Last day of August.

Last night the sky was clear, and there was a fiery red sunset, so I knew this morning it would be a little frosty with condensation on the windows. And I know condensation isn't a good thing, really, one ought to take steps to get rid of it, but I love the way it looks. I love this time of year, and I love it when it gets colder and the water turns to ice.

Autumnal Equinox is on the 22nd of September this year, so that means it is twenty three days away, but of course the seasons wait for no man. Already autumn is creeping in, showing itself tonight, at just after 9pm in the dark skies, the smoke coming from people's chimneys, and the leaves beginning to collect in the gutters. I haven't lit our fire yet, although it is tempting, but I do have the electric fire on behind me, more for the sake of the budgies. For the first time since spring, I'm back to wearing two cardigans: it's my cold weather uniform; usually one tight fitting black cardigan below a loose, grey, thick one. Thermal socks, too, but it's not cold enough for leggings under my skirt. This weather won't last through to March, of course, and it isn't autumn yet (although I gather someone on the BBC said 1st September was the first day of autumn: that is wrong. Autumnal equinox marks the first day).

And so tonight, this cold, autumnal night, the last evening in August 2012, I'll consider my plans for September, knowing that something is bound to come up unexpectedly. I know that I do plan to read an awful lot, and that, with just the living room and utility room needing attention, this house ought to be finished by equinox. I'm glad for many reasons, the major one being the paint fumes, the white spirit, the bleach, and all the other chemicals, seem to be taking a toll on my health now. I wake up wheezing, and I'm prone these days to absolutely blinding headaches, as well as being excessively tired. But soon, so soon, it will be over. Paint tins will be out of the house, screw drivers in their proper places, and there will be no cups of white spirit with paint brushes sticking out on the window sills. My last tasks are living room then tidying - Big C has the utility room to do alone (spiders). The bedroom floor won't be done for the foreseeable future, but I did make the spare room lovely. I'm lucky to love cheap white paint!

So, that was August: decorating, fumes, bad health, the loss of my eldest cat, and no postman. I didn't say at the time, but at one point Big C was very ill. It's a complicated story, but on Monday I was very frightened. He's pulled round rather nicely, and there appears to be no longer lasting complications. All I'll say is - remember: paracetamol is to be taken every four to six hours, not every two to three!

As for books:

• Bronte, Emily - Wuthering Heights 
• Tolkein, J. R. R. - The Return of the King 
• Proust, Marcel - Swann's Way 
• Zola, Émile - The Fortunes of the Rougons 
• Euripides - Medea and Other Plays 
• Dumas, Alexandre - Count of Monte Cristo
• McCourt, Frank - Angela's Ashes 
• Murdoch, Iris - The Sea, The Sea 

I was excited to start reading Remembrance of Things Past by Proust and the Rougon Macquart cycle by Zola, and I'm very much looking forward to continuing with those. I read six of my 2012 Challenges, and I'm feeling a bit better about those books. I collected them all on to one shelf, and they don't look quite so frightening now, even if some of the remaining titles are rather long. I don't plan on making the same mistake for 2013, in fact I don't think I'll sign up for any challenges, other than the monthly Classic Club reads. But it's not even September as I write this, so why worry?

For now, then, I'm going to go offline and read something. I need an early night, and I'm already looking forward to writing my first of the month post tomorrow! For those of you who wanted to join me with Robinson Crusoe: remember to start it tomorrow! The details are here, very simply it is all about starting to read the book on the 1st September. There's no plan, no official sign up page, no deadline to complete. Just make a start tomorrow, if you would like to join me!

One last thing: I've had some really lovely comments and tweets this month, and I'd like to thank you for that. It helped so much: when I was feeling bad about things and everything being up in the air (or cluttering every available surface). Those of you who commented: you cheered me up a lot, so thank you.

Buying and selling.

“I was just a pure capitalist,” he said. 

I've been thinking today about the New York Times's 'Book Reviewers for Hire' article, which both Jillian and sj have blogged about. The article can be summed by it's headline: simply the subject of the article, Todd Rutherford, started a business writing positive reviews for self-published writers:

Then it would say exactly what the client wanted — that it was a terrific book. A shattering novel. A classic memoir. Will change your life. Lyrical and gripping, Stunning and compelling. Or words to that effect. 

It makes for a depressing read.

