Summer.

Newcastle yesterday.

Yesterday the rain was biblical. Here, it was bad, it was epic: it came down with such astonishing force I wondered how the windscreen didn't shatter. Further down, in and around where I was brought up, it was something else (as you can see from the pictures). I went down today to see my mother, unblock the drains and sweep up the debris, then I went to my neighbour's. Her son is a mechanic, and such was the flooding where he works, he was stuck there until early evening. He'd made several videos on his phone of cars trying to get through the flood: I think he showed me four, two cars were sent back by the police, one car sank almost out of sight, and one somehow got through (I would have rather faced the flood than the policeman at the other side). People were swimming in the streets of Newcastle quite literally, there were canoes on Chillingham Road... Newcastle had one month's worth of rain in a single hour. We, my mother and I, I mean, were incredibly lucky that the worst of it was blocked drains and a yard full of stones and soil. And, of course, the Tyne Bridge was struck by lightening. It's the kind of weather that makes you think of the Book of Revelation with great unease.

Tyne Bridge struck by lightening.

Understandably, everyone is asking, "Where is our summer?". This weather is for winter: brutal and extreme. This rain didn't nourish, it destroyed. I mentioned Revelation, but The Flood in Genesis also is uncomfortably present in my thoughts. I read the Bible as a challenge for the sake of reading it, I do not see God of the Old Testament as something or someone to love. If I believed in God, I would fear him.

But yes, this is summer. Summer is between spring and autumn, summer in the Northern Hemisphere is when the axis tilts closer to the sun, and the weather really ought to be a lot warmer but more often than not it isn't. 

Were it not for yesterday's blaze of rain, I'd go on with more confidence to say the change in season is still apparent and still welcome (you can see my now hesitation at the latter assertion!). There is so much colour: leaves on the trees are flourishing, plants are (or were) thriving, and it really is warmer. It isn't warm, it is cool enough for me to be wearing a cardigan and my monster feet slippers, wanting a hot bath, a cup of coffee and a croissant, and a early night, but it isn't cold, it is definitely warmer. My bones feel like ice in the winter months, I really do feel it that deeply. But not now, not in summer.

A few years ago, my friends and I attended most of the home games of our local cricket team. Summer Saturdays were spent on the pitch mostly not watching. We chatted, lay in the sun, planned the night, and clapped when appropriate. The evenings were sitting outside the local pub until it was completely dark. It was a good summer, on reflection. At the time, I had recently broken up with my boyfriend and that summer was more about escape. But I did escape, I escaped in ways that were sometimes frowned upon, but somehow I escaped the whole lot and went into autumn an almost entirely new person. I wouldn't want to relive it in anyway. None of us go and watch the cricket on a Saturday now (it would be very difficult for me as I don't live there anymore), and barely any of us go out drinking on a Saturday night. Everyone says it's because they're skint, but we were then. It's over, the moment has passed. Good times were had, many good times were had, but it's over and I'm glad. 

But that was a proper summer, and the weather is yet to be seen again. There was a week in spring where I sat outside for hours with Trotwood reading. People say you know you're British when summer is your favourite day of the year, but there's more to it than the weather. It's no more gentle than any other month, but the smells are sweeter and the colour is more vibrant. I do long for walks through the forest and fields, but the marshes are too dangerous at the moment, and the midgies make it impossible. I'm still content with it, though. There's too much colour, too much foliage, and too much life to be anything but. Yesterday did a lot damage, as I said before it was as destructive as winter, but as I look out the window and see steam rise from the forest, I still see life and, at ten o' clock, I still see light. Whatever the weather, everything is as awake as it always is in summer. Nevertheless, thank God I read, because any exploring I wish to do will have to be intellectual as there is only so much a person can take of being soaking wet!

Challenges, inclinations, and obligations.

Trotwood wonders what to read.

I imagine if you look up the word "challenge" in the dictionary, it would say something along the lines of "tricky at best, bloody hard at worst, also quite inconvinient at times". There are times when I have to remind myself of this, and times when I question it. If I set myself a challenge, any kind of challenge because I think it's a noble endeavour and that I would enjoy it, then stop when I'm not in the mood for it, it ceases to be a challenge and becomes simply an inclination.

We're reaching the half-point of the year, but this isn't why I'm thinking along these lines as such (though a "half-way point" post is sort of on my mind for Saturday). No, I'm thinking about it because I have set myself a lot of challenges, and there's three that come to mind that I'm either not doing so well with or I'm failing epically (I'll write specifically another time, nothing earth-shattering, though!). I think about why I haven't done a few of those things, and I have so many passable excuses, but it boils down to this: a lack of commitment. It's good for me to acknowledge that.

For this post, I want to write about reading challenges only. Three things have motivated this (and spurred me on to think more generally, which I'm pleased about): firstly, a reading challenge I've set myself that I'm not particularly enjoying, secondly a post from Cassandra, and thirdly a group read I've just signed up to (I'll say more on that in another post).

The reading challenge I'm particularly not enjoying right now is the Penguin Greats. I've said before - they're too small to get into, and too long to read as quickly as I'd like to. But, it was a very good intention because it's an excellent introduction to a lot of writers I'm unfamiliar with. This is why I decided to do it, and this is why I am doing it. All the same, I had hoped to have finished them before the end of June, which would mean reading twenty six by Sunday. A few days ago, also, I read On Natural Selection and thought, "Please God don't let me have included Darwin on my 'Ought to Have Read' pile". I had. I am ashamed to say I was tempted to knock it off and replace it with another. If I did do that, if I took off the Darwin and deleted the Penguin Greats Challenge altogether, I've admitted they weren't challenges, simply an inclination from December that I'm no longer interested in.

So why read, I ask myself again? It's a hobby, yes, and the enjoyment stems from passing my time in a pleasurable way. As Anthony Trollope wrote in The Warden, “What on earth could be more luxurious than a sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee?” There's the thrill of the chase, as well: all these books in all the world, and there's some that we will love. They will speak to us, change a part of us perhaps, give us a voice, give us reason, motivation, hope, and I don't know what else. I almost exclussively read the classics, but there have been books I've read and loved to bits, so sticking to this genre might not serve me as well as I think. Classics, for me, are an inclination, not a challenge. I want to read the classics and it is easy for me to do so. Challenge me to read one classic a month and I will, but it's no challenge for me. I'd do it anyway.

There's another reason why I read: to learn, to keep my mind active and questioning, to push myself, and to explore. Exploring means going into unfamiliar territory, and it may not be so good, but there is no book that wasn't worth reading (though some have come close) on my lists. I might read seven books in a row that have me screaming with boredom, and I pick up the eighth with no hope and end up falling in love with it. If I hadn't have challenged myself to read North and South I wouldn't have read it seeing as The Cranford Chronicles isn't exactly going splendidly.

All that is well and good, but it's so military. I'm not a machine. I could have set myself the goal of, say, two hundred books in a year. I might possibly be able to do it, but I'd have to pick up my pace. And, if I did set myself that goal, why not pick out the books whilst I'm at it? I bet I have about two hundred, maybe less, titles on this blog that I want to read but haven't yet read. In theory, if I want the challenge, why don't I just do that?

I suppose because the inclination that has motivated a challenge becomes an obligation, which is where enjoyment ceases. I won't read for pleasure at all, I'll read because I have to and a lot will be lost.


Cassandra wrote,

Everyone who reads for pleasure knows that reading one book leads you to others: books which are mentioned or treat a similar subject, books by the same author or from the same period of time, books which you know to have influenced this author, books which you already read and of which you are reminded again because they are written in the same style or feature the same setting or similar characters or simply touch you in the same way. And sometimes when you are reading a book ideas for what to read next drop down like seeds on the fertile ground of your mind, and as soon as you give in to one of those ideas, it develops into a full-grow tree; a tree which again immediately produces countless new seeds waiting for you to give them the light and attention they need to become trees of their own. 

That is exactly it. I could map out the next three years of my life in books, but it would be designed by who I am now and what I have just read, and development will cease along with enjoyment.

