Authors You Should Hate Part II, and Virginia Woolf: The Will to Create as a Woman by Ruth Gruber.

A few weeks ago I received from Open Road Media a copy of Virginia Woolf: The Will to Create as a Woman by Ruth Gruber. It was an entirely new experience, and not least because I've never been sent anything to review before! But, loving all things Woolf, I was more than happy to read it. 

Lit Crit isn't my thing, let me say that first. Aside from A' Level English Literature, I have no idea on really studying a book, and frankly the idea intimidates (as well as impresses) me. This book may well be the only study of an author's works that I have ever read, but luckily it was a pleasure to read.

One of the reasons this study is most intriguing is because of the young age of the author - Ruth Gruber was only twenty when she wrote it, and is the youngest person ever to receive a PhD. We've all had this debate before: to what extent should you know or even care about an author, but when you do know a little, it does colour your view on a book, and so I cannot help but comment on her maturity as a writer. On the other hand, with regards to Virginia Woolf, if you are to judge an author solely by his or her work, then reading literary criticism gives you a further, deeper insight. This is what excited me the most, and makes me want to go on to read more on the works of an author, the explorations of technique, themes, and motivations, as opposed to biographical information. I can't say exactly to what extent I engaged with it, however that is more down to my confidence (or lack of) as a reader. I think when you read as a hobby, as I do, it is difficult to read an academic critique and take issue with it. Either way, I'm pleased to have it and will no doubt re-read it in the coming years.

What was difficult to read, as a Woolf fan, was the introduction, and it brings me back to a question I frequently ask of myself and others on here, or in conversation elsewhere: how do you feel about loving an author who, really, you should hate?

Everyone has a favourite author, and it's often irresistible to go seeking biographical information, learn about the mind and life that produced such beauty. Sometimes, we fall in love with the author themselves, and because we don't know them and because we've been so affected by them, it's difficult to read something that shows them to be awful human beings.

We none of us are perfect, that much is true. Everyone has, most likely, done something awful at one point during our lives that we perhaps regret and we would much rather it wasn't made public knowledge. However, with writers such as Woolf, it's unavoidable, particularly when letters and diaries are made public. Furthermore, these things that make some writers appear to be awful human beings are not something they regret. They see no fault in it. And that is the problem with Virginia Woolf - as much as some of us may love her, she really could be terrible. Gruber drew attention to this in her introduction, which honestly was not so fun to read.

Having met with Virginia Woolf ("I had met Virginia Woolf" - a line that inspired more envy that I have ever felt!), Gruber, years later, read the publicised diaries and letters of Virginia Woolf, which contained some somewhat uncomplimentary passages concerning the meeting. She was referred to as "a German Jew", and Gruber, being as she was American for a start, must have felt both dismissed and insignificant. I cannot imagine the sting of reading that. At first, it annoyed me - why did Gruber feel it necessary to write an introduction to her thesis decades later to tell us that? It seemed so bitter. And, indeed, it must have been - to devote that time and energy, to achieve something so very important, to meet the woman who had changed your life, and then to read an almost dismissive flick. It was uncomfortable, and I didn't want to read that about my hero.

But why? Months ago, I asked the same question, and quoted from The Hours,

Your aunt is a very lucky woman Angelica. She has two lives. The life she is living, and the book she is writing. 

Taken in this context, that line excuses writers' bad behaviour. You love their second life, you love them for what they have produced, not for saying, as Virginia did, "I do not like the Jewish voice; I do not like the Jewish laugh." Ultimately, does it matter? When it comes to reading novels, I don't think so. But when it comes to loving the author who produced the work, I am conflicted. It's almost as though I'm looking for perfection. Hero-worshipping, I suppose. Jeanette Winterson cannot put a foot wrong because she wrote Written on the Body, and how can you hate a mind that came out with The Virgin Suicides? I don't want to hear anything less than good. 

I've still never come to a decent conclusion, other than "It doesn't matter [but it secretly does]". It was interesting, and clearly very thought-provoking, to see attention being drawn to the fact that Woolf could be hideously hurtful. A lot of the time, in biographies certainly, there is a slight degree of hero-worship perhaps, and at the very least, I wonder about the bits that have been left out. Not in Gruber. But, as I say, at the same time it left me feeling uncomfortable. How ridiculous of me to want a one-dimensional image of an author to save me from seeing an inexcusable cruel side. "Catty", as Nigel Nicholson put it, and we all can be catty. But I felt sorry for Gruber, though she may not have been deliberately soliciting sympathy. Fact is, Woolf could be harsh, very, very harsh.

But, returning to the thesis - it was fascinating, especially as I am so unfamiliar with this type of writing. I do want to read more literary criticism because I feel now I can only go so far by myself or with biographies. I am very glad to have read this.

And what of hateful authors? Do you get a sense of feeling a little let down, maybe a vague embarrassment, or a desire to hide away from the nastiness your favourite author may have exhibited? I must say, during Dickens Month in February, I at best skimmed the posts about Dickens as opposed to his books. As I am still working through them, I want to leave that part until later. I don't want them spoiled in anyway. But why should I feel that they would be...?

Enchanted April, and other things.

I decided yesterday it wasn't going to get me anywhere, this waiting for decent weather before I began Enchanted April. When I pulled it down from the bookcase, a bookmark fell out: a train ticket from April 2005. Clearly, I had once before attempted to read it in April. April 2005, however, was not the time and I remember it well: it was my final assessment period at university. Dissertation was being edited, essays written in the dead of night fuelled with coffee and Red Bull, theologians were the bane of my life, and Bible references and quotations were written on sticky notes, stuck at various points over my desk. Literature had to wait. I couldn't imagine a spring where I could sit and read. Always exams and essays in spring, for GCSEs, A' Levels, BA, or the doomed MA. I never imagined being able to just sit and read.

But times change, and one day, it does all stop (academic assessment, at least). One day, learning, reading, and studying is only about pleasure and self because there is no one watching over your shoulder. Whether that's a good thing or not is for you to decide. I sometimes miss my old personal tutor, and enjoy staying in touch with him and sharing various thoughts on various things. A part of me even misses the long nights, phone calls to various girlfriends at 3am. "How many words have you done?", "How many do you have left?", "Reckon we'll get any sleep tonight?", and the classic, "Let's make a pact: we will never do this again!" 8am would come, and the train at 8:28, which I might as well get because I'm awake anyway, so let's just get this thing handed in and then I can sleep. I didn't realise it at the time, but they were good times. I miss them, but I know they're idealised. The things I would have done, if I could go back, wouldn't have been done any more than those pacts to always read the seminar readings before the seminar, or writing essays a week in advance when I was still there. But I do miss being forced to write. No inspiration, no motivation, or no desire to write a two and a half thousand word essay on Karl Barth didn't matter in the slightest because failure was not an option. Write anyway, just get on with it in the blackest of nights where most people are asleep, and then, the next morning as everyone's getting up, crawling along to the train station holding those two and a half thousand words: I wrote that. And then weeks later, being praised for it. That night was worth it.