When I first saw the link to this article a few days ago, I didn't read it because I felt that it didn't concern me. I don't review books. Furthermore, I am very rarely asked to review books, and if I am ever asked in the future I will most likely turn the offer down because I cannot review books, especially on demand. There are many books that I have enjoyed, even loved, that never get a mention on this blog other than on the "Read: 2011-2012" page because I need to be moved by a book, and that is a very personal thing. It's dependent on my mood at the time of reading it or on the day I've finished it. I've missed the boat a few times when I've read a book I've loved but not had time to blog about it, and then the moment is gone. It happens all the time, and if something interrupts me from this blog post tonight it will never be written: I won't be able to write until Friday, and who knows what I'll be in the mood for then? Capricious? Maybe. Yes, in fact. Why not? Why force myself to write about a book when I'm not in the mood, why suck the joy out of life when I don't need to? I've just started The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch, and it may be that there is something so wonderful in there I have to tell you, and why would I suppress that in order to write about something that concerned me a few days ago?

Because of this, and because I've always been very clear on this, I cannot imagine that anyone would come to this blog for an objective review. It's far too personal. In February, I wrote about how perfect I found The Dharma Bums, but would it have been so perfect had it not have been deliberately sought out on the anniversary of my friend's death? How could I ever read that book without remembering him talking about Jack Kerouac with his eyes shining and his whole life ahead of him? The night I read that book, I shared something with him even if he had been dead six years. I'm thinking far too much about death today, there's too much of it, and I hate that I've watched another one of my pets die in front of me. And there it is again: I said this article made a depressing read, but exactly why wouldn't I be depressed today? I probably could review this article, nay, the whole of the Western Canon objectively, but I don't want to and that's an end to it.

And it's not that I'm thinking entirely of myself when I blog, because although this blog is about me, and my reaction to a book, I do genuinely want you to have the same feelings as me when it comes to a book. I want you to be as excited as I am, and I know all of you reading this have been and can do so without me, but I'll read something that blew me away, so of course I want to tell you about it. The whole thing, reading and discovering books is a thrilling experience, how could I keep it to myself? Why would I want to?

And I think this is the same for a lot of the blogs I read. Jillian says her blog is her reading journal:

This post is just a gentle reminder that there are all sorts of book blogs out there, and we aren’t all reading to critique. Some of us are reading to journal and explore... I want to share what is lovely about reading.

And she does it perfectly, and I think she's one of those must-read bloggers.

But I've written about this before. The point was the article. The money, capitalism, hits and shares and numbers, and oh God. I actually paused there to hold my head in my hands.

Imagine if Samuel Richarson was alive, do you think he'd be rubbing his hands in glee with £ signs in his eyes after I wrote my bit on Clarissa, and later, when a few of you decided to give it a go and you went out (or online) and bought it? I'm not saying the man didn't need to eat. Professional writers are just that, writing for money, and people do need to eat and pay their water and electricity bills and more besides. And it must be exciting for an author, and surely Samuel Richardson would be pleased that his writing had made me so happy and inspired?

That's what has been lost with this "Book reviewers for hire" business; that's what depresses me. There is no thrill. "Stunning and compelling. Or words to that effect." - doesn't that just sum it up? I would beg you to read a book, like Anne Bronte's Agnes Grey, Henry James's The Aspern Papers, Elizabeth Gaskell's North and Sourth, George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss, or, yes, Clarissa, because they touched me. I'm looking for something, and I'm not sure what. All these books I buy and read, there is something in them, something vast and epic, they will make me feel something I cannot contain. There are giants in this room, and I'll tell you about them when I find them, and maybe you'll see the giants as well. But maybe you won't, because we have different experiences and either the book I'm raving about won't quite come at the right time, or maybe it will never come at the right time. But I'll tell you anyway because I want you to see the giants, just as I would point out a full moon to you, or mountains with mist rising around it, or something else so wonderful because you might be excited as well.

I can't make that up, and I would have to if I was paid. You would know if I told you to read Clarissa (only £19 on Amazon, save 20% if you order today and get next day delivery! [I'm making that up]) because Clarissa is an epic read, one of the greatest books ever written, and will have you at the edge of your seat from start to finish, and any other cliché I can throw in. It would be cold, heartless and soulless, and this is the problem with writing positive reviews for money and nothing more. Simply churning it out for money. Where is the thrill, the love, the tenderness, and the affection? Dickens is an old friend now, and Zola is new and exciting., and one cannot fake this, so it's left out, and it doesn't matter anyway because you're getting paid at the end of the day.