Someone mentioned Possession by A. S. Byatt to me today, and I was going to leave it until autumn, but I thought I'd just have a look. Only thirty pages in, and I am really into it, and further more I want to read some Christina Rossetti. So, what do I do (and let's forget Possession is a planned read)? I said I'd read Little Dorrit this week and finish Cranford. I'm reminded of March: I was determined to finish War and Peace, Bleak House, and Middlemarch by spring, and I did. I was pleased. I challenged myself and I won. I didn't enjoy it, though, I didn't like March, and don't ask me about them, especially Middlemarch.

Where, then, is the line drawn? Inclinations and challenges are good, obligations are not so good.

For what it's worth, I know what I'm going to do: I'm going to make myself a cup of coffee, have a cookie, and settle down with Trotwood and Possession. I'm doing that because I want to, and Little Dorrit can wait. The key to it, when it boils down to it, is a healthy mix. We all need to be challenged, and I relish them. But I get signs, sometimes. Cassandra wrote about seeds, and I completely identified with that, but I will add: sometimes, I get odd signs to read a book. The obvious is one week you'll hear a book mentioned three times and you know it's time to pick it up. Another one, slightly obscure: if you follow me on Twitter you know I had call to reorganise my bookshelves (I made a desperately needed extra bookshelf from a cupboard and moved it into the study). The last book I picked up when I was putting them in order was The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch. That book, I'm telling you, wants my attention!

People read for different reasons, and I would never for a single moment suggest that you ought to read as I do. Read to challenge yourself exclusively, read the obligation reads and nothing else, or read without direction for the sheer love of random discovery (the latter, to be honest, is more appealing to my inner romantic). It's all good if it works for you. For me, I like the mix. Part challenge, part inclination, with a slight dash of obligation. I think that's how I'll find my gems. To explore, I would like a map, but I would like to go off-course if I see something unexpected.

The 1850s: Anthony Trollope, Elizabeth Gaskell, Charles Darwin, and William Holman Hunt.

Light of the World, Homan Hunt (1851).

These past few weeks for Allie's Victorian Celebration I have read The Warden by Anthony Trollope (1855), North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell (1854-55), and On Natural Selection by Charles Darwin (1859: an abridged version, only 117 pages), as well as another chapter of A. N. Wilson's The Victorians (2002). 

There was plenty to choose from when deciding what to read for this decade, so much in fact I'm giving myself three weeks to explore. I also read Mr Harrison's Confessions and Cranford (part of The Cranford Chronicles, Elizabeth Gaskell, 1851 - 1858) On Art and Life by John Ruskin (1853, abridged), Villette by Charlotte Bronte (1853) and The Life of Charlotte Bronte, Elizabeth Gaskell (1857: I want to write about these in another post). I could have, and may yet read, On Liberty, John Stuart Mill (1854), Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens (1855 - 1857), Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope (1857), and  Tom Brown's School Days, Thomas Hughes (1857). I've come to the conclusion that the 1850s was a good decade for literature.

And so it was for art, too, because the Pre-Raphaelites produced some outstanding work having offically formed in 1848. I wrote a few weeks ago about the Brotherhood, focusing more so on John William Waterhouse, however in this post I'd like to say a few words about William Holman Hunt, the founder of the Pre-Raphaelites, whose preoccupation with religion fits with what I want to write about.

In Light of the World, Christ is depicted knocking on a door, which is inspired by Revelation 3: 20

Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.

The door is blocked with weeds, and there appears to be no door knob, meaning that it can only be opened from the inside. The door, then, represents the closing of the mind to Christ ("the obstinately shut mind", in Holman Hunt's words). In the Victorian era, the church was very powerful and very rich: too rich, some would say. Darwin's On the Origin of Species (1859) would bring about 'The Crisis of Faith' as it appeared to completely contradict the Bible when the Bible was taken literally. Holman Hunt struggled, and as A. N. Wilson describes,

He frequently lost faith in humanity and in his confused idea of God, but for him the Devil was always real.

The Scapegoat, 1854.

North and South and The Warden both explore not so much Christianity but more the role of the church. In North and South, Gaskell writes about the effects of industrialisation on the worker. Margaret Hale moves from the rural south of England, Helstone in the New Forest, to the north: Milton. Richard Hale, Margaret's father, leaves the church as a matter of conscience and becomes a tutor in Milton.

I have to say at this point, rather frustratingly my bit of scrap paper with page references has been lost, so I have to do this largely from memory. It isn't quite as fresh in my mind as it ought to be as I've only recently finished it, but I did love it very much. It was a surprise, because I'm not enjoying The Cranford Chronicles, and whilst I did like The Life of Charlotte Bronte, I feel that was more owing to the subject matter (let us not speak of the pages and pages of French in it. I don't speak French, but fortunately my mother does). I did, thankfully, put a quote up on my Tumblr, so sorry if you've already seen it, but I did rather like it:

The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sunbeams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but the October morning of Milton, whose silvery mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when he did break through and shine.

As you can imagine by the title, there are constant references to the constrast of the affluent south and impoverished north, and Margaret is deeply unhappy with her radical change of life. She is surrounded by poverty brought about by industrialisation, and has many preconceptions that she struggles to overcome. Gaskell is so much like Dickens, even the structure of the novel is like a Dickens novel, though I think it wouldn't be unfair to say there was a hint of Jane Austen in the relationship between Margaret and John Thornton, the owner of the local mill. I can see a little Zola in it too (a little) in the riots and strikes half way through the novel. It really is a wonderful novel (a novel that can be reminiscent of both Émile Zola and Jane Austen is very broad!), and I think very typical as well of its time.

Awakening Conscience, 1853.

Like Richard Hale, Septimus Harding of The Warden also struggled with his conscience.The Warden is the first of the Chronicles of Barsetshire and it certainly reaffirms my love of Trollope. I love his style, his "trolloping" as Allie called it. I love the way he addresses the reader, and the way he assumes familiarity, however never that he knows all. He's informal, almost gentle (compared to Dickens, who he referred to as subscribing to an "ogre-theory of evil"), and I adore him still. I'm so much looking forward to reading the rest of the Chronicles of Barsetshire.

Returning to Harding: Harding was a Precentor and a warden of Hiram's Hospital. He is a good man, however in possession of a vast income. At the time, the Church of England was criticised for this. As Trollope writes in the second chapter,

Mr. Harding has now been precentor of Barchester for ten years now; and, alas, the murmurs respecting the proceeds of Hiram's estate are again becoming audiable. It is not that anyone begrudges to Mr. Harding the income which he enjoys, and the comfortable place which so well becomes him; but such matters have begun to be talked about in various parts of England. Eager pushing politicians have asserted in the House of Commons, with very telling indignation, that the grasping priests of the Church of England are gorged with wealth which the charity of former times has left for the solace of the aged, or the education of the young. The well-known case of the Hospital of St. Cross has even come before the law courts of the country, and the struggles of Mr. Whiston, at Rochester, have met with sympathy and support. Men are beginning to say that these things must be looked into.

Following a very damning article in the fictional Jupiter (based on The Times: Trollope does not appear to be a fan of the press), Harding struggles with his conscience and decides to resign.

The Hireling Shepherd, 1851.

It seems, from Gaskell's novel and certainly Trollope's, the Church of England is already facing a crisis, so I don't know that I agree the "Crisis of Faith" can be said to begin with the publication of Darwin's Origin of Species, however I see why, for some, it may have been the final nail in the coffin. Many believe that evolution is incompatible with Christianity, and it was certainly incompatible with the Victorian approach to biblical studies, that is, that the Bible was a literal account of the origins of life. Darwin perhaps leaves it open, writing,

When we no longer look at an organic being as a savage looks at a ship, as at something wholly beyond his comprehension; when we regard every production of nature as one which has had a history; when we contemplate every complex structure and instinct as the summing up of many contrivances, each useful to the possessor, nearly in the same way as we look at any great mechanical invention as the summing up of the labour, the experience, the reason, and even the blunders of numerous workmen; when we this view each organic being, how far more interesting, I speak from experience, will the study of natural history become!

A grand and almost untrodden field of inquiry will be opened, on the causes and laws of variation, on correlation of growth, on the effects of use and disuse, on the direct action of external conditions and so forth.... Our classifications will come to be, as far as they can be made, genealogies; and will truly give what may be called the plan of creation.