The whole thing was, however grim it was at times. Sitting inside a Victorian building with faulty heating, attending a lecture sometimes just for the sake of writing my name on the attendance sheet and not getting told off, vowing to read properly on the subject later in the library (which, to my credit, I more than often did). It was good, even the grim times, not least because of the perspective it gives me now. I've been glad for years that I'm not forced to write anything, but now I need to be. On the other hand, I'm glad not to be forced to read anything, which is funny because I am the one who forces myself. Not always, of course, because reading is my hobby and I make very little effort to step outside my comfort zone.

I never realised just how much I love reading until Sunday. When I decided to stop at 11am, I went downstairs to make a hot drink and put Trotwood in his cage, then I came back up and went to bed. First thing I did was pick up a book. After twenty-three hours of almost solid reading, I picked up a book to wind down. I didn't do it deliberately, but I wanted to. This is what I do. This is my hobby, my own, independent source of happiness. Of course, other things make my happy, happier even, but I am talking specifically about my very own thing.

Reading is mine. It isn't dependent on anything other than the light (which, incidentally, is flickering now, suggesting a power cut is close and I should wrap this up, or at least decide on a direction!). I read. All of these books, most of them anyway, are mine and they are for me to read. Pages mark the passing minutes, and novels mark the days. I have no need for a watch when I read, time has nothing to do with me now. All these challenges I create for myself, they're not back-breakers. I want to read these books, and they're worthy endeavours: I know this even if I'm starting to think of a new "Major Works" challenge when I still have six Dickens titles left to go. There is nothing on these lists that I don't truly want to read, and at the absolute least, I will have the pleasure of knowing I have at least read them, knowing I have at the very least a small degree of familiarity with a book. As independent as my reading is, one of the consequences of it is that I feel a connection with a million others throughout the years. I have used this analogy before, and I stand by it: how many people have read the book you're reading, and over what time scale? My current bedtime book: Dombey & Son - imagine the people through 160 years reading this at bedtime. I may not read into it what, say, an old man in the 1880s would have read into it, or even a thirty year old woman in 2012 (as I am), but we have a very small, tenuous bond that transcends one hundred and sixty four years, five kings and a queen, forty-seven prime ministers (unless I miscounted), the Crimean War, the Indian Mutiny, the Boer War, two World Wars, the Korean War, the Suez Crisis, the Falklands, the Gulf, Afghanistan, Iraq, Libyan Intervention, depressions, recessions, a declining British Empire, decimalisation, 9/11, 7/7, assassinations, revolutions, everything this country and your country has faced, through it all, through all of this, here on my bedside table sits Dombey and Son, as it did 164 years ago on someone else's.

And what does this have to do with Enchanted April? Nothing, except that I read it, I read another book, another classic. Actually, I didn't plan to write what I have just written, it's entirely off-topic. What I had meant to say was I had finally read it, and it waited there for me for seven years, which is nothing compared to the time scale I just offered you! But yes, I read it, I read another one of my books and I loved it. Again, I sat in the kitchen, and as with most of April, I sat inside as the rain poured outside and I longed for flowers, sweet smells, gentle breezes, and beautiful views. Not that the views aren't beautiful here. The moors, the forest, and the hills are darker, full of water. The reservoir is choppy, but the wind isn't bitter. It's strong, but it doesn't chill you to the bone. It's really quite lovely here, on reflection.

Dewey's Read-A-Thon: Last Update

There's one hour and six minutes left to go, however I think I've achieved everything I wanted to, and besides, I keep falling asleep! I'm done.

So, here's a breakdown:

Number of pages read: 2606

Number of books read: 11

Books I read:

1. Boethius's The Consolation of Philosophy
2. Goethe's Faust Part Two
3. Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray
4. Wodehouse's Jeeves in the Offing
5. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables
6. Turgenev's Fathers and Sons
7. Dostoyevsky's Netochka Nezvanova
8. Cleland's Fanny Hill
9. Satre's Nausea 
10. James's The Europeans
11. Zafón's The Shadow of the Wind

Favourite book: I think either Anne of Green Gables or Netochka Nezvanova.

Least favourite: The Shadow of the Wind

Aside from this, I didn't keep track of breaks etc. I read when I ate, and I was online very briefly. So, this really has been a 24 hour thing!

And, with that, I'm off to bed! 11am here now, and even though there's just an hour to go, I honestly cannot do it! But it really has been great fun. So, I suppose I'll catch you all on Monday! Hope everyone else enjoyed it, too :)

Update: Well, typically, I made my cup of coffee before I went to sleep, ended up reading a little of White Teeth, and here I am, 12:00pm - I've done the full 24 hours! And now I must sleep.

Read-a-thon Day!

I have been so looking forward to today! 

So, this is my second Dewey's Read-a-Thon, the first being last October. And yep, I'm aiming for the full 24 hours. I managed it last time, and on less sleep, too, so hopefully I should make it. You know my list of books, so all I have to say, as I always say, is firstly: I'll check in regularly, and I'll update this post with the most recent entry at the top. And, secondly, I'll be Tweeting and updating on Goodreads.

**********
 

12:01 - Now I'm done. For real :)

11:03 - I'm done!

9:37 - Change of plan: I finished The Europeans an hour or so ago, and really, I might as well not have read it. So, I thought - should I continue the stubborness, or should I go to bed? I, of course, opted for the stubborness, and now I'm reading The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón because I don't believe anything would make it better, least of all sleep. I want to finish it for my 100 Greatest Books Challenge, and it would be good to finish it, even though the very fact it was a bestseller confuses and saddens me! So, total pages read so far - 2275. Should I finish Shadow, let it be known I had already read up to page 173.

6:58 - Smidge over five hours to go. Still no idea if do-able. But what I will say is this: one of the finest moments in life is sitting in a comfortable arm chair with a cappuccino on the table, a strawberry jam and cream scone in one hand, and a Jeeves book in the other, watching the mist rise over the forest, watching the day get lighter, and listening to the baby Budgie's dawn chorus. It's now light enough to turn the lamps off, though sadly not warm enough to turn the heater off. About to take Trotwood downstairs so he can have something to eat, then start The Europeans by Henry James and see where I get. And, having finished Jeeves in the Offing, my page count is now 2097. Should I complete Europeans, it will be my tenth book read during this read-a-thon :)

5:21am - My second, or rather third, wind has come with the dawn - whilst finishing Anne of Green Gables (which was beautiful), the birds started singing. It's still quite dark, but the sky and jorizon are very distinct now. Trot's on the window sill watching it all, but I don't think he'll do his morning song until it's brighter. His song seems to come around 7 or 8am. Late riser like his mam!