It doesn't have to be like this. There are plenty of bloggers that I trust (I won't list them because I will forget to mention someone, then worry and worry in case I make anyone feel bad). I don't need to rely on people I don't know for reviews, no one does. But the article revealed a machine that belongs not to art but to capitalism, and I won't be a part of that machine nor will I associate with it. This is personal, far too personal for a machine to convey. Surely it ought to be?

Black cat.

Today was the third cat, the eldest (18 in October): the third cat to be put to sleep since the end of November. "That's the problem when you get a load of cats at once," my friend said, "They all go at once." Once again, down memory lane with Bev. Cats we had loved, and he wasn't even gone yet. I knew the time was soon, but when I went to my mam's this morning, I didn't think today was the day. But it was, and Phil took me because Big C was working and didn't know.

Today everything was deeply meaningful. Sounds odd, but you know what I mean: the last walk around the yard, the last cuddle, the last piece of chicken, the last time he'd be wrapped up in his orange blanket. "Phil is putting his shoes on," was said with deep meaning. Phil is putting his shoes on in readiness to take me to the vet. Walking out of my mam's house with him in my arms, knowing that was it for her and she'd never see him again, but I still had the journey and... And that: another thing unsaid. "I'll be one moment," said the vet (to get the needle: unsaid). "I think it's time," said the vet (to put him down: unsaid). "It's over," (he's dead: unsaid).

It's that inevitability we'd rather not think about, because thinking about that (death: unsaid) is headspinningly awful. It comes, it will come. It actually will come, as well, because there's no getting away from it, and we should be glad to have a chance to be alive, but sometimes you still wonder if it's all a bit of a joke.

People say when you mourn, "You're not thinking of him, you're thinking of yourself" which I think is a deeply unintelligent thing to say. You're thinking of everything, him (or her), yourself, other people past and present. I'd had that cat since I was 12. Starting high school, starting university, graduating, two rubbish boyfriends, and the man I'll marry one day. Another live link to the past severed, my own cat is dead, so yes, I am thinking about me. And I'm thinking of the happy little kitten who was never the same again after his brother died in November. The cat who ran across the room, jumped on my knee and put his paw on my shoulder when I was crying over a stupid bloke many years ago. The cat who played in the wind, got snowballs on his stomach in the winter, the only reason why I would ever handle chicken: to make him happy, and he was happy. The silly cat who grew so grumpy so fast this year. I'm thinking of him, as well. It's all ended for him, so of course I'm thinking of him. And that ridiculous question, "So where is he now?" which makes me cry even more so I'll stop writing.

We've had nine cats, and Lily remains. I know I'm lucky to have had nine cats, because I love cats, and some people haven't had that many.

Reading Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe in September.

... and in an ill hour, God knows, on the first of September, 1651, I went on board a ship bound for London. Never any young adventurer's misfortunes, I believe, began sooner or continued longer than mine.

On the 1st September, it will be the 361st anniversary since Robinson Crusoe began his adventures! I noticed this by chance a few minutes ago; my copy was on the kitchen table and I began to read it whilst waiting for something to cook and read this, four pages in. So, I thought how very appropriate it would be to begin it on the 1st September, and I wondered if anyone cared to join me for a readalong?

There's a lot going on for September: a Harry Potter and a Gone with the Wind readalong to name the two that spring to mind, so it may be everyone has their commitments. But, if you would like to join me in an unoffical readalong (no time limit and no plan other than simply to begin it on 1st September) then leave me a comment.

Robinson Crusoe has been on my to-read list for years. It was first published in 1719 and is argued to be the first novel (as we know it) in the English Language, and for that alone it is worth a read, never mind it's cultural impact! I had planned to read it this year, and starting on 1st September is perfect, I think.

My copy (which was my Grandfather's: awarded to him in 1931 by the Newcastle-upon-Tyne Education Committee for "Good progress"!) is about 450 pages, and as I said I've read a couple and it's entirely readable and not at all intimidating, so if you fancy beginning with me on 1st September, let me know! I'll not put an official sign up page or anything, it's a bit too last minute especially with the other projects happening in September, so just leave me a comment. As I say, no time limit and no plan other than to start on the 1st.