Yes, I have found the 1850s so far to be fascinating. As for the rest of the week, I do plan on finishing The Cranford Chronicles, and I would very much like to read Little Dorrit. Then, I think, I will go a little slower as my other challenges are beginning to suffer! I definitely want to read The Mill on the Floss (1860), Far From The Madding Crowd (1874), and Treasure Island (1881-1882), as well as finish The Victorians. I hope everyone else is enjoying the Victorian Celebration!

Stash #2

Trotwood generously poses once more.

And there it was, the last ever book fair. "Sad, but understandable" is my official statement. My unofficial statement was through tears in the car on the way back!

Here it is:

• The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters. I already own Fingersmith and am planning on reading them both soon after I read a blog post a few months ago by the lovely Charlotte and thought I must try reading one. The Night Watch wasn't there, but Charlotte said, "You can’t be let down by a Sarah Waters book, can you?". So there it is, on good authority.
• Notes from the Underground and The Gambler in one volume by Dostoyevsky. I lent my friend Notes a few weeks ago, and I thought as these books are so so cheap it would be nice to let her keep mine and get a new one, plus this has the added bonus of having The Gambler.
• The Abbot by Sir Walter Scott. Partly because it's such a nice edition, and partly because I want to read Sir Walter.
• Empire of the Sun by J. G. Ballard. I see this a lot on people's reading lists, so I thought I ought to try it.
• Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. This was a victory! I bought Middlesex when I was in university after reading The Virgin Suicides and accidently left it in the common room. I was late for my train, so I thought "It'll be fine". It wasn't. It was gone the next day.
• Great Northern? and The Picts and the Martyrs by Arthur Ransome. Because as I said in the last post, I loved Swallows and Amazons so much.
• Le Grand Meaulnes by Alain-Fournier. I read the back and it appealed.
• Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome. To replace my missing copy.
• Taming and Training Your First Budgerigar by Teitler. Trotwood doesn't like the look of it, but I explained to him he was already tame and I feel he is as "trained" as I want him to be (I'd only teach him tricks if I felt he was bored, but he doesn't seem bored in the slightest). No, I got this because it has a first aid section for budgies, plus I think I'll enjoy reading it. I've read a few books about parrots (Little G, you may remember, is an African Grey), and budgies are parrots, but those books dwelt more on the bigger birds. 
• Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. On the 100 Greatest list. 
• Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne. I need to read this!
• Engleby by Sebastian Faulks. Because who knows, I may forgive Faulks for ruining my life one of these days.

So there you have it, the final stash. Sad that it's the last, but there it is.

And, in other news... I'm in a rut. It's taking forever to read The Warden, not because I don't like it, but because I only seem to get time to read five or six pages at a time. Furthermore, I can't seem to write my post on the Brontes. It simply will not come, and that's deeply annoying because I'm not even trying to write intelligently, I just wanted to share some thoughts. I am still enjoying Allie's Victorian Celebration, however, and I think once this post is up I'm going to have an early night and try and finish The Warden. My plan is (or was) this: to write a post on the Brontes, then a post on Trollope, Gaskell, and Darwin for the 1850s. And then, I think I'd like just one more week on the 1850s. I was intending on having one week for the 1840s, two for the 1850s, then one each for the 1860s, 1870s, 1880s, and 1890s - 1900s, but if I stuck to that it would mean not reading Little Dorrit  or Tom Brown's School Days. That would be silly, because I'm ready for them both.

Tonight, then, bath, bed, and The Warden. I don't like this frustration, I'm enjoying it, but it's been five days of reading such a short book. I want to move on to Darwin (it's a very abridged On Origins, one of the Penguin Greats, about 100 pages) and then Little Dorrit.

Stash #1

Trotwood and stash #1.

Yesterday was wonderful! And, as you can see by the title of my post, it's not quite over: because, very sadly, this is the last year of the book stall, there will be one on Monday as well, which I am of course making a point of going to.

As ever, I went a few times because the books are constantly refreshed - it makes sense to go every few hours to find the new books. On Monday, it'll be like going to an entirely new book stall. And it was a grand day for the fair - a little chilly at first, but the sun came out, and I think a good time was had by all.

So, then, the books:

• To Let, by John Galsworthy. I am quite interested in reading the Forsyte saga, and To Let is the final one. I think it's best to buy these books as I find them with a view to reading them perhaps next year or the year after, whenever I have managed to find them all, or at least the first few in order.
• The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux. I know nothing of this story, and I haven't even seen the musical.
• Swallowdale by Arthur Ransome. I loved Swallows and Amazons so much, and this is the sequel. I saw it a few months ago and decided not to buy it and have regretted it ever since! 
• Rameau's Nephew / d'Alembert's Dream by Denis Diderot. I have The Nun, and have been meaning to read it for years. If I love it, doesn't it make sense to have another Diderot for when I've finished?
• The Master of Ballantrae by Robert Louis Stevenson. Sandy said he liked it, and as I liked Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, it seemed wise to get it.
• His Dark Materials trilogy: Northern Lights, The Subtle Knife, and The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman. Honestly, to say I have "no enthusiasm" for this would involve using the word "enthusiasm", and there quite literally is none of that. But, it's on my '100 Greatest' List. Besides, I didn't want to read The Da Vinci Code either, but I liked that one, so there's hope, there's always hope.
• Father and Son by Edmund Gosse. Just because.
• The Longest Journey by E. M. Forster. I loved Howards End, so I'm looking forward to this, however I gather it's not his strongest. Anyone read it?
• Amsterdam by Ian McEwan. I need to stop buying books by Ian McEwan, and I can't explain why I do. So far, I've only read The Cement Garden, which to be fair I liked as far as I can remember, but I went on to buy Atonement, Enduring Love, On Chesil Beach, and The Comfort of Strangers. It's becoming habit now. Perhaps when I've finished Charles Dickens major novels I should focus on McEwan!
• Britannicus, Phaedra, Athaliah by Jean Racine. Just because.
• Trollope: An Autobiography. Because I'm loving Trollope (appropriate point to mention: I'm currently reading The Warden, and because of life getting in the way it's taken me three, maybe four days to get to page 40. Hopefully I'll read a good chunk of it tonight!).
• The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad. I hated Heart of Darkness, so this is Conrad's second chance!
• Carmen and other stories by Propser Mérimée. Just because.
• The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Must admit, I didn't like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer so much, however I hear a lot of people tend to prefer this one.
• Arthur and George by Julian Barnes. I liked Flaubert's Parrot, and I especially liked The Sense of an Ending (my last book of 2011), so I'm looking forward to this. It's a nice edition as well - clothbound Jonathon Cape.

There it is, my Saturday stash! Looking forward to Monday, now!

As for tonight - I have a few comments I need to reply to on my blog, and I really want to finish my Brontes post, but right now I must have a bath - half way through this I had to pop outside to put something in the bin and I got attacked by midgies. Skin is crawling! Worst thing about summer is the midgies!

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is one of my favourite days of the year: it's the village fair, and the village fair has a massive book stall that takes up the entire church hall. The book are cheap, every year I'm still amazed when I hold twenty books in my arms and the man says, "Call it a straight £15". The selection is vast, too, with a marvellous classics section, and on Tuesday I was lucky enough to get a sneak preview: I went to chat with a friend who is on the parish council, and she mentioned the co-ordinator of the wonderful book stall, her colleague, was at work in the hall setting up. As I had a free half hour, I went down to offer my services. I can't say that I spotted any books I wanted because I deliberately did not look at the titles (it would have been against the spirit to get first picks and reserve). For the first "cycle" (for want of a better word), he wanted to put the best books out, so all I had to do was run my hand down the spine of the books to ensure they weren't cracked, and a quick glance told me if the books had reasonable covers. But there were thousands, quite literally thousands, in boxes. The shelves were already full.

I don't think it's unreasonable to say that about a quarter, if not a third, of the books I own come from the annual summer fair. Without cheap books, how could I read as much? I simply cannot afford to make regular trips to Waterstones (but I do indulge from time to time), and sometimes I have struggled a little to meet the rising prices of charity shops. This fair is where I bulk up, and this fair enabled me to get into the classics. In my teenage years, I picked out the "obvious" titles, like Jane Eyre, The Secret Garden, and the like, and through my twenties I found the less obvious, various Trollopes for example, and the somewhat obscure - Minor Elizabethan Plays vol. 2 (perhaps I'll find vol. 1?).