Now, I'm going to get a cup of coffee, have my scone, and start Jeeves in the Offing, which I've been looking forward to for hours! There's a strong possibility I'll finish with that, but we will see :) Oh, and page count - 1915.

2:56am - Hard to believe there's still nine hours to go! I am officially in the "exceptionally tired now" zone. Just finished Turgenev, and owing to my tiredness, it wasn't a complete success, however that said I did enjoy it. So, my plan: next up is Anne of Green Gables. If I can finish that, my reward is a cappuccino, a cream scone, and a Jeeves. And that is marvelous incentive. After Jeeves, however, I do not know. 

1:01am - I have never eaten a pizza so fast. And I'm rather regretting making the mini one instead of the big one. But hey! Why am I updating about food? To distract you from the [I have finished Fanny Hill and I honestly do not know what to say] bit which we'll gloss right over! Next up - Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev. I must admit, I am slightly sleepy, but I will keep going. Let me aim for... 6am. And then we'll see. For now, as I say, Turgenev. Trotwood is at large, however is taunting me by having what seems to be a sweet little Budgie dream on top of Little Dorrit vol. II. And my page count is 1420. And I'm still hungry.

11:31pm - Nearly half way through! Since posting last, I've finished Nausea, and Faust, and I'm half way through Fanny Hill. Still going strong, though aware that in the next few hours that may not be the case! Word count so far: 1199. I have just 413 pages to go to beat my last record!

So, plans now: finish Fanny Hill, make a mini pizza (feels extremely weird, the idea of eating pizza at 1am, which I imagine is when I'll be eating it! But I'll be asleep most of tomorrow so it's entirely justifiable!), then read... Something else! I've not decided yet. Fanny Hill was the last on my pile of "It would be good for my challenges if I read these" books. So, possibly Anne of Green Gables, maybe Jeeves (although I think I'll save it for when things start getting tough), maybe Father and Son. I'll see. Hope everyone else is enjoying themselves!

5:19pm - Finished The Picture of Dorian Gray, which was enjoyable, but at the same time intensely irritating (no matter how engaging or well-written something is, middle class white men musing on beauty and the importance of youth is never going to be any other). Page count so far: 658.

So, now - got potatoes in the oven, Trot is in his cage (had quite a fight to get him in), and I'm about to start Nausea by Jean-Paul Satre. Looking forward to cheesy jacket potatoes, because all I've had thusly, aside from my awesome breakfast, is several Twirl Bites and a cappuccino. Now, I has hunger! Catch you all after Nausea (there's a joke there, I just know it).

2:38pm - Finished The Consolation of Philosophy. I enjoyed it on the whole, though difficult to engage with. It certainly needs a second read. Also, it brings my page count for today up to 346 :)

And, again, bright sunshine, and again, there has been a deluge. Trot's refusing to come inside, and his feet are warm enough so I've left him for the moment. Headed back to my kitchen seat, where I shall be reading The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

1:22pm - Just finished Netochka Nezvanova (which I am yet to be able to say out loud!). Marvellous book, thoroughly enjoyed it. Now, I'm about to start Boethius's The Consolation of Philosophy. Meanwhile, it's bright sunshine here, however just ten minutes ago it was pouring down. I was all set to bring Trotwood in, but now it's so lovely. Still sitting by kitchen sink propped up by the microwave. So far, a lovely day!


11:42am - Less than twenty minutes to go! Had breakfast (a breakfast of Kings - I swear by this breakfast now - yoghurt, muesli, peanut butter, and protein powder mixed up. It just works). And now, I'm going to head downstairs to get Trotwood (who is doing back flips in his cage), put him in the aviary, then read for a few hours in the kitchen. As for the first book, well I'm thinking Dostoyevsky's Netochka Nezvanova. Catch you guys in a few hours!

The Pre-Dewey's Read-a-Thon Post

Dewey's Read-a-Thon is kicking off in about twelve hours time, and of course I have signed up! Very sensibly, I'm about to head to bed so I can get an outside chance of managing to stay up for the full whack, but before I do, what books? As I type this, I don't know... So [live blogging alert], give me a moment to walk around my bookshelves, Trot on my hand, to select a few titles I may or may not go for....

Firstly, let it be said I just fond half a bar of chocolate (slightly less than half now) that I didn't know I had! As for the books, I must admit I deliberately went for some of the shorter ones, however, as ever, I may read one tomorrow and then decide I have to read something off-radar (which of course is part of the fun!). But, here's what I picked out (in no order):

• Sergei Aksakov's A Russian Gentleman
• Boethius's The Consolation of Philosophy
• Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge
• Gorky's My Childhood
• Goethe's Faust Part Two
• Gogol's Diary of a Madman and Other Stories
• Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray
• P.G. Wodehouse's Jeeves in the Offing
• Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
• L. M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables
• Turgenev's Home of the Gentry
• Turgenev's Fathers and Sons
• Trollope's The Warden
• Dostoyevsky's Netochka Nezvanova
• Cleland's Fanny Hill
• Satre's Nausea

Now, let it be said - there is a part of me who is contemplating reading one massive chunkster, however at this point I think it may be unwise. However, at some point during tomorrow, I may change my mind and feel it would be a suitable option. But we will see!

So, let me know if you are participating! I do want to focus on reading, but no doubt will check in on a few folks here and there. It might be hard for me to get online tomorrow (not necessarily, though), however I will be updating on Twitter and Goodreads as well.

As for now, I think, as it is twenty past midnight and it is now less that twelve hours away, I had better put Trot back in his cage and go to bed! But, rest assured, we will be both bright eyed and bushy tailed when we get up! Catch you all tomorrow :)

Howards End, by E. M. Forster

This is very rare, for me to write on a book I haven't finished, but I'm compelled to write something. So, thus far? Honest opinion?

How do I start...? I am in control of my reading nearly all of the time. You know I read at a rapid pace, that much is clear, and I have said time and again, rather than put a book down that I dislike or hate, I'll power through it, and frequently come out with nothing. Which, is the only outcome for this kind of stubbornness. And I say this time and again because people sometimes compliment me on my reading ability and wish they could do the same. This method I sometimes employ is neither admirable or desirable. This method is based entirely on stubbornness.

But yes, I am in control. I go at the pace I want to go out, and clearly there are times when I miss things (usually I don't care because I dislike the book), but mostly I have a reasonable command over what I'm reading.

There have been times where I have imagined the author standing behind me urging me to slow down, and sometimes I will, sometimes I won't. But E. M. Forster: E. M. Forster put his hand on to my shoulder and said, "Slowly." It was non-negotiable!