Medea and Other Stories, by Euripides.

Medea, by Fredrick Sandys (1868)

This is a book that flat out came from no where. I was happily reading The Count of Monte Cristo when I noticed it on my shelf. I decided to have a look, then decided to read one play, then another, then a third, then hell, might as well read the last one. And so I did: Alcestis, Medea, The Children of Heracles, and Hippolytus.

Really, this is another fly-by response, but I just had to say what a delight it was for so many reasons. Firstly, the surprise element: I had absolutely no plans on reading Euripides on Wednesday, and there is no reason why this book should have stuck out: it is simply a black-spined Penguin Classic amongst many other black-spined Penguin Classics in this room. Secondly, I am quite intimidated by the Ancient Greeks. Homer has twice been a disaster, and yes, I did like Symposium by Plato, but was never moved to write about it. I signed up to Howling Frog Books Greek Classics Challenge with the intention of reading Sappho (among others) but quickly changed it to Euripides simply because I already owned the latter and had forgot about it. I didn't have any thoughts: I didn't dread it, I didn't see it as a duty read, nor did I have high hopes. Mild curiosity, I suppose, is the best way of describing how I anticipated it. I never thought it would be really rather marvellous, and, speaking for the translation by John Davie, very readable and greatly enjoyable.

On the whole, I think my favourite play was Alcestis (I've shared three quotes I liked on Tumblr) with Medea a very close second. The other two, well, I can't say I cared greatly for them, although I did like reading them.

Alcestis is a princess in Greek mythology, rescued from Hades (for complicated reasons!) by Heracles in return for Admetus's hospitality. In this, it is not so much the story that is fascinating but the philosophy within it: the discussion of life, of death, and the link between the two and what differentiates them. Admetus, bereft, says, "One that is doomed is dead; he may be here but he no longer lives." Of all the plays, I really do recommend reading this for that dialogue between Ademtus and Heracles alone.

In this edition, Medea follows Alcestis. It is dark, dark as it comes and as grim as it comes. Medea, wife of Jason, niece of Circe, and granddaughter of Helios, kills her two children Mermeros and Pheres out of spite, poisoning them to revenge Jason's betrayal:

Jason: And then you killed them?
Medea: Yes, to cause you pain.

It's chilling and disturbing, and it partly led some people to believe Euripides was a misogynist. I can't enter into that debate, I'm not well-informed enough to do so, however living in a world now where men have been known to kill their own children to spite their wives or girlfriends, and also in a world where it is still deeply shocking that women are capable of murdering children, I see it as countering the argument that women are maternal. On that side, I'd say it shows another far darker side to women than many classics have done. Beware the "angel of the house". But, this was written 2500 years ago in a society of which I have barely any education whatsoever. I really, therefore, cannot speak on that subject.

But yes, Medea. Another must-read, in my mind. It's an absolutely astonishingly forceful play that demands attention that will leave you reeling. If you get the chance, do read it. And do read Alcestis. As for the other two: as I say, I wasn't completely gripped myself, but as always I'd be interested to read other people's thoughts.

Update: Just ten minutes before my post was published, Jean from Howling Frog Books put her own post up on Alcestis!

The Currently-Reading Shelf.

Ride on! Rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that will do, but ride on! Ride on over all obstacles, and win the race!
~ David Copperfield, Charles Dickens.

One of the best things I can do when times are tough (and oh, times, they are tough right now) is read. Read through it, read through the lot. It's normal, it's what I do. It calms me, it excites me. I wake up and I read a chapter, and through the day, I read a few more, either when I can, at the expense of something else, or because I damn well want to. It's what I do and it's constant and it's thrilling and sweet, and I look forward to it, I enjoy it, and frankly I need it like I need to eat. I need oxygen, and I need books. They are the balance. I love my books, and in this room are billions and billions of words unread and I will read them, all those ideas, stories, escaping from life, or living it even harder, I don't know. Peace, voice, understanding, clarity; it depends on the book, of course, but it's all here and it's all out there waiting to be obtained, grasped, and communicated. There's far too much potential to simply ignore it, put it off, or worse still: deny. Not reading is deadening. There's just too much potential. It sounds clichéd, pretentious even, but this is what I love. Stop doing something you love, cut it down or cut it out: you'll know what I mean very quickly.

