Resolutions. And what better reward than a weekend of reading. I've found via Mel U on Twitter a readathon that started yesterday: Wicked Winter Readathon - 3rd - 5th February. As I say, I didn't know about it 'til last night, so yesterday's reading wasn't especially astonishing, although I did finish He Knew He Was Right (this fell short of five stars on Goodreads because, as with many of the chunksters I read, I was a little frustrated by the sub-plots), and I also started A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce.

So, what to read this weekend... I'm cautious about setting up any lists because as I've said, I'm feeling a little constrained by my challenges. That said, I am more than happy to pick some books from my 2012 Challenges, I would just sooner pick one at a time rather than set out an itinerary. For starters, then, I want to finish Portrait. I'm thinking I may start The Three Musketeers, although I may go for some smaller books. I've been thinking about Persuasion by Jane Austen for the last week, so perhaps that. Or maybe I won't read any of the 'challenges' at all! I don't know, but what I do know is that I would like a weekend of reading whatever takes my fancy and not be quite so military about it.

I'll update in this post, with the most recent update at the top.

01:22 - If you follow me on Twitter, you may have gathered that tonight has been stressful to say the least. Big C was leaving a gig when the Torsion bar snapped on rear end of car. He's 60 miles away, so nothing is going to happen tonight other than the AA taking him to his mam's. Realistically, he should be back tomorrow, Tuesday at the latest. Obviously I'm a bit gutted because I miss him, but if that thing had have gone when he was driving then God knows what would have happened. And things are fine here, home fire's burning, there's enough food to last, I've plenty to do...

Anyway, that's the score. No reading has been done. At a loose end now, not sure what to do. It's half one now, I'll stay up until he's at his mam's and I know what's happening. Might read, might go on Tumblr, tempted to exercise but the cross-trainer makes an unholy racket and it's not fair on next door, and besides I said Sunday would be my day off for exercise. But I feel a bit wretched knowing he's cold, stressed, and wanting to be home. And yes, I'm at a loose end. Should really go offline and read. Not Tom Jones though, hard to concentrate. I have last month's Vogue. Oh dear... As I say, if he had have been driving at 60mph and it had have snapped then things would have been awful, so I am grateful at that (and at the same time need to stop thinking about it because it didn't happen so there's no need to be upset at something that didn't happen).

And I miss him. Too cold and frosty for all this bother. I wish he was home.

21:05 - Apparently I'm incapable of staying awake for an entire Sunday! Just woke up, having randomly read Ghosts by Ibsen. Marvellous. Now I'm going to feed Little G and get back to Tom Jones, then maybe watch the Law and Orders I recorded (though I'll probably watch those tomorrow now, I really just want to curl up and read!).

16:28 - Reading Tom Jones. Not far through (just finished first book, which puts me on page 40, but so far I love it! Doubt I'll get much reading done over the next hour, got some household chores to do, but I've had my dinner and have no plans on exercising on a Sunday, so I have many hours ahead! (Minus, of course, Law and Order: SVU and Law and Order: Criminal Intent at 9pm and 10pm!)

13:36 - About to settle into some reading, but want to check out at least a few blogs because I hate that I haven't been able to join in with any discussions recently! I'm sure reading blogs doesn't really count as readathon material, but nevertheless it's nice to have time to do so!

After which, well, I'm torn between Tom Jones and The Old Curiosity Shop. My thinking is this: I could spend this afternoon reading this week's chapter for Les Misérables, a little of War and Peace (I can tell you now that won't happen), and perhaps Ghosts by Ibsen, and then settle down with a chunkster for the rest of the night. I won't finish it tonight, but that's no big deal. Or, I could read the above with Curiosity Shop in place of Tom Jones, which I would have at least a vague outside chance of finishing. However, Dickens's birthday is on Tuesday, and I have no plans for Tuesday, so how nice it would be to save Curiosity Shop for Tuesday and random Dickens posts... I think I've just answered my question!

03:27 - Had quite a difficult evening with the snow and Big C's determination to come home (he's back in one piece, thank God), but things have settled down now. Have just finished Persuasion, and once again I'm left completely cold by Jane Austen. Now, well, I'm half-asleep. I've made a little pile of books; Ibsen's Ghosts, Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Dickens's The Old Curiosity Shop. Tomorrow I will start one of them, and I do quite like the idea of settling in with one book, Curiosity Shop, for the whole day. But I'm not committing to anything, I may well have a new pile next to me tomorrow!