Howards End is the only book where I have not been in control, and I wonder - to those who also read at a rapid pace, do you understand what I mean, and can you explain it a little better than I'm doing? There is absolutely no other option here. You read it slowly, or you do not read it. As a result, I am totally and utterly engaged, and I am thoroughly enjoying it, and the author has me in complete control. I've never experienced this so intensely with an author. 

So there is no scope for planning, here, which I rather like. I'll finish it when I finish it, and when i finish it is down to E. M. Forster. After I've posted this I'm going to head to bed, and as to where I get, who knows? But I love it, I do love it very much and this is a thrilling experience!

Why do I nearly always hate Jane Austen novels?

I liked Northanger Abbey, but I think part of it was joy at the surprise of not hating it. Of the others I read, Sense and Sensibility was tedious, Pride and Prejudice, the first one I read, was fine, but then having read that I feel like I've read them all, and Persuasion was by far the biggest disappointment. Once again, I failed to engage.

So that leaves me with Mansfield Park and Emma, and as I type this, Emma sits next to me with Trotwood on top of it. This will be the last time I bring it down from the shelf to read because this time I will read it. That goes without question.

The important thing here is how do I make myself at least tolerate it? With some books, it is important to go in with the right attitude. Effort is required, and dedication: no lack of presence. Some times it works - initially, I was bored by Les Misérables and ended up giving it five stars. Tales from Ovid also surprised me, however I put that down to the talent of Ted Hughes. That said, some books are simply lost causes to a reader.

But, you see, I knew this already when I read Persuasion. Not even Virginia Woolf's essay in The Common Reader managed to save it for me. I do not like Jane Austen, but she's one of the authors I would actually like to like! Everybody likes Jane Austen apart from me, which makes me feel like I've failed somehow. Why can't I like her when everyone else does? I feel cheated. Strange, because whilst I do sometimes take responsibility for hating a book, I'm never particularly concerned or down-hearted about it.

One of the greatest sources of irritation is the constant references to money. I hate it, each and every time it makes me cringe. However, this is like objecting to the moralising in Aesop or the long sentences in Dickens. I can't read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and wish it was set in Ashby-de-la-Zouch, or The Bible and wish that chap Jesus didn't play such a central role, or Ariel and wish Sylvia Plath would write something cheerful for a change. This is it: this is what I'm reading. The English Pound is a main character and that has to be accepted.

I want so much to finish Emma and say, "Yes! I get it!" Something that makes me feel less like the outsider in the bookish community. So, I'm going to go spend half an hour reading through people's posts and reviews of Jane Austen's novels. I need to find something I've never known about Austen or her novels (which won't be hard, I know next to nothing about her, her technique, or her intentions). I need a new appreciation, something that will at least make me see the skill and talent in her works. Something is missing and I need to find it. After then, I shall spend the day reading Emma. I don't necessarily intend to finish it today, however I have an unexpected evening to myself and I intend to use it. Emma isn't my last chance, my last chance is Mansfield Park, which I'm deliberately saving 'til last because it is, I believe, one of the least liked, which makes me think it may be the one for me, being as it sounds by all accounts the least Austen-y. But I want to like Emma.

So please: wish me luck. Criticise me. Leave me a comment and tell me my attitude is ridiculous. Don't hold back. I want to love at least one Austen, and Austens are running out!

Tales from Ovid, by Ted Hughes.

Thisbe, by John Waterhouse.

Tales from Ovid by Ted Hughes is one of the best books I have ever read. Ever. 

I don't remember buying this, but I must have bought it new. I'm guessing I've had it for at least five years, and why I don't know, but without any kind of investigation it was immediately put at the top of my "very intimidating" pile. That pile, these days, is largely poetry: Paradise Lost, The Oxford Anthology of English Poetry, Odyssey, and The Canterbury Tales remain (though I have plans to read the anthology, more later, and am currently reading, and more or less enjoying, Odyssey). I don't do too well with poetry because of the little I've read, I've struggled with, so I don't read any more because I officially do not understand poetry, and will never understand it because I don't read it. A vicious circle. And, the mere mention of Ovid, a Roman poet born 20th March 43 BC officially made me think Tales from Ovid was absolutely out of my league. Ancient Literature is one of my blocks, and so too is poetry, ego the "very intimidating pile". 

However, Tales from Ovid is not a translation, it is an interpretation published in 1997. And I do love Ted Hughes and don't often struggle with him. Entirely disregarding this fact, however, I decided to read Tales for the challenge, and was expecting another Iliad result.

So perhaps my glee is based on my surprise and boost to my confidence. It's a big thing, for me to enjoy and understand poetry from start to finish, and oh, Lord! I enjoyed this! Again read in my new favourite spot on the kitchen sink, the bright sun turning to dusk, various hot drinks, and Trotwood playing in the aviary then later by my side, I was happy all through the hours it took to read. And I read it from start to finish - it was utterly engaging, completely accessible to my poetry-blocked brain, and has made me desperate to seek out Ovid's Metamorphoses. It truly was a perfect reading experience, and I almost worry that it will never be repeated.

In it there are fourteen tales, including Creation, Midas, Pyramus and Thisbe, Echo and Narcissus, Niobe, and Pygmalion. 

If I had to pick a single favourite... No. if I had to pick just four favourites, they would be Creation, Phaethon, Myrrha, Pygmalion, and Niobe. So five. Five favourites.

I do love a Creation story, and so quite possibly I would have loved this even if Ian Banks had have penned it.

He gave the bright ground of heaven

To the gods, the stars and the planets.

To the fish he gave the waters.

To the beasts the earth, to the birds the air.

Nothing was any closer to the gods

Than these humble beings,

None with ampler mind,

None with a will masterful and able

To rule all others.

Till man came.

Hughes writes of a mythological time when there were no need for laws. The Golden Age: 

And the first age was Gold.

Without laws, without law's enforcers,

This age understood and obeyed

What had created it.

Listening deeply, man kept faith with the source.

(Which put me in mind of the Tao Te Ching - "returning to the source is serenity"). Hegel and Marx talk about the history of ideas, where two groups are in conflict over an idea, for example capitalism is the conflict between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. This pre-dates that, this is pre-historic and there is no conflict. Man reaps what nature produces, "Men needed no weapons. / Nations loved one another." Even in the third age, the age of brass where "blades their hands snatched up / Before they cooled", still then "Mankind listened deeply / To the harmony of the whole creation". It was the Age of Iron when "the day of evil dawn[ed]". Earth was torn up and "not even heaven was safe". The conflict between man and nature was born and raged.

The following chapter tells the tale of Phaethon, who is mocked by his friends who do not believe that his father is Pheobus, the sun god. He seeks Pheobus and asks him to prove to the world that he is his father Pheobus swears on the lakes of hell that he will give him what he asks for. Phaethon asks for one day to drive the chariot of the sun, and despite grave misgivings, his father grants his wish. 