Because I've been working so hard for a while, I've not had the energy to exercise, but this evening I decided to have half an hour on the elliptical. "I won't give up the fight" from Janet and Michael (Scream), "You can go hard or you can go home" from Mick Jagger (T.H.E.), and "No in betweens" from Pop Will Eat Itself (Everything's Cool): all that blasting in my ears, but it gave clarity because that, for me, is the best part of exercise: loud music. Something I hadn't done in ages, something I enjoy, something I'd denied.

And I have been denied books, whether by my own stubborness to get things done quicker, or because of circumstances. I've not read at my own pace, it's been slowed, and I've been miserable thinking this blog was turning into a decorating blog when it's my book blog. And why? Still things aren't finished, and with the spider infestation (like I said, I can't even talk about that) it felt like I was just leaving destruction in my path. No nice bedroom now, just a floor that we can't afford to replace right now, possibly not until Christmas, possibly longer. When things have to be moved around so much when one room is being done, the completed rooms are messy again. It's too much, and yes, we're still waiting for the postman. It's too much.

So why make it harder? Maybe I'll finish by autumn, maybe completely. Maybe it will just be the floor that needs doing, or maybe just one room. There's limits to what I can do, but by God, I'll try. Keep trying, keep pushing, but keep reading as well. And really, why not? I can't be strong and energised and motivated when I'm denying something that I need.

And so, the currently-reading shelf. Books to bring me back to life. I haven't specifically chosen these books to do anything for me, the fact they are books for me to read, books I like, is enough. It's a book, most of them are classics. That is enough, it is enough.

• The Faerie Queen by Spencer. I've seen a few references here and there, and honestly, I just wanted to look at it, look at the layout, get a feel for it. It's one of those books, a book that isn't just read, it's planned as well. More effort goes into it than most. It won't remain on that shelf for now, but one day, it will return and I'll be ready for it.
• Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. One of those books you see mentioned everywhere, then one day out of the blue, you're just ready for.
• Within a Budding Grove by Proust: the second of À La Recherche du Temps Perdu. It feels like too long since I read Swann's Way, but really, I don't think is.
• Barnaby Rudge by Dickens. For my Dickens challenge. I've been putting off Barnaby Rudge and I don't know why.
• The Three Muskateers by Dumas. I'm enjoying The Count of Monte Cristo so much, I'm looking forward to further exploration.
• Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt: the book I'm most likely to read after finishing this post. Another book everyone seems to have read except me, and it's a brilliant book.
• The Count of Monte Cristo by Dumas: I wanted a huge challenge for the weekend, and I never for a moment thought I'd be going to Coventry on Sunday, so it seemed like a good idea. It's a great read, and it's remarkably quick to read as well. Perfect for now.
• The Kill, by Zola: because Zola knows, that's why.

So that there is my shelf. Yes, The Faerie Queen might be put back, and I'm not altogether sure Birdsong will be read this time around, but the others are the books I'm sticking to. I won't finish them all by September, of course, but I think I'll finish Angela's Ashes and The Count of Monte Cristo, and also a Katherine Mansfield book of short stories: I'd forgot about it until now (which says a lot for how I feel about it), and it's in the kitchen so never got included. And, aside from Mansfield, I really love so much what I'm reading right now.

Yesterday.

Yesterday we drove over five hundred miles in total. We left at about half five, having only had about an hour's sleep, and went down to Coventry mainly on the A1(M). I love driving with Big C. It was cool when we left. So cool I thought I should have taken a coat, but by the time we arrived at Coventry, the heat was blistering and two of the wedding guests had already been taken away in an ambulance because of the it. The road shone, and the fumes of tarmac made everyone a little dizzy. By the time we made our way to the reception, having sat in a packed room on the floor with no air conditioning for two hours, everyone's eyes were a little glazed. Sweat poured: even my legs had beads running down them. As soon as we left the temple, most of the men had removed their turbans, and all of the women had removed their head scarves. A lot of their scarves were of a very fine, lacey material edged with sequins or satin, however, like mine, many other scarves were heavy: mine was a thick cotton, blue mainly, with silver and gold threads running through it. 