Who knows what I'll come home with, but this is the thrill, this is why I won't sleep tonight! Hunting through these shelves and piles and boxes for gems, a book I hadn't even thought of - perhaps in a week or a month or even a year I'll be begging you all to read it. This fair marks the beginning of summer, and it can provoke a new stage in reading as well with new discoveries. I have a small list of books I would like to find for my Greatest Reads list (His Dark Materials, Bird Song, Grapes of Wrath, A Prayer for Owen Meaney, A Suitable Boy, and A Confederacy of Dunces) and perhaps it might be an idea to think a little more of the books I would like to read, however I'm not terribly inclined to do so. This fair is about discovery, when failures don't matter because they were so cheap anyway. And the book stall will last until Monday, so plenty of time to go back for something forgotten.

So much potential! Will I find some Zolas? Some more Trollopes? The other Richardson book I can't remember the name of? Jeeves?! I don't know, it's just so exciting!

Tomorrow, then, I shall be meeting my favourite friends and I'll be going back and forward to the book stall, no doubt I shall have very sore arms come evening! I do like summer, and the fair is one of the main reasons why. I'll be hoarding my books for the winter!

So excited! I'll post over the weekend with my findings <3

Swallows.

Between our house and our neighbour's there's an alleyway, on the wall above the arch there is a security light, and every summer, swallows build a nest there.

I read this about Swallows from the RSPB website:

European swallows spend the winter in Africa south of the Sahara, in Arabia and in the Indian sub-continent.

British swallows spend their winter in South Africa: they travel through western France, across the Pyrenees, down eastern Spain into Morocco, and across the Sahara. Some birds follow the west coast of Africa avoiding the Sahara, and other European swallows travel further east and down the Nile Valley. Swallows put on little weight before migrating.

They migrate by day at low altitudes and find food on the way. Despite accumulating some fat reserves before crossing large areas such as the Sahara Desert, they are vulnerable to starvation during these crossings. Migration is a hazardous time and many birds die from starvation, exhaustion and in storms.

Migrating swallows cover 200 miles a day, mainly during daylight, at speeds of 17-22 miles per hour. The maximum flight speed is 35 mph.

In their wintering areas swallows feed in small flocks, which join together to form roosting flocks of thousands of birds. Swallows arrive in the UK in April and May, returning to their wintering grounds in September and October.

The distance from South Africa to here is about eleven thousand miles. Eleven thousand miles. And, as it says, some die from starvation, exhaustion, and in storms. All the way from there to here.

Two weeks ago I was putting the bin out for collection at about midnight and the light came on, startling the nesting bird. We looked at each other for a moment, me with curiosity, it with fear, and it flew off into the forest. It's odd, seeing a bird fly at midnight.

This evening, earlier so it was dusk, I went out again to take the bin out and I hoped to see it, but it was gone, as was its nest. Our neighbour doesn't like them nesting there, they make too much mess, he says. Each year, around this time, he knocks their nest down. Of course, we've tried to reason with him. Eleven thousand miles means nothing, nor does the sanctity of life. The fact that we live in a forest, and the fact that the nature surrounding us is inclined to be messy, doesn't touch him. Each year, he knocks the nest down.

Last year, he reported it to Big C, showing him the bucket of straw and grass to prove that he hadn't harmed anything in the process. Big C said to me he was sure he saw something pink, so I went out into the trees where our neighbour had dumped the debris to check. It took fifteen minutes, and I sat on my heels and thought there was no way that "something pink" could have magically disappeared, so I went through the heap once more. I wonder how I could have missed it, for both times I was picking away at the heap blade by blade. But at the bottom, there they were: two babies, two dead baby swallows with a line of blood coming out of their mouths and I felt sick at what I saw, and fear that maybe I had done that even though I was so careful. Our neighbour was washing his car, he didn't know what I was doing.

It's funny, because if you met him you'd probably like him. That's the depressing thing - he's ordinary, friendly, helpful, and on the whole quiet except for the odd time he washes his car and has the radio on. Nothing strange about him at all.

And he's done it again. I thought this year he wouldn't because he's moving in a few weeks. What does bird mess matter if you're not there to see it? I don't go down that alley much because I'm frightened of the spiders, but when I have there hasn't been any mess anyway.

But he's done it again. Eleven thousand miles, storms, exhaustion, and starvation, but he got them. I'm certain the adults are alive, he wouldn't have killed them. But if there were babies they'll be amongst the debris God knows where and the adults... I don't know, do they mourn the loss of their own, or put it down to experience (probably not because they always return), are they annoyed their babies were killed or hurt by it? I don't know, but they need to build a new nest.

All that way (and they brought in the spring, too). It was a cruel trick, utterly needless, unjust, another reason to hate what I belong to, another reason to want to move far away with Big C somewhere in the middle of nowhere where it's just us and our world is each other and birds and all kinds of things and no one there to hurt or kill them. There is a constant struggle between man and nature and man is hellbent on winning the war. Everything needs to be clean and tidy so there's no inconvenience.

It's unnatural, surely, to hurt animals. As far back as we can go, man has wanted pets. Why have pets? (He doesn't have pets). Most people want something smaller than themselves to look after and care for, take responsibility for an animal, to love and to feed, to protect, to nurture. Don't most people want that? Why not just feed the swallows, or the other birds, and leave them alone to fly about, make their nests, drop their bits and pieces of grass and straw on the way, maybe. Of course, the other mess they make, the one he is so concerned about - what of it? Wash it away, or let the rain do it.

Why the fight? I'm tired of watching the fight, I'm tired of fighting the fight. Just stop the fight, leave the swallows to nest on the security light in the alleyway. I'm glad he's moving away.

Happy Bloomsday!

My copy: divided, yet to conquer.

Good morning, everyone! So, today is the day: it's Bloomsday, and one hundred and eight years ago almost to the hour, the events in Ulysses take place. Joyce fans celebrate it often by reading or re-reading it, so it won't be just a few of us settling down at 8 o' clock to tackle one of the greatest novels ever written. There'll be radio programmes, live readings, plays, and no doubt one or two drinking binges as well! 16th June is a fun day for fans of Joyce and literature! 

You'll remember, of course, I posted suggesting a few of us read some or all of Ulysses today, and I'm very happy to be joined by a few of you. If you like, perhaps if you post about what you're reading today you could leave me a comment and link to whatever you have written. I plan on updating this post, perhaps sharing a few quotes on my Tumblr, checking in on Twitter now and again, and updating on Goodreads. I don't have a plan on how often I'll update, but I'll try to be fairly frequent: every few hours or something. I do want to focus on Ulysses, but it would be nice to socialise a bit as well! My breakdown of the novel, that is, the outline of episodes etc, is here. I think that's all the preamble I need, so without further ado....

****

Telemachus (almost) 7.29am: Cold, grey, misty day. I had a reasonably early night (midnight), and woke up half six (excited). Had my coffee, and eager to start! The first few episodes are short, and go back and forth a bit - we start at 8am, work to 11am, then fall back to 8am with Calypso, and then on again, so I'm aiming to get to Hades, the 6th episode, before I update again. Catch you all soon....

Hades (11am): It's just after 10am and I've finished Hades, so I'm a little ahead. I'm reading very slowly for me, so I think I should enjoy this moment! So far? At times, I'm excited because I feel I have a grasp on what I'm reading, other times I'm shaking my head at what I've just read, at a loss. I am enjoying it, and as a second read, I feel I know what I'm reading far more than I did six years ago, however I'm too conscious of getting lost so easily. It's a struggle. But yes, I'm enjoying it. Now, I'm going to get another cup of coffee and a croissant (Damn my Paris fads!), and start Aeolus, the seventh episode.

Scylla and Cherybdis (1pm) - 1pm here, and I've finished Scylla and Cherybdis, so only slightly ahead now. Given I'm making a Sunday dinner in a few hours, I need to focus (I did pause to play with Trotwood for ten mins). So, according to Goodreads I'm 30% through, which is cool. So far, Lestrygonians is one of my favourite parts, and if only I loved Shakespeare I would have enjoyed it even more! Hope everyone else is enjoying their Bloomsday, I'm going to try and get back a little more of my lead, update, and then make the biggest Sunday dinner known to man (Lestrygonians has that kind of effect!).