Vulcan had made it. The axle-tree was gold.

And the chariot-pole was gold. The wheel-rims were gold.

The wheel=spokes silver. The harness, collar and traces,

Crusted with chrysolites and other jewels

Blazed in the beams of the sun-god.

And as Phaethon stood there, light-headed with confidence,

Giddy with admiration

Of the miraculous workmanship and detail,

Dawn opened her purple doors behind him,

Letting the roses spill from her chambers.

Pheobus warns him, "Share your heat fairly / Between heaven and earth, not too low / And not crashing in among the stars. Too high / You will set heaven aflame - and too low, earth.... But Phaethon, too drunk with his youth to listen, / Ignored the grieving god". What ensues is a rapid, panicked, and heady description of disaster, and of course, regret.

Next up is Myrrha, who is in love with her father, Cinyras. Unable to contain and cope with her lust, she attempts suicide, however is stopped by her nurse who contrives a plan to trick Myrrah's father into sleeping with her. On the ninth day, he discovers exactly who it is he is having sex with and tries to kill her, but she dodges him "like a bat" and flees. She prays,

O you gods,

If there are any gods with patience enough 

To listen to me

Who deserve

The most pitiless judgement

Which I would welcome - 

I only fear that by dying

I would pollute the dead.

Just as my life contaminates the living.

Give me some third way, neither wholly dead

Nor painfully alive. Remove me

From life and from death

Into some nerveless limbo.

Myrrha's child was Adonis, who follows in the next chapter.

Venus bringing to life Pygmalion's bride (Burne Jones)

Later in Tales comes the story of Pygmalion, who, disillusioned and sickened by the women around him, creates a statue "Lovelier than any living woman". He falls in love with his statue, wooing her, buying her gifts; clothes, jewels, and flowers, and loving her most of all when she is naked. He prays to the gods that he could find a woman that resembled his creation, and Venus hears, and brings the statue to life:

Pygmalion hurried away home

To his ivory obsession. He burst in,

Fevered with deprivation,

Fell on her, embraced her, and kissed her

Like one collapsing in a desert

To drink at a dribble from a rock.

But his hand sprung off her breast

As if stung.

He lowered it again, incredulous

At the softness, the warmth

Under his fingers. Warm

And soft as warm soft wax - 

But alive

With the elastic of life.

My final favourite is grim. Niobe. "Niobe was proud. She was proud." And she gets her comeupance in a way that only the ancients can deliver - with intense cruelty and astonishing inhumanity. She insults the gods, and pays the ultimate price - all of her children are killed, and she is turned into a living statue:

Niobe gazed at the corpses.

All her children were dead.

Her husband was dead.

Her face hardened

And whitened, as the blood left it.

Her very hair hardened

Like hair carved by a chisel.

Her open eyes became stones.

Her whole body

A stone.

Life drained from every part of it.

Her tongue

Solidified in her stone mouth.

Her feet could not move, her hands

Could not move: they were stone,

Her veins were stone veiins.

Her bowels, her womb, all stone

Packed in stone.

And yet

This stone woman wept.

A hurricane caught her up

And carried her

Into Phygia, her homeland,

And set her down on top of a mountain.

And there, a monument to herself,

Niobe still weeps.

As the weather wears at her

Her stone shape weeps.

This book needs to be read. Everyone should read Tales from Ovid by Ted Hughes. Please just read it. It is perfect.

Revisiting.

I have a new favourite place to read - on the bench by the kitchen sink. I discovered it by accident - the kitchen window looks directly on to the aviary, and I sat there on Saturday reading The Name of the Rose mainly to keep an eye on Trotwood. I sat there again this afternoon, reading Our Mutual Friend. The kitchen clock was ticking loudly, the rain was falling heavily on the aviary roof, and Trot was singing loudly, refusing to come inside. The stove was warm, my coffee was hot, and my bird was happy.

But I was not. Indeed, I am not, not entirely. I've had a difficult week, and it's the worst kind of stress: stress of your own making. I question myself, worry, and doubt my goals, intentions, and even methods. I feel lost, but there's not a good reason to be lost. I feel like I've been pushed off course, however I should have been strong enough to stand my ground. And this week, I wasn't.

The 11th of April is a funny time to look back at New Year's Resolutions, but aside from a few jokes, most of mine were made with noble intentions. When I make up my plans, lists, resolutions, and challenges, they are done with the very best of intentions, and so this is a prime example of how blogging helps me. When I feel lost, or doubtful, I have here a written record of things I want to achieve. Mostly, I stick to books, however I didn't in my New Year's Resolutions, so here I have quite simply a to-do list. For all I doubt my methods at the moment, I can have no doubt of my goals and aspirations. They're written down. They are right here on this blog. I think this is a good time for me to revisit them.

As I say, a lot of them were jokes, however I'm going to pick out the ones I truly meant and comment on my progress, as well as look at how I'm getting on with my book challenges. Of course I write this for you all to read, but this is partly for my own reference. I need to feel inspired again, and I need to take some comfort from my progression.

Here are a few of the more serious ones.

1. Learn Ancient Greek. Or at least try. It's unfortunate that this is the first one on the list, because this must be the most unsuccessful resolution. I got half way through learning the Greek alphabet and made no more progression. Here is something I want to pick up again.
2. Read 101 books. According to Goodreads, I am fourteen books ahead of schedule.
3. Stick to the Les Misérable reading schedule and not rush ahead. The point of not rushing ahead was to avoid a War and Peace situation: the first time I read it I powered through so fast I didn't retain any of it. However, I was enjoying Les Mis so much that reading slowly didn't work for me, so I read it at my own pace.
4. Similarly, do not rush War and Peace again. I didn't.
5. Get up at a reasonable hour. Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Stop defining reasonable hours as 11am rise and 3am sleep. I so still have late nights, but I'm usually up by around 9:30. I do want to improve, especially as I love the lighter days, I don't want to miss out!
6. Start wearing nice clothes again and make an effort to look good. Stop pretending I have to be clinically underweight to deserve to wear pretty clothes and make up. This one sounds so trivial, but actually, it's been important to me for a long time. I used to hide away in awful clothes (particularly when I wrote this resolution) and I have a tendency towards a very negative body image. I am much better with this, much much better. One thing that helped was staying away from websites that reinforce the message that you have to be very thin to look good. I haven't been on those websites for months.
7. Complete my book challenges. Currently, I have read seventeen books out of seventy four, so I am a little behind. To get back on track, I should be up to twenty five by the end of April.
8. Read non-challenge books. That, I am good at!
9. Drink a lot more water. I used to be awesome at that. I do, I drink at least eight or nine glasses a day now.
10. Aim for three or four blog posts a week. According to Google Reader, I'm posting on average of three posts a week.
11. Stop making other people's problems my problems. I know what I mean by this, and it's way too long and ridiculous to blog about. I have failed quite magnificently with this this week. But at least I am aware of it.
12. Exercise every other day, but not too much exercise. I started exercising again at the end of January, and I did aim a little high (90 mins / 6 days a week) however I've cut down to 50 mins 5 days a week.
13. Start writing a few more book reviews. I really don't like writing book "reviews", however I do blog more about specific books I have read.
14. Start reading more non-fiction. Failed!
15. Only eat white rice, white pasta or white bread once a week because they make me bloated and food babies freak me out. I eat white rice maybe once or twice a week, however I never eat white pasta or bread: I've come to love wholewheat alternatives!
    