There was one young girl, and for some reason we kept catching each other's eyes. We were never introduced, but quite soon we found ourselves communicating silently. Quite strange, when that happens: at first, we just smiled at each other, and then there was the phase of slight embarrassment that we kept on looking at each other. Quickly though, there was that silent communication: "This service is so long!" and "Yes, isn't it!", then "It's over, are you coming to the reception?" with a slight sideways nod of the head; later, "Do you want to dance with us?" (the music was so loud the beat went through everyone, all there was on the dance floor was beat and heat, so no chance of talking), and finally, "We're going now, bye!" with a wave. I don't know who she was, other than she was on the groom's side of the family because I recognised her from the party on Friday, so our paths with cross again no doubt. An odd experience of communication, and I say it's strange when that happens: I don't know that it has ever happened before.

We left after six, and came home on the M6 because, as motorways go, it's actually quite a beautiful one. The heat had far from abated; the roads still shimmered, and everything was hazy around us. I fell asleep quickly: I lay with the seat far back, the window as far down as it would go and my head right next to it. By the time I woke up, there was still 150 miles left to go, but the sun was low and it was cool again. With that length of journey, time is measured by miles instead of minutes, and service stations punctuate the journey. There was a stretch of pure industry: chimneys, metal, glass, and concrete bricks that were softened by the setting sun and the fog that was beginning to form. Near Penrith, the fog was thicker and beginning to seep on to the motorway. People began putting their fog lights on, but it cleared off the road quite quickly.

When we edged the Lake District, we were heading towards the mountains and passing some beautiful villages. I saw a church, fog slowly engulfing it, and the sky was full. Once, there was a village still in light with no clouds, a triangle of light amongst black clouds and mountains. We left the M6 before it turned into A74(M), when it crosses the Scottish border and ends in Gretna. It was cold, by then, but we kept the windows open. I was wearing a black vest top with my skirt pulled up just over my knees, feet on the dashboard, covered in goosebumps and shivering, enjoying every second of it. We were working our way through the A roads, talking about how roads are like the circulation system: the heart is London, motorways are arteries, A roads are veins, and B roads cappilaries. Leaves littered those roads, and the sky was crystal so I looked for shooting stars. We saw a hedgehog in the middle of the road, still alive (it was just crossing) so we stopped and I picked it up and put it in the hedge. I've handled many hedgehogs, but always forget just how sharp they are. I had to pick it up slowly to get used to the pain, thinking that once I held it properly it wouldn't hurt, but it did, just not as much. 

Fog and leaves and damp from all the rain the North had enjoyed, and blackness, like an autumn night. I was thinking of equinox, the logs we need, the smell of bonfires and nights creeping in. I thought of the beginning of the new academic year, stationary, starting university twelve years ago. I was thinking of hedgehogs, too, all the hedgehogs I had picked up in my life: the one about five Decembers ago: thick frost and a hedgehog lying stretched out on the path, picking it up and taking it to the vets. Near Christmas it was, so I thought of that, and Dickens and his ghost stories, and Christmas cake, reminding myself to soak the fruit in brandy, as I so often forget to do. I thought there was no food in the house, so I mentally planned a shopping list, then thought of the decorating. My heart sank: after finally escaping the spare bedroom, I now have to sleep in it for the foreseeable future: we had to take the carpet up, and although the bare floor boards look lovely, it is now infested with spiders (this was discovered on Saturday night and partly accounts for only sleeping for an hour). I can't even talk about it. So I planned tidying the spare bedroom, how to make it look nice, and the heat I would return to. And then I fell asleep again, thinking of Alexandre Dumas and how I would finish The Count of Monte Cristo this week. I don't even remember getting home, but I do remember the room actually being cold. I remember lying in a cold bed and being flooded in blackness when I turned the light out: one of life's simple pleasures after a hard, hot day.

And so it is today, even if it feels like yesterday. It's three o'clock on a Monday afternoon, and I don't know what it feels like, but it certainly doesn't feel like 3 o'clock on a Monday afternoon. Although I am far from needing things to do, I'm at a loss. I'm tired, and I'm hot, and I'm looking forward to feeling the evening chill. I have no plans for the day or week, but with so many things I could be doing, this is wrong. I should shower now, tackle the spare bedroom (I suppose I should drop the "spare" and just call it the bedroom), and I could spend this evening with Dumas. "I should", "I suppose".... I could just sit here and watch the clouds pass over the sun, feel the cool as it does so, then the sudden heat as the cloud drifts on. It's nearly autumn, what do I want to achieve between now and then? I know what needs to be done, this is just the post-five hundred mile funk. I'm looking forward to reading more Dumas, and I bet I will surprise myself with how good I can make the spare room look. That is the plan: I will stand up and I will get on instead of sitting here, stretching, and trying not to be active.