Nausicaa (8pm) - Twenty to four and I'm just over half way through! I had a bit of a lull, but my enthusiasm's kindled once more with the last episode I read, Nausicaa. About to share some quotes on Tumblr, really loved it. Don't remember it at all from my first read for some reason. After that, Big C should be home and I'm going to make our (exceptionally late) lunch, then return to start Oxen of the Sun.

Here's the passages I liked:

Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That was their secret, only theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there was none to know or tell save the little bat that flew so softly through the evening to and fro and little bats don’t tell.

and

The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its myseterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on the sea and strand, on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymout shore, and, last but not least, on the quiet church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the storm-tossed heart of man, Mary, star of the sea.

Circe (12am) - Half eight. Guys, I have no idea what I have just read. Circe is... Intense (and intensely confusing). I'm at an absolute loss, and I'm hoping, even if it's just for a while, things get marginally more readable. I'm all for losing myself, but that was just too much. So, I'm going to have a long, hot bath, in which I will read Eumaeus. I'm on Part III now, three quarters of the way through, read for over twelve hours with breaks (God, with breaks, I wonder that if I hadn't had breaks I'd be having a breakdown), and I am desperate for Molly Bloom's sililoquy, not because it's the last part, far from it actually, just really looking forward to it. Jillian has a YouTube clip on her blog, so do look.

Eumaeus (1am) - I'm no longer flagging, 'tis my second wind kicking in! That episode was tough, and confusing, but that I think was the point (I hope at least), not sure who was saying what. As I say, that might be reflective of the exhaustion of the characters, or my own tired-but-not-quite-exhausted-yet state. I'm happy I'm doing this, this was worthwhile, hard going as it has been. I've loved being a part of something like Bloomsday, even if I am quite obviously far from being Joyce's fan girl.

So, wrongly, I feel like I'm on the last leg. I'm not, though - I have two episodes, but I'm so looking forward to Penelope, Molly Bloom's sililoquy, that I feel that this is close to being over. And I've been thinking - after this update, I'm going to read Ithica, the seventeenth episode, then I'm going to have a break and aim to start Penelope no earlier than midnight, later if I can manage it. Dennis O'Donnell tweeted me before and put the idea in my head, saying try to finish Molly's sililoquy at 2am. I said I didn't think I'd still be awake, but I'm going to give it a shot. Reading Telemachus at 8am when it was set added something to the whole experience, and I wonder if I should have aimed to stick to the time scale all the way through (no regrets, though!). My brain's a little fuddled, so I can't quite be clear, so I'll just say - it did add something to the experience, it made what I was reading a lot more real. I'd like to repeat the experience for the last episode, so yes, I'll read Ithica then take a break, update, check in with the others, read some of the thousands of Bloomsday tweets etc.

Ithica (2am) - 11.30pm, penultimate episode, so penultimate update. 93% through, brain is mush. Worth it? Can I answer that before I finished? yes I can, and yes it was (I said). I've talked about connections numerous times: not just connections with text, with the characters and times, landscapes, circumstances, but connections with other readers, the thousands, hundreds of thousands or millions who have read x before we got to it. Today I've felt a connection in the shared purpose with the others who have given reading Ulysses in one day a shot, and those who are reading sections. We're all doing the same thing for the same reason, because it's Bloomsday so why the hell not. Yes, this is worth it. And time is going backwards, because I looked at my clock and it's 11:29 now. Huh. I don't think I can wait 'til 2am for Penelope, so I'm going to get ready for bed, faff on a bit, and start when I've finished faffing. half an hour or so, maybe. Ithica was marvellous, and here's the opening, which sums it all up:

Of what did the duumvirate deliberate during their itinerary?
Music, literature, Ireland, Dublin, Paris, friendship, woman, prostitution, diet, the influence of gaslight or the light of arc and glow-lamps on the growth of paraheliotropic trees, exposed corporation emergency dustbuckets, the Roman catholic church, ecclesiastical celibacy, the Irish nation, jesuit education, careers, the study of medicine, the past day, the maleficient influence of the presabbath, Stephen's collapse.

Penelope - 1am, yes I finished, yes. I read Ulysses on Bloomsday. And honestly, I'm so tired, I have nothing remotely insightful or intelligent to say, so I will bid you goodnight. It's been a pleasure, yes.

Bloomsday Readalong.

Trotwood asks, "What is Bloomsday?"

Saturday the 16th June is Bloomsday, which means about ten of us will be reading Jame Joyce's Ulysses (eleven if you include Trot, who will have parts read to him). It's a little daunting, and seemed a marvelous idea in March (if you think it's a marvelous idea now, do sign up!).

I've just finished reading the introduction, and I'm about to read Charlotte's posts so far, and I still say: this is just about do-able. Just about. I mean, there's a chance, and I know people have their own traditions of re-reading Ulysses for Bloomsday, so "yes I will Yes" and all that!

Virginia Woolf said of Ulysses, it was the work of a frustrated man who feels that in order to breathe he must break all the windows. From what I know (the little I know, I have to say) and from my first read of it six years ago, that is my general understanding and is one way of understanding the book and his motivation. I have a funny relationship with Joyce's novels: they infuriate me, just their presence, and the fact that they are so difficult, my struggles with him and them... I resent it. But I want to understand his works: I want to feel I have conquered just a part of what he's written. This is why I return, every now and again, to one of his novels. To conquer. To say, one day, "Yes, I've read it, yes, I understood it". I'm yet to understand, but some parts I grasp, and I think with age and with re-reads, experience, all of that, perhaps one day I'll get closer. Hard work for one author, no?

So, then, a reminder, a breakdown: episode, scene, time, and, for those reading the Penguin Modern Classics edition, page numbers -

PART I: The Telemachiad

• Episode i: Telemachus - The Tower - 8am (page 1). Telemachus is the son of Odysseus and Penelope.
• Episode ii: Nestor - The School - 10am (page 28). Nestor is King of Pylos who led his subjects into Trojian War.
• Episode iii: Proteus - The Strand - 11am (page 45). Proteus or "old man of the sea" is prophetic, but on being questioned assumes different shapes and forms.

PART II: The Odyssey 

• Episode iv: Calypso - The House - 8am (page 65)  Calypso is the daughter of Atlas, who offered Odysseus immortality if he stayed with her. He refused, and was kept with her for seven years.
• Episode v: Lotus-Eaters - The Bath - 10am (page 85). The Lotus Eaters are people who eat Lotus fruit, which makes them lose their desire to return to their native country.
• Episode vi: Hades - The Graveyard - 11am (page 107). Hades is the god of the Nether World, where the spirits of the dead "flit like bats".
• Episode vii: Aeolus - The Newspaper - 12pm (page 147). Aeolus is the god of Winds. He gives Odysseus a bag containing all the unfavourable winds, however his companions open the bag and their ship is sent back to where it came.
• Episode viii: Lestrygonians - The Lunch - 1pm (page 190). The Lastrygonians are a race of giants who sink eleven of the twelve ships of Odysseus, killing his companions.
• Episode ix: Scylla and Charybdis - The Library - 2pm (page 235). Scylla was a nymph loved by Poseidon. Out of jealousy, Circe turned her into a monster. She is positioned opposite Charybdis, a whirlpool. Charybdis was an avarious woman who was turned into a whirlpool by Zeus for stealing Hercules's ox.
• Episode x: Wandering Rocks - The Streets - 3pm (page 280). The Wandering Rocks, or Planctae are rocks between which the sea is mercilessly violent. Only Jason has successfully navicated between them.
• Episode xi: Sirens - The Concert Room - 4pm (page 328). The Sirens lure men to their deaths with their music.
• Episode xii: Cyclops - The Tavern - 5pm (page 376). Cyclops is a race of giants who make Zeus's thunderbolts.
• Episode xiii: Nausicaa - The Rocks - 8pm (page 449). Nausicaa, daughter of Alcinous, feeds and clothes Odysseus and takes him to her father's court.
• Episode xiv: Oxen of the Sun - The Hospital - 10pm (page 449). Oxen of Sun, or Cattle of Helios: if a single animal was hurt it would bring down wrath of Helios. Odysseus's company sacrifice the cattle, and Zeus destroys their ships.
• Episode xv: Circe - The Brothel - 12am (page 561). Circe changed Odysseus's company into swine.