16. Be a healthy person. I know what it entails, I don't need obsess over it. Tricky, but getting better. I've been using MyFitnessPal to get a grip more on eating. It's been going well, and I've been gradually upping my calories to a healthier level. I do sometimes worry (Easter Weekend being a prime example), but with only a few exceptions, I have met every goal I have set myself. For the past week, my intake and net intake are utterly unremarkable. I'm proud of that.
17. Re-write my novel and make it into something I'm proud of. I want to do this. That was a good resolution. Like the Ancient Greek, this would be a spectacular goal.
18. Resolve to do better each day. Again, this doesn't sound like it means much because it is one of those clichés, however it does have meaning to me. I get bogged down sometimes when I feel like I've done badly with something and don't take advantage of a brand new day.
19. Don't delete blog posts. That was resolved because I deleted a lot of blog posts at the end of last year (including, regrettably, my first blog post). I haven't done it since, and don't see any reason why I would.
20. Don't delete blogs. Again, I have no wish to.
21. Open my letters instead of filing them in the "hell will freeze over before I can deal with yet more financial doom" drawer. I deal with everything as and when I get it now.
22. Do things when I can do them, even if I can't complete the task, rather than wait for an appropriate time. I do.
23. Stop drinking Coca Cola and accept it gives me migraines. I have.
24. Cook better food. The quality of my food has improved enormously, however I am prone to cheating when I'm upping my calories and I don't know what to eat. There have been a few times I've met my goals with chocolate!
25. Make more people read Clarissa: we can make this a current classic again, people, fuck F. R. Leavis! So many people are reading Clarissa this year, but I don't claim credit!
26. Finish Villette for once and for all. As soon as I've finished Our Mutual Friend I shall get it down, once more, from my shelf.
27. Do more stuff for my mam. As she never fails to remind me, she gave me life (which was good of her, it has to be said). I always need to do more stuff for mammy.
28. Read more poetry. I am, but I'm not progressing as well as I would have hoped with my Ted Hughes Challenge. Of course, there are other poets (or so I've heard...)
29. Read more and post more about Pre-Raphaelite art. I really love the PRB. The picture at the top of this post is in spirit of this!
30. Read Remembrance of Things Past'ought to have read by now' challenge. I don't think I will complete it this year, however I will make good head way.
31. Keep a diary. In a notebook and everything: old school style. I didn't at all, but I can start tonight.
32. Remember that hard stuff takes effort but is worth it. Always remember this, o.
33. Start doing yoga again. I did a few nights ago.
34. Stop drinking so much Irn Bru. I did.
35. Run a 7 minute mile. I'm trying, but I'm dreadful at it! 12 minutes is my best to date!
36. Get a lot more fresh air. I do when I'm running.
37. Read a lot more 'chunksters' - I do seem to enjoy them. So far this year, I've read ten books with over five hundred pages.

As I revisit these resolutions, I see that on the whole, they're not going so badly. My confidence this week has been really shaken, but this was my fault. There was no reason for it, other than I let it. But I am making progress and I have made some good decisions.

And now? Now I'm going to put Trot back in his house (he's on the bookshelf, not still outside!), get a glass of water and go and practise some yoga moves. I'll then find a notebook, write down some thoughts, and I'll go to bed with a hot drink, read some more of Our Mutual Friend, then get an early night. Tomorrow, I will run, I will improve on my time, and I will spend just half an hour re-learning the part of the Greek alphabet I learned. Even half an hour every other day will be enough: I have no deadline and no pressure to do this. Learning Ancient Greek was my choice. I'll also spend some time sitting down with a pen and pad and write down my intentions for my NaNoWriMo novel: what the point was, and what I wanted to convey. In the next few weeks I'll get some kind of plan together. Again, I'm in no rush and I have no deadline. This was my decision. Finally, I'm going to look over my poetry collection (it's very small) and, as ever, make a blog challenge out of it!

You see, I do know what I'm doing. I've got this. And it's spring. Perhaps the 11th of April was the perfect time to look this all over.

Reading and Books

To your left is Trotwood, who has no relevance to this post, aside from the fact that he is sitting on a pile of books (yes, next to a window that badly needs cleaning!) and this post is about books, reading, and the difference between the two.

I've been thinking about this subject on and off for about a week, and was talking to a mate about it: I started reading The Shadow of the Wind, and I have to say before I go on: I'm up to page 25, I haven't read any more for at least a week, and I have next to no interest in it, so what I'm about to say may well be way off mark. But, I'll go on despite this - it seemed to me that it almost fetishises books. This isn't unusual by any stretch of the imagination - a lot of people see books as sacred objects, as though the holder, that is the book, is just as important as the contents. That there is the difference - one reads the content, and the content is an idea or ideas. The author's thoughts, imagination, desires, ambitions, and experiences are contained or collected in a volume, the container if you will. And that container is wood pulp.

I love books, that much is true, and I have a lot of them. If anything was to happen to them, I'd be heart broken. But each book, each individual container in this room, is in dubious condition. I had a picture of Little G eating a page from my Complete Shakespeare which I can't find right now, but, to the right, here is a picture of him eating Notes on a Scandal. Every book I've read has at the very least a bent spine, some are broken. And, because books are part of my every day life, every day things happen to them: coffee cups get sat on top of them when I'm in bed, steam wrinkles the bottom of the pages from when I'm in the bath, dirt gets on them when they fall off my knee and on to the floor of the car, they get wet when I read outside and misjudge the drizzle. Some get left in the kitchen, so they smell of whatever was cooking next to them, others, having survived Trotwood and George, have not survived spilling glasses of water over them when I've knocked over glasses. I underline passages, and sometimes, with the really big chunksters, Big C writes in the front of them. It is unlikely that most of my books will see the next century. 