19:00 - Just finished Portrait of the Artist. Honestly, I have no words. I really don't. So, yes. On with another book! I'm going to go make a cup of coffee and do a little exercise, then return about half eight and I've not yet decided what to read next, which is exciting! To be honest, I'm not in the cheeriest of moods right now: the snow's coming down thick and fast, and thankfully Big C made it to work, but he's unlikely to be able to get back before Monday and we've not spent a night apart for over a year. But I'd rather miss him for a short while than him have an accident, and I have plenty to read so I needn't be miserable. I should also say the phone and internet connection isn't doing too well, so if I drop off the radar it's because of power cuts. Plenty of food in though, and candles, and the fire's burning well, so nothing to worry about.

1st February

As much as I love winter, I do feel I'm ready for spring now. I miss the sun, the light, the colour, and the smells of summer, and even though we're not even in spring yet, even though Spring Equinox isn't until the 20th March, February is when things start happening, changes become visible, and the outside world slowly starts waking up again. I bought some daffodils in a pot last week, and this morning two of them had flowered. It's very cloudy and grey here, but every so often, only for a minute, the sun peeks out and the room is briefly flooded with light and slight (ever so slight) warmth.

When I wrote my New Year's Resolutions, I was focusing on the whole of 2012. I didn't have any specific month-long goals other than "to get started" as it were. Now February is here, I'm thinking about what I want to achieve between now and the end of winter, as well as now and the end of the month. Keeping my resolutions has been interesting to say the least (that's code for "I didn't keep any of them at all at any point": that bookcase has been moved at least twice, for example!), but no matter. It doesn't mean I've messed up the whole year, and at no point have I felt that I did.

So, February goals. Well, I'm on target with my book goals: I've read seven out of seventy-four of my "challenge" books, and twenty-three books in total (many of these books were either children's fiction or slim volumes of poetry, so twenty-three isn't quite as impressive as it sounds). I'm by no means aiming for another twenty-three, but I would like to read at least six books from my challenges list. I'd like to return my focus to Charles Dickens, though perhaps not quite so intensely (I found prioritising one author leads to restlessness): I am very interested in reading The Old Curiosity Shop because, frankly, I want to see if the death of Little Nell moves me to laughter, as Oscar Wilde so spitefully suggested, or tears as Dickens would have hoped. I'm hoping for the latter, I'm not so impressed with Oscar's statement! I also would like to read Dombey and Son, as well as finish Bleak House.

I'm still not done with He Knew He Was Right, and I'm still loving it, so that ought to be one of the first books for my attention. I'm so excited by Anthony Trollope! I think I may also be ready for Catch 22 - a book I've started many times, but never finished. I've not picked this book up now for five years, so I think it's time! I also want to read Portrait of an Artist by James Joyce because, having finished Dubliners last night (more on this later) it is the last of the "major works". For now, I can only say I wish Joyce spent more time writing as he did in Dubliners and less time with his experimenting, however important the experiments were! (I'm selfish like that).

Finally, I think I want to finish War and Peace this month. The second time around is no more enjoyable than the first, and I feel that the first time I read it far too quickly, this time I'm reading it far too slowly. On a similar note, I'm not sure reading Middlemarch in sections is working terribly well either, but I'll reserve judgement. Les Misérables at a slow pace, on the other hand, seems to be going well. That said, I have no particular intentions to finish Middlemarch this month, so we'll see.

Aside from that, I have no long reading lists for February. I've felt very constrained in the past when I've tried to stick to long lists: sometimes a book will inspire me to read a book I hadn't thought of, or for no apparent reason I decide that I must read a book that wasn't on the radar. I don't want to feel like I oughtn't because I have other books to "get through". I don't like reading like that, and as varied as my 2012 challenge list is, it's still also a slight burden. Nevertheless, it is a worthy challenge and on the whole I'm enjoying it very much!

As for personal goals: well, the big one - my weight is, as ever, a constant source of irritation (at best) so I decided to set a more realistic goal. Although I broke my scales (broke is an understatement, I smashed them), I got the fancy ones out of the garage. I won't get weighed every day any more, I'll just aim for once a week. So far I've lost 10lbs, and I've signed up for a "Lose 10lbs in February" thing on myfitnesspal, and if I manage that, or near enough, that will bring me pretty close to my goal weight. With some hard work, though with realistic expectations, I should be done by May. My weight plans never go accordingly though, so no deadlines. The main priority is to be realistic and healthy.

I also have a staggering amount of figures to go through by the middle of the month for Big C, so they're a priority for the rest of this week and early into next week. After then things will settle down a lot more. Hopefully that will give me some time to read other people's blogs. I've been useless with commenting of late, and I hate being like that, so when I'm free I'm very much looking forward to some blog hopping and seeing what everyone else has been up to! 

Finally, the Spring Clean! I'm big on Spring Cleaning, and February is the month when plans are made. By the end of the month and into the early part of March I'll get started. I love Spring Cleans! 

So there are my February goals! In the next few days I'll check in with everyone else and see what your plans are :)

Oh, last thing: I just got my 10 000th page view, so thank you to everyone who checks in! xoxo