Sorry, Dumas, but...

This is something I did not expect to post: half an hour ago, Big C and I agreed (incredibly last minute) that we would attend the wedding of his friend's son. It's a Sikh wedding (I've never been to a Sikh wedding!) and it's nearly three hundred miles away. We'll be leaving in five hours, and it's half eleven at night now.

So, things here are pretty frantic. I have very few clothes and almost none of them are formal, so what to wear should be very interesting... I know to take something to cover my head with, but other than that....! I'm looking things up online now and trying to get some tips.

Needless to say, my Count of Monte Cristo readathon is paused! I got to about 500 pages in, well on track to getting to the half way point before I went to sleep, and yes, I love it. But it will have to wait for me until Monday.

And, as you can imagine, I need to get prepared and also get to sleep, so I will end this here. So excited! I'm so looking forward to the wedding, and also Big C and I love road trips together. 

Catch you all on Monday, hope everyone enjoys the rest of their weekend :)

A weekend off, and The Count of Monte Cristo.

Whilst I have had to acknowledge there's only so much interest I can generate from announcing various decorating details, I will say I finished the bedroom yesterday. This was so important, firstly because it was acknowledged it would be the hardest, secondly because I can now sleep in it and not wake up more tired than I went to bed, and thirdly because, like the study, it is a refuge. In fact, when all the study stuff was in the bedroom making it look like Steptoe's yard, and the study was in the middle of being done, I was more miserable than I let on. I love this house and all the rooms, but the study and bedroom are, as I say, refuges. For a period, there was no where to relax and escape, indeed sleep. Now there is. And, because these rooms are finished, we're going to take a few days to not do anything at all to the house other than some superficial tidying, and that means, yes, some actual reading time! Furthermore, Big C is away all day tomorrow (from 4am til 5 or 6am the following morning), so it will just be me and the budges all of Sunday.

And how am I going to utilise this time? Well, I think you can guess by the accompanying picture! The Count of Monte Cristo is on my 2012 Challenges, and today I woke up actually feeling in the mood for it. Furthermore, as you can well imagine with over a month of little to no reading time, I am also very in the mood for hardcore reading. Thus, I have decided: I am going to (or at least attempt) to read The Count of Monte Cristo in two days. Honestly, I don't care if I do it or not, but just to focus on a book, just to read like I normally do, just to indulge in a book and nothing more than that. Nothing practical, just to sit and read and drink coffee for two days and focus entirely on one book.... I need that. And this kind of challenge, the "surely that isn't possible" with a "perhaps, perhaps it is" challenge is, as you know, right up my street.

And so I will begin at 2pm. I am so ready for this!

Blogger's Lament.

My current view.

I'm sitting in my study, all newly painted and tidy, with Don Quixote sitting next to me. It is lashing down. I doubt you can see from this picture, but it's so heavy there's bound to be floods along the main road. I've got the window open, the air is cool and fresh; it's exaggerating the steam from my coffee. It's a delicious change from the oppressive heat of last night: the spare bedroom is so small, that's the only reason I can account for it. I found myself thrashing around in fury: my 4am self is not reasonable, and I was thrashing less because of the discomfort (which was significant), and more because it offended me. It seemed so cruel, when I badly need a good night's sleep and I had to put up with that. 

So, I'm looking out over the forest: tired, but free. There are berries in the trees, but the sparrows and other garden birds are clutching to the twigs in the hedges silently. Even my birds are silent: G, my African Grey, was never one for a dawn chorus, but Trot and Mysh usually are. Yet all I can hear is rain.

Although I have plans for today, I'm not thinking of them right now because they're so precise. Aside from completing some decorating tasks, we're also going to a party in the evening, so there'll be a period of trying to make myself presentable. With paint in my hair, gloss on my hands, and red eyes, this will be no easy feat.

But I'd rather not think of it, I'd rather listen to the rain, and since starting this post a few minutes ago, it's got even heavier.