I've already shared this quote from The Name of the Rose, but I'll share it again:

Learning is not like a coin, which remains physically whole even through the most infamous transactions; it is, rather, like a very handsome dress, which is worn out through use and ostentatious. Is not a book like that, in fact? Its pages crumble, its ink and gold turn dull, if too many hands touch it. I saw Pacifus of Tivoli, leafing through an ancient volume whose pages had become stuck together because of the humidity. He moistened his thumb and forefinger with his tongue to leaf through his book, and at every touch of his saliva those pages lost vigor; opening them meant folding them, exposing them to the harsh action of air and dust, which would erode the subtle wrinkles of the parchment, and would produce mildew where the saliva had softened but also weakened the corner of the page. As an excess of sweetness makes the warrior flacid and inept, this excess of possessiveness and curious love would make the book vulnerable to the disease destined to kill it. 

What should be done? Stop reading and only preserve?

This is my approach. I must be, in fact I am, a messy person and a messy reader. My life, my way of living, my clumsiness, have all taken a toll on the wood pulp. Even though I love books, having my own books, and having an extensive library, I do not see them as sacred objects. Aside from my first editions of Flush and Orlando, the majority of mine were reprinted in the past two decades and keeping them pristine would only be advantageous to, well, me. And, clearly, I am in no mind to be precious with them. I cannot read carefully, nor do I wish to. I'm too clumsy, for a start, and have no wish to stop reading in the bath, or when I'm drinking coffee, or when G or Trotwood are sitting on my knee or hand. That, at the least, would involve a degree of organisation, and those skills I have not.

For me, in short, I read. I do not preserve wood pulp. But the content, that lives on, not just in but beyond the shell. This, for me, is the most important part of reading.

The Name of the Rose Readathon

This is the weekend of Caro's The Name of the Rose Readathon, and, by glorious chance, I managed to get a hold of a copy! I'm so pleased, because as you all know, I do love a readathon! 

Because Sunday is going to be very busy, I'll be starting this at midnight GMT (technically Saturday the 7th, even if my head says it's still the 6th!) and get a little reading done tonight. I'll update on Goodreads and Twitter tonight as I shall be in bed (possibly with an energy drink), and tomorrow I'll update this post, then update through the day. 

As for my preconceptions: I have none. Not a one. I hadn't actually heard of it (a little embarrassing), and I haven't even read the back cover or anything about it (deliberately). It is absolute unknown territory!  I only went with this because I thought it would be something fun to do with Caro! 

So, as ever, most recent updates at the top. And, as I say, if you want to see how far I get tonight check me on  Twitter  or  Goodreads.

****

20:09 - Finished! Immensely readable! Shall review in the next few days :)

19:14 - Finished "Sixth Day", ready to start "Seventh". This is the final leg....

18:17 - Just starting "Sixth Day", and, non-book related, I nearly set my slippers on fire! Sat with my feet far too close to the heater and noticed an odd smell. Looked down and my slippers were smoking! Aside from that, still loving The Name of the Rose and so glad Caro came up with this readathon!

15:54 - I've finished "Fourth Day" and am exactly 66% of the way through. Really loving it! Here's my favourite quote so far:

Learning is not like a coin, which remains physically whole even through the most infamous transactions; it is, rather, like a very handsome dress, which is worn out through use and ostentatious. Is not a book like that, in fact? Its pages crumble, its ink and gold turn dull, if too many hands touch it. I saw Pacifus of Tivoli, leafing through an ancient volume whose pages had become stuck together because of the humidity. He moistened his thumb and forefinger with his tongue to leaf through his book, and at every touch of his saliva those pages lost vigor; opening them meant folding them, exposing them to the harsh action of air and dust, which would erode the subtle wrinkles of the parchment, and would produce mildew where the saliva had softened but also weakened the corner of the page. As an excess of sweetness makes the marrior flacid and inept, this excess of possessiveness and curious love would make the book vulnerable to the disease destined to kill it. 

What should be done? Stop reading and only preserve?

13:19 - Like Cassandra Mortmain of I Capture the Castle, I seem to have settled by the kitchen sink: sitting on the bench, one foot on the taps, the other crossed over and against the window sill. Trot's still out, but can see him very clearly (which is why I picked this spot to sit in!). Finished "Second Day", so on page 173, and according to Goodreads I'm about 35% through. All very quiet and peaceful here. Loving this book, so this is a perfect day!

11:39 - Got to page 114 last night, which was pretty much my goal. Now I'm up and about, had breakfast, Trot's in the aviary. Off to go read some more! It's going very well - absolutely loving it so far!

00:42 - Big C's back from work, we've watched two Coronation Streets, and now kettle is on. Three minutes time I'll be in bed with a coffee, biscuit, and The Name of the Rose!

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo, and a tangent.

The only problem with Les Misérables is that I couldn't read it in French. And it makes me want to learn French just so I can read it properly. It's my age-old question - what did I read here, Victor Hugo, or Julie Rose?

This issue frustrates me. I read a translation of a classic and I love it, but I feel like I've not quite got what I ought to have got. That's not the translator's fault, it's the nature of the beast. The novel, this absolute epic, appeared to be flawless, which made me wonder just how much better would it have been in its original language.

What really made me question this was the slang (and there is a chapter called "Slang", but the problem was there long before that). For example,

"Monsieur," the elder boy said bashfully, "aren't you afraid of policemen, then?"

Gavroche merely answered: "You baby! We don't say policemen, we say cops."
...
"But, golly," said the boy, "we didn't have a home to go to anymore."
"Little nipper!" Gavroche went on. "We don't say home, we say digs."
"And then, we were frightened of being all alone at night."
"We don't say night, we say curfew."

"Cops" is believed to derive from the Old French caper, or "to catch". "Golly" means God, which works as well, and "curfew" is Anglo French, however "digs" was not used until 1893, over thirty years after the publication.

Believe me when I say: I am not criticising the translation. I am not qualified, for a start, and one reading of one edition of Les Misérables does not make me the expert. What troubled me was some of the slang seemed so modern (even though some of these words have been used since the 14th Century), it made me not just wonder but feel frustration at not knowing exactly what Hugo wrote himself. I don't know which words he used and it annoys me that I would have to ask someone. I have never considered why I prefer reading English novels by English or British writers, but this I think is one of the reasons: I don't need to even consider potential problems with translation. I don't, however, believe that this is a good enough reason to stop non-English writers, it's simply a matter of ease ("ease" meaning laziness in this instance!).

And, as I'm on a tangent here, this problem does exist to an extent with American literature. The world is so influenced by America, and in England we take on board so much of their influence, but at the same time, it's assumed by many Americans that we know what they mean when they talk of various topics, use certain words or jargon, or discuss their politics, whereas actually, a great many of us don't. I remember a conversation with an American man; he thought it was laughable that I didn't know he was referring to what we call "pop" when he said "soda". But really, why should I know that? But there's the rub: I should have done. I really don't like that assumption, at times, these assumptions are offensive.