Part III: The Nostos 

• Episode xvi: Eumaeus - The Shelter - 1am (page 704). Eumaeus helped Odysseus destroy the suitors of Penelope.
• Episode xvii: - Ithaca - The House - 2am (page 776). Ithica - the kingdom of Odysseus.
• Episode xviii: - Penelope - The Bed - unspecified (page 871). Penelope - the wife of Odysseus.

(Most of that information came from The Oxford Companion to English Literature).

What more can I say? I suggest we start this at 8am, for those who want to give reading the whole lot a go, and for those who want to dabble - up to you, of course, how you approach it. Sign up, or leave me a comment if you want to join in!

The 1830s and 1840s: Dickens, Charlotte Bronte, and William Thackeray.

Sun Setting Over a Lake, Turner (1840)

This week I've been reading from the 1840s for Allie's Victorian Celebration. I read Shirley by Charlotte Bronte, Vanity Fair by William Thackeray, The Communist Manifesto by Marx and Engels, the first chapter of The Victorians by A. N. Wilson (which focused on the early Victorian period), and I finished Dombey and Son (which I started in May). I also read William Wordswoth: Selected Poems, which were largely from the early part of the 19th Century, however as he was the first Poet Laureate appointed by Queen Victoria, I thought it would be a worthwhile endeavour for this project! And, I have to say, I have thoroughly enjoyed this approach to reading: reading first the chapter by A. N. Wilson, then reading the novels, poems, and any other bits and pieces I could find from this decade.

There are many books to choose from, Dickens in particular was especially prolific in the late 1830s - 1840s, writing -

• The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club (1836 - 1837)
• The Adventures of Oliver Twist (1837 - 1839)
• The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby (1838 - 1839)
• The Old Curiosity Shop (1840 - 1841)
• Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty (1841 - 1841)
• A Christmas Carol (1843)
• The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit (1843 - 1844)
• Dombey and Son (1846 - 1848)
• David Copperfield (1849 - 1850)

The 1840s also saw the publications of Agnes Grey (1847) and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848) by Anne Brontë, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (1845 - 1846), and Jane Eyre (1847) by Charlotte Brontë,as well as Shirley in 1849. Vanity Fair was published between 1847 - 1848 in competition with Dombey and Son, and in 1842, Tennyson's Poems was published.

It was easy for me to pick what to read, because by chance I have read many of these titles. For Dickens, I chose Dombey and Son, not feeling ready for Barnaby Rudge, and because A. N. Wilson mentioned it in passing (Oliver Twist rightly, in my mind, got most of the attention in his first chapter). Martin Chuzzlewit is the only one left unread on that list. And, sadly, I had already read all of the Brontës aside from Shirley (I say sadly because what a thrill it was to read them for the first time, I miss that period of discovery!). Vanity Fair has been on my to-read list for a very long time, so this seemed perfect (I can't say I loved it, however). And, finally, to compliment this list, I read The Communist Manifesto, which was published in 1848.

I think, perhaps, the ideal books to read to understand the early Victorian age would have been Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol, but I feel like I have so many hundreds of undiscovered books, I'm not a big fan of re-reads at the moment. Oliver Twist, in particular, would have made the perfect read.

The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons, Turner (1836)

A. N. Wilson begins with 16th October 1834, when the Houses of Parliament were burned down. Referring to Dickens, A. N. Wilson suggests that there was almost a fittingness to this destruction, arguing that "The Reform Bill of 1832 had selfconsciously ushered in a new era". The Age of Reform was a modernising of British politics, and one of the greatest concerns was the massive population growth that Malthus drew attention to in An Essay on the Principle of Population (1798, and revised in 1803, 1806, 1807, 1817, and 1826). Wilson writes,

The statistics speak for themselves. Over the previous eighty years, the population of England, Wales and Scotland had doubled - 7, 250, 000 in 1751, 10, 943, 000 in 1801, 14, 392, 000 in 1821; by 1831, 12, 539, 000 - and in Ireland 4, 000, 000 had become 8, 000, 000.

Malthus went on to estimate that by 2050 our world population would be ten billion (the World Bank estimates that it currently stands at nearly 7 billion), and believed an inevitable consequence was starvation, disease, disruption, and misery (Dickens used Scrooge as a mouthpiece for Mathusian economics - "If they want to die they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population"). One way to help combat this was encouraging the poor to live and work in Workhouses. Those who would not, by accordance with the New Poor Law of 1834, would be refused relief (it was estimated that £7 million per year was spent on poor relief, and the impact of the Napoleonic War and bad harvests put the system on the verge of collapse). This, as Wilson put it, was a part of Victoria's inheritence.

William Wordsworth, a Tory, found beauty in poverty. He wrote in The Old Cumberland Beggar spreading grace, living in the eye of Nature, however was really was spreading was dirt and disease:

With hunger, filth, poverty, there came, inexorably, disease. On 7 November 1837 a doctor in poverty-striken Limehouse district of London's East End recorded the case of Ellen Green, aged seven years, of Irish extraction, living with her parents in a miserable apartment, on the second floor of a small house, situated in Well-alley, Ropemaker's Fields, Limehouse, a low, dirty and very confined situation.... The doctor, Charles Johnston, observed the squalid apartment abutted on to a pigsty and that the floor was a heap of manure and filth, 'the joint produce of house and pigsty'. Little Ellen was attacked with her first fit of vomiting and purging on 26 October; then with cramps in her legs and thighs. Within days her features had shrunk, her eyes sunk deep into the orbits, the conjunctiva had become effused, the lips were blue, the tongue was white. These were the sure signs of cholera, which killed her about a day later.

As I say, I feel Oliver Twist is the book of the decade, and I almost wish I hadn't read it until now. But, I opted for Dombey and Son, and it was the only contemporary novel of the three, as both Shirley and Vanity Fair were looking back several decades. Wilson refers to it only fleetingly in a chapter on J. S. Mill -

Beyond, the steeples and spires of many City churches kept the hours. Money, by a thousand Mr Dombeys, was being made, by investment in domestic industry, by foreign trade, by insurance, by shipping. Here was the epicentre of that rentier world which, by learning to manage money, was building an economy, a political system, an empire of strength and size without parallel in the world.

Paul Dombey is the owner of a shipping company. Like Scrooge, Dombey is rich and powerful in money, but not so much emotionally. He lacks humanity entirely, devoted to his son who will continue his business, and utterly neglected his daughter Florence, our heroine, who is desperate to earn his love. It's grim; a painful account, and I sympathised greatly with Florence for I once loved a Mr. Dombey.

A recurrent theme in Dombey and Son is railways: in 1830, the first intercity railway was built between London and Liverpool, and by the early 1850s, there was believed to be around 7 000 miles of track throughout the country. I believe Dickens had mixed feelings, aware of the good it would do the cities, however sometimes representing the trains as a "monster", a thundering "fiery devil", and a portent of death. Dickens describes the death of one of Domeby's employees, run over accidentally by a train -

[He] felt the earth tremble—knew in a moment that the rush was come—uttered a shriek—looked round—saw the red eyes, bleared and dim, in the daylight, close upon him—was beaten down, caught up, and whirled away upon a jagged mill, that spun him round and round, and struck him limb from limb, and licked his stream of life up with its fiery heat, and cast his mutilated fragments in the air. 

Following the death of his son (I don't think that is a spoiler, the very point of young Paul Dombey was that he died), Mr. Dombey travels by train -

He found no pleasure or relief in the journey. . . . The very speed at which the train was whirled along, mocked the swift course of the young life that had been borne away so steadily and so inexorably to its foredoomed end. The power that forced itself upon its iron way — its own — defiant of all paths and roads, piercing through the heart of every obstacle, and dragging living creatures of all classes, ages, and degrees behind it, was a type of the triumphant monster, Death. 