But, this has nothing to do with Les Misérables. I'm just thinking of other examples of words "lost in translation". Les Misérables was amazing, and actually very nearly went wrong: I read the first chapter and hated it, but someone on Twitter said it was one of his favourites so I decided to make an effort. Sometimes, it doesn't matter how much effort you put into a book, but sometimes it really does. It's no good, picking up a book to read another chapter and assuming you'll be bored (and I do do this). But the effort paid off, and it is one of my favourites. Fantine is a character that will stay with me for life. Her story was tragic, yet what came from it was beautiful. There were so many wonderful passages, and some of the more sociological or philosophical commentary was stunning. I want to read more, and because I have so little knowledge of French history and politics, as well as being woefully under-read with French Lit, I have no confidence to expand on this. But I loved it, and it went very nicely with War and Peace. It's an exciting book: it was a wonderful experience to read, and makes me itch to read so much more just so I can appreciate the book more. It's one of the very few books I will re-read.

And it's funny, I don't revere books or authors. For as much as I love Virginia Woolf, I am happy to say I did not enjoy The Years, didn't understand The Waves, and did not get Between The Acts, but with this: I think it's the only book I feel a sort of reverence for. I feel like anything I didn't like about it (not that I can think of anything off-hand) is my short-coming, and not Victor Hugo's. I am so looking forward to reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame in the next month!

And I'll leave you with my favourite, much-quoted passage:

I met in the street a very poor man who loved. His hat was old, his coat was worn; there were holes at his elbows; the water got into his shoes and the stars got into his soul.

It's a poor way of assessing a book, but I will say - when I put this quote on Tumblr, it was, by far, one of my most reblogged posts!

April Conflicts

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
~ T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland.

When I read The Wasteland back in January, I made it my mission not to use this quote in April. I was looking forward to spring, and didn't want April to be cruel in any way. But April, April is cruel.

It's quarter past eight here and still light. I love that. But here, the snow has fallen and clings to the new buds on the trees like blossom. The daffodils I was so happy to see lie flat in the garden now under two inches of snow. My baby budgie is sitting on the top bookshelf, puffed up to trap the warm air under his feathers. The coal fire is blazing downstairs, while the new lambs shiver under their mothers in the fields outside as the snow keeps on falling. 

Somehow, though, life keeps going. On the whole, life will continue to thrive despite this cold snap. Not everything will survive, but when I look at the baby lambs, I know nature is the least of their problems. Lambs are bitter-sweet. It's a beautiful thing, to see them playing in their field with each other, but in a few months the wagons will come. I'd say this, for me, is the hardest part of living in the country. 

Summer will come soon, without a doubt, and the leaves will come through, the flowers, the scented breezes, all the wonderful things I love about summer. The swifts, the swallows, everything will come alive. Even now life is coming through, having survived the winter, but cruelly tricked by the warm weather of last week. It won't all come through.

Looking out of the window, it's hard to believe it's April. It looks like Christmas outside. It's vaguely unsettling, last week, no, two days ago, I was standing on the lawn with no shoes or socks drinking coffee and looking at the buds. Now I'm by the heater next to Trotwood with two cardigans on.

As for reading: right now it's gloriously uncertain. I read the first book of Odyssey during the power cut, as well as The Gospel According to St. Matthew. I started Our Mutual Friend (what a beginning! Has anyone read it?), and also The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. I have no interest in The Shadows of the Wind, but it remains next to my bed. I don't know what I'll be reading tonight, once more I have many books on the go after remaining faithful to chunkster after chunkster in March. I love this approach to reading. I like being conflicted, not knowing what to pick up. I also picked out Tales From Ovid by Ted Hughes, so perhaps I'll read that in bed. I don't know, and I love not knowing.

As I typed that the power went out again! It's dark, my laptop has limited power, so I'll cut this short. Need to get Trotwood into his cage and make some tea. For the record: I do love April. Very much. I'm so happy it's spring, but it will always be hard to see spring so naively, especially when living in the country.

1st April

Cheating slightly - this was taken two days ago :)

The first of the month posts are my absolute favourite to do - I love looking forward and making goals. Before I do, however, let me remind myself of March....

The goals were to complete Middlemarch, Bleak House, and War and Peace, which I did. I wasn't too worried about completing Les Misérables, but I finished it yesterday evening,  and I loved it (post to follow). I also managed to catch up with my Bible challenge. So all in all, March went according to plan.

As for April, well, obviously I have to read Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim. It has April in the title for a start! I remember loving the film when I was young, so it has long been on my TBR pile! Also, I'm nearly finished Watership Down (I imagine I'll finish that this evening), and I started The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon for my 100 Greatest Book challenge (I have to be honest, I don't care for it), so it would be good to finish that (and not put it back on the shelf as I am sorely tempted to do!

Also, for Easter Week, although I'm not religious and won't be celebrating it, it seems appropriate to the season to read a little more of the New Testament. This week, I'm aiming to finish the New Testament, which will mean reading Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Acts. I've been planning this for a few weeks, and on the whole I've enjoyed the New Testament very much. I'm still about half way through the Old Testament, but still on track to finish around about August, September.

What else? Well, challenge-related - numerically, I'm behind on my 2012 Challenges. In theory, in order to be 'on track', I ought to be up to my 24th or 25th book by the end of April. That's seven books away. I can't promise I'll get there this month, but if I did go for it, I'm thinking about:

• Twain, Mark - Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 
• Smith, Zadie - White Teeth 
• Proust, Marcel - Swann's Way 
• Zola, Émile - Germinal 
• Hugo, Victor - Hunchback of Notre Dame 
• Homer - Odyssey 
• Forster, E. M. - Howard's End 
• Dumas, Alexandre - The Three Musketeers 
• Dumas, Alexandre - Count of Monte Cristo 
• Dickens, Charles - Our Mutual Friend 
• de Balzac, Honoré - Cousin Bette 
• Austen, Jane - Emma

Really, I think perhaps Odyssey might best be left until May, however, that said, as I'm typing this I keep looking over at it! Like The Iliad, I'd aim to read a chapter a day. But, as I say, if I were to read seven of these books, that would be rather good!

As for others - I'm overdue a P. G. Wodehouse, and I need to keep up with Ted Hughes!

I really am looking forward to this month, and actually I'm quite impatient to finish this post because I want to get reading! There are some fun things going on in April in Book Blogland which I'll be joining in with: firstly, Dewey's Readathon is on the 21st! I had a great time with it last October, so I am very excited to start planning my little lists! Also, next weekend, Caro is hosting The Name of the Rose Readathon. I'll have all of Saturday and half of Sunday to join in, and I'm praying my book arrives in time (I missed reading Uncle Tom's Cabin in March because the book arrived so late). So fingers crossed.