Rain, Steam and Speed, Turner (1844)

Thackeray wrote of Turner's Rail, Steam and Speed: The Great Western Railway (right) -

Mr. Turner . . . has out-prodigied almost all former prodigies. He has made a picture with real rain, behind which is real sunshine, and you expect a rainbow every mimute. Meanwhile, there comes a train down upon you, really moving at the rate of fifty miles an hour, and which the reader had best make haste to see, lest it should dash out of the picture, and be away up Charing Cross through the wall opposite. All these wonders are performed with means not less wonderful than the effects are. The rain, in the astounding picture called "Rain-Steam-Speed," is composed of dabs of dirty putty slapped on to the canvas with a trowel; the sunshine scintillates out of very thick smeary lumps of chrome yellow. The shadows are produced by cool tones of crimson lake, and quiet glazings of vermilion. Although the fire in the steam-engine looks as if it were red, I am not prepared to say that it is not painted with cobalt and pea-green. And as for the manner in which the "Speed" is done, of that the less said the better.-- only it is a positive fact that there is a steam-coach going fifty miles an hour. The world has never seen anything like this picture. 

Thackerary was envious of Dickens, and when the nation was in mourning for the death of young Paul, he said, "There’s no writing against such power as this — one has no chance!" Vanity Fair was published in serial form between 1847 - 1848 in competition with Dombey, and was favourably received by The Edinburgh Review, Mrs. Carlyle, who told her husband is "beats Dickens out of this world", and Charlotte Bronte, who said that "His wit is bright, his humour attractive but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent street-lighting playing under the edge of the summer cloud does to the electric death-spark hidden in its womb". Bronte dedicated Jane Eyre to Thackeray.

Like Bronte's Shirley, Vanity Fair looks back, however it had much to say about the times in which it was published. It is set during the Napoleonic Wars, and his characters are all flawed to varying degrees. Vanity of course, greed, lies and deceit are all there in it, and Becky Sharpe is the reprehensible anti-hero that steadily gets worse: at first, she is rather fun in her badness - hurling the dictionary out of the window as she leaves Miss Pinkerton's academy - I had sympathy with her. By the end, not so much. I didn't like her, and I found I didn't particularly care what happened to her I'm sorry to say, though I did enjoy reading it (perhaps I read it a little too fast, though). But Bronte's Shirley blew me away.

Why, I'm not sure, but I got it into my head that I ought to read Shirley after Villette, and as I have so far been unable to finish Villette, I never got to Shirley. I think, perhaps, someone wrongly told me Villette was published first, perhaps that was my thinking. But it wasn't, it was published in 1849 and so I read it this week for my early Victorian theme! I loved it, loved it, loved it, and want everyone to read it! It was beautiful, some of the descriptions blew me away. I've shared one on this blog, and a couple on my Tumblr (here and here), and I think this is one of the best books ever written (I'm very much looking forward to re-starting Villette this time).

As I've said, Bronte looks back, focusing on the Luddite uprising and the depression resulting from the Napoleonic Wars, however she had much to say on her own times through Shirley. Early in the novel, she wrote,

At this crisis, certain inventions in machinery were introduced into the staple manufactuers of the north, which, greatly reducing the number of hands necessary to be employed, threw thousands out of work, and left them without a legitimate means of sustaining life. A bad harvest supervened. Distress reached its climax.Endurance overgoaded, stretched the hand of fraternity to sedition. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving under the hills of the northern counties. But, as is usual in such cases, nobody took much notice.

The friendship between Shirley Keeldar and Caroline Helstone is close, intimate (perhaps this is my 21st Century mind, but I can't help but wonder how intimate it might have been had it have been written today). Bronte explores themes of love, and of marriage, as well as social and political upheavals. Shirley is very masculine, even down to her name: Shirley was traditionally a male name, and it was the name her father intended to give to a son (not unlike Radclyffe Hall's character Stephen Gordon in The Well of Loneliness). She is now one of my favourite characters in literature. As ever, I don't want to say too much in case I spoil it for someone, but if you haven't read it, please do read this and tell me all your thoughts!

So, as you can probably tell, I've loved the first week of the Victorian Celebration! I've not tended to take much note on when the book I've been reading was published, and I've never shown much interest in its historical context, so this way of reading is new to me and I'm enjoying it. Next week, I want to focus on the 1850s, though I think I'll need two or three weeks to focus on it. I've been picking out various books, and my 1850s pile is double my 1860s - 1890s pile! I'm so excited to start the 1850s - I'll begin by reading the relevant chapter in The Victorians, and then... Well, here is my pile, and I want to read as many as I can (but I can't read them all, I'm not that fast):

• The Cranford Chronicles, Elizabeth Gaskell (1851 - 1858)
• On Art and Life, John Ruskin (1853, abridged)
• Villette, Charlotte Bronte (1853)
• On Liberty, John Stuart Mill (1854) 
• North and South, Elizabeth Gaskell (1854 - 1855)
• The Warden, Anthony Trollope (1855)
• Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens (1855 - 1857)
• Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope (1857)
• The Life of Charlotte Bronte, Elizabeth Gaskell (1857)
• Tom Brown's School Days, Thomas Hughes (1857)
• On Natural Selection, Charles Darwin (1859, abridged)

 I'm most looking forward to Villette and then The Life of Charlotte Bronte, but perhaps I'll try and read them all in this order. I'm not sure, but I'll definitely be starting with the second chapter of The Victorians by A. N. Wilson.

I hope everyone else is enjoying the Victorian Celebration!

My moors.

I'm so excited - reading Shirley by Charlotte Bronte, and there's a passage that describes the moors where I live, right where I live! The moors I've mentioned many many times on this blog! I have to share the passage with you right now (even though I was in bed and about to go asleep!). It's from the twelfth chapter, titled "Shirley and Caroline" - 

Shirley said she liked the green sweep of the common turf, and, better still, the heath on its ridges, for the heath reminded her of moors: she had seen the moors when she was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered particularly a district traversed one long afternoon, on a sultry but sunless day in summer: they journeyed from noon till sunset, over what seemed a boundless waste of deep heath, and nothing had they seen but wild sheep: nothing heard but the cries of wild birds.
'I know how the heath would look on such a day,' said Caroline; 'purple black: a deep shade of the sky-tint, and that would be livid.'
'Yes, quite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid tinge, which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected would kindle into blinding lightening.'
'Did it thunder?'
'It muttered distant peals, but the storm did not break till evening, after we had reached our inn: that inn being an isolated house at the foot of a range of mountains.'
'Did you watch the clouds come down over the mountains?'
'I did: I stood at the window an hour watching them. The hills seemed rolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain fell in whitening sheets, suddenly they were blotted from the prospect: they were washed from the world.'

It is so exciting to read this description! I see this, I look out of my window and I see this, and here it is, written about over 160 years ago by none other than Charlotte Bronte! It's absolutely thrilling! I've included some pictures I took a while ago to show you.

And, so far, I am in love with this book. I've put several quotes up on my Tumblr: the descriptive passages are intense. I'll write about this book in more detail on Sunday, I have a post planned which involved a lot of reading (hence the blog silence) and Shirley will be included. For now, before I go back to bed, here's one more quote, which follows the above:

They both halted on the green brow of the Common: they looked down on the deep valley robed in May rainment; on varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups: to-day all this young verdure smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams played over it. In Nunnwood - the sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once all sylvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather - slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with remote glimpse of heaven’s foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and bracing.

It's perfect, this book is perfect.

Tess of the d'Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy.

1892 edition.

What took me so long to read this? It's one of the first books I ever bought, I've been meaning to read it for as long, and it's taken me about fifteen years despite the fact that the little I've read of Hardy I have enjoyed. But yes, I have finally read it: my first book for Allie's Victorian Celebration. So thank you, Allie!

Hardy was born in 1840, and finished his first novel in 1867 however he was unable to find a publisher. His friend George Meredith (writer of The Egoist, which I plan on reading in the coming weeks) thankfully encouraged him to persevere. Tess of the d'Urbervilles: A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented was first published in 1891, towards the end of Queen Victoria's reign. 

A. N. Wilson, in The Victorians (on my currently-reading pile) describes Hardy as "the most spiritually engaged of all great Victorian writers" and favourably compares them with Carlyle, Dostoyevsky, and Solzhenitsyn in this passage which I rather enjoyed:

Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928) is one of those great writers - Carlyle was one, in the late twentieth century Solzhenitsyn was another - who do not merely produce great artworks, but who seem to embody in their life-pilgrimage deep truths about the nature of their own times. None were 'typical' - whatever that may mean - as Scot, Russian, or Englishman. All were in fact outsiders. But in their lives and writings they were instinctively tuned to what was going on in their society. Dostoyevsky, half-crazy as he was, had this quality where Tolstoy for example, though obsessed by the state of Russia and the world, did not. I'm talking here less of the writers' views per se - though these are clearly affected by the phenomenon - and more the sense of inevitability about what they wrote and what they were. Whereas lesser writers imitate, pose, strike attitudes, these unfailingly truthful men have something in them of Luther's Hier stehe ich, ich kann nicht anders [Here I stand, I cannot help]. Carlyle and Dostoyevsky with their dispondent fury saw through the lie of the nineteenth century Liberalism: Solzhenitsyn saw through the much bigger and much uglier lie of Soviet communism. Hardy, in his oblique, gentle, provincial English way had a bigger target in his ever-bright blue countryman's eyes. "I have been looking for God for 50 years, and I think if he had existed I should have discovered him."

It does not matter that many of Hardy's novels have creaking plots, any more than it matters that he can write on occasion with immense clumsiness - tears are "an access of eye-moisture"; early morning or suspense do not chill a man, they "cause a sensation of chilliness to pervade his frame". there is a greatness of scheme, a truthfulness about Hardy which makes his faults seem trivial.

Wilson goes on to write that in Hardy "we encounter human beings against whom all the odds are stacked", and of course, this is true of poor Tess. Hardy jumps right in, describing a chance encounter between Tess's father John and a parson, and a conversation that shapes Tess's whole life. From the opening page, her destiny is mapped:

On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blackmore or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to ther left of a straight line. He occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking fo anything in particular. An empty egg-basket was slun upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite worn away at the brim where his thumb came in taking it off. Presently, he was met by an elderly parson astride a gray mare, who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.

'Good night t'ee,' said the man with the basket.

'Good night, Sir John,' said the parson.

The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.

'Now, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road about this time and I zaid "Good night" and you made the reply "Good night, Sir John," as now.'

'I did,' said the parson.

'And once before that - near a month ago.'

'I may have.'

'Then what might your meaning be in calling me "Sir John" these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?'

The parson rode a step or two nearer.

'It was only my whim,' he said; and after a moment's hesitation: 'It was on account of a discovery I made some time ago, whilst I was hunting up pedigrees for the new county history. I am Parson Tringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane. Don't you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of ancient and knightly family of the d'Urbervilles, who derive their descent from Sir Pagan d'Urberville, that renowned knight who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror as appears by Battle Abbey Roll?'

Like other Hardy novels, there's a lot of "If onlys" because destiny is so inescapable, especially in the Victorian era. Their strict codes of morality were stifling, and Hardy criticised them relentlessly: even the subtitle of Tess: "A Pure Woman" was a dig, designed, apparently, to raise the middle classes eyebrows. And it did more than that, because Tess faced many criticisms. She was the victim of both destiny and moral hypocrisy, the double standard that women faced then that makes us wince today (or at least, it ought to). It's a brilliant novel, I thought at one point it was beginning to turn like Pushkin's Onegin, however it did not and that was a tragedy. I won't spoil the book for those who haven't read it, because this is one of those books that must be read by all. I did, it has to be said, choose this by chance: I made a pile of the books I mentioned in my June post and Tess was at the top, but I'm glad it was the first one I read for the Victorian Celebration: I think it was the perfect book to start with. 

It's a wonderful novel, and it's an essential historical document as well. Tess is tragic, and it's worse because it might have been (probably was for many) true. It makes me angry: putting it down having finished it and asking why for the millionth time.

The Lady of Shalott by Lord Tennyson, and the Pre-Raphaelites.

Tennyson

The Lady of Shalott is one of my favourite poems, and I thought revisiting it would be a good way of starting the Victorian Celebration as Alfred Tennyson was the Poet Laureate for much of Queen Victoria's reign, appointed in 1850 following William Wordsworth's death, until 1892 (Wordsworth was actually the first Poet Laureate appointed by Queen Victoria in 1843, and followed Robert Southey on the refusal of Sir Walter Scott. For those who are interested, Alfred Austin followed on the refusal of William Morris, and was the last Poet Laureate under Victoria's reign). 

There are two versions of The Lady of Shalott, one was written in 1833, and the one I've just read was written in 1842. My introduction to it was via the pre-Raphaelites, a group of artists who I have loved all my life, ever since I was a little girl (my mother and I would spend many hours looking through her books on the pre-Raphs, so they have a great deal of sentimental meaning as well). The Brotherhood (you might notice, if you look carefully, in some of their paintings the at-the-time cryptic "PRB" written somewhere - PRB means "The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood) was founded in 1848 by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, and Dante Gabriel Rosetti (Gabriel Charles Dante Rosetti, brother of poet Christina Rosetti, put "Dante" in his name first in honour of Dante Alighieri, author of Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso). Their purpose was to return to the style of painting before Raphael (hence "pre-Raphaelite") and produced vivid, intensely coloured, sharp, and very detailed images that Big C jokingly called "Medieval HD", which is very accurate for a lot of their work! The Brotherhood went on to influence other artists: Arthur Hughes, Ford Madox Brown, Frederic Sandys and John William Waterhouse. Waterhouse is my favourite artist, and he was inspired to produce several paintings of The Lady of Shalott.

Lady of Shalott, Holman Hunt

The Lady of Shalott was inspired by the story of Elaine of Astolat, who dies from a broken heart: the unrequited love of Sir Lancelot (Tennyson also wrote about her in Idylls of the King). She is cursed: she must not look directly out of her window, only through a mirror can she see reality, or the outside world, and all day she sits at her loom weaving until one day she catches sight of Sir Lancelot. She looks out, runs from her tower and goes by boat to Camelot, however she dies before she arrives.

The first four stanzas of the poem begin by describing the island of Shalott, where she is barely known - "'Tis the fairy / Lady of Shalott" whispers the farmers.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
 The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
 Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.

Waterhouse, 1915.

 The second part of the poem goes on to describe her and the unknown curse:

There she weaves by night and day,
A magic web with colours gay.
Sge has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

She weaves the things she sees through her mirror, the "shadows" - "'I am half sick of shadows,' said / The Lady of Shalott" (the subject of Waterhouse's third painting of her, in 1915). She sees women, the abbot, a "crimson clad" page, a shepherd, and knights - everyone living in the real world whilst she lives in this dream-like state. "She hath no loyal knight and true, / The Lady of Shalott".

Waterhouse, 1894.

In the third part, "bold Sir Lancelot" appears (this part painted by Waterhouse in 1894: "The Lady of Shalott Looking at Lancelot"):

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She looks. The Lady of Shalott looks directly out of the window at him, and it almost reminds me of Lot's wife looking back, unable to help herself, and being cursed so unfairly for doing something so natural (Genesis 19: 16). This is my favourite part of the poem, the desperation, the shock, the panic: all are there in this relentless rhythm:

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
'The curse is upon me,' cried
The Lady of Shalott.

(One of the few bits of poetry I know by heart).

Waterhouse, 1888.

And then, the final part: she leaves her tower and goes down to the river, gets a boat, writes her name on it, and floats down to Camelot singing as she goes (reminiscent of Ophelia, another subject of Waterhouse's paintings). By the time she reaches the palace, she is dead, and she is found by the knights including Sir Lancelot:

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights of Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, 'She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.'

William Maw Egley, 1858.

This poem inspired a great many. I have already included a painting by Holman Hunt at the top, and it is referred to in many novels: The Prime of Miss Jean Broodie, by Muriel Spark, The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side by Agatha Christie, and The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde are just three examples. And, of course, Waterhouse: the 1888 painting at the bottom is perhaps the best known of the three.

So, in short: do have a read of it, let me know what you think!