And I miss blogging properly: this was the point of my post. I've updated as regularly as I ever did, but books fuelled my posts. I have written as best I can about what I have read, but they felt unsatisfactory. I hate publishing posts thinking, "That'll have to do". And, as I've said, I've read in snatches, sometimes just a paragraph at a time. My bedtime book is Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt and I do love it, but after three days, last night I hit page 49; I can't write about it. I can't write about Zola because I haven't read any more since the last post, nor can I write about Proust for the same reason. I can't yet write about Mansfield Park because I haven't got the time, and I can't write about another wonderful Victorian novel, or a tricky 18th Century novel, or anything at all that I'm used to because I simply haven't read anything other than 49 pages of McCourt, and about the same of de Cervantes. I want to read, I want to be gripped, excited, thrilled, and I want to share the experience but I can't. All I can say is this room is done and so is that one, and I'm nearly finished the third room, and three rooms remain. I'm so aware of the fact that this simply is not interesting any more, but that is what I'm doing. I'm painting and sanding and glossing and vacuuming and sleeping in stifling heat and repeating it all the next day. 

I have nothing wonderful to tell you. But it's raining and it's beautiful here.

Sparrows.

You know when this is one of your first sights of the day, the world ain't such a bad place.

I've put some more on my Tumblr (link to the pics here): usually, I just leave this sort of post for that, but it made me so happy, I wanted to make sure you guys saw it as well :) I love sparrows so much, they're my favourite garden bird.

Updated: Today's just got even nicer - spent the last fifteen minutes playing with four week old kittens from along the street! Today is a good day.

Twenty pages to go.

I've never, to my knowledge, stopped reading a book wihen I had only twenty pages to go, but last night, on page 410 of 432, I put down Mansfield Park and fell asleep. Something important seemed to have happened, and what I did not know. It had just gone midnight, a time when my energy often peaks (especially with reading), but I was just too tired. Today, I need to go back a couple of chapters; then I'll read on, and then I'll finish Mansfield Park: the one Jane Austen novel that I actually quite like.

And this seems to be a theme, these past few weeks: I'm reading in snatches. Decorating has become exhausting now, but at the same time, despite aching muscles and bleary eyes, I find myself doing "just one more wall", "just one more coat". In fact, the only thing that has stopped me from pulling a few all-nighters is the light. With all of the rooms so far, it's been impossible to paint with no daylight. So, reading has either been done whilst grabbing a quick coffee, or else before I go to sleep. For me, this isn't effective reading, and I wonder if I'd be better off sticking with poetry or short stories for now.

It's going well, though, and I think it is more than realistic to finish it all by autumn. The bedroom, the room I thought would be the absolute worst, isn't so bad, and will be finished either today or tomorrow. The kitchen is done, so too are the stairs and hall, which leaves the bathroom, living room, and utility room. Then, the patio needs a blast from the power washer (power washers are extrememly good fun, and once something has been "power washed", we look for something else just for the fun of blasting water every where).

But it's tiring. Dickens would describe me as "uncommonly tired", and I'm grateful to have such a stubborn streak to see me through it. I'm grateful, too, that it's the end of summer because of the longer days and because it's warm, despite the grey and the rain. It was so hot yesterday, I found myself at one point painting the ceiling just wearing a vest top and knickers, and last night, the spare bedroom was stiffling. A good literary comparison would be The Old Curiosity Shop, but I think a more fitting analogy of that tiny room would be Steptoe's Yard. Still, I'm convinced I'll finish painting today, and tonight, just to avoid the fumes, I'll spend my last night in there. Waking up this morning.... I'm in the study now, freshly painted, with the window wide open, and I must admit I'm quite cold. In there, the heat is oppressive. Relaxing with Mansfield Park isn't an option at all. The best thing to do in there is turn the light off, sleep, and drift far away.

But, soon it will be done, and soon it will be autumn. I don't know what autumn will bring, either: I posted at the beginning of the month that we were waiting for news, and that news still hasn't come owing to someone being on holiday. I gather he has returned, so perhaps later this week, perhaps next week. Once again, there are mad dashes and skids when the postman's van is spotted (no longer do we wait for the thud of letters hitting the mat: from midday onwards, an eye is kept on the window waiting for that red van to pull up). It's too exciting to say this is a depressing experience, and yet too potentially life-changing to say it isn't stressful. There's no words to describe it (actually, there probably is, but I'm too distracted to think of it). 

So, we move forward, move on, come closer to the finishing line. We went out yesterday (only to buy energy drinks) and noticed the farmers are harvesting: bales of hay and straw dot the landscape. To my fury, cattle waggons are moving about as well to get the sheep and the lambs (we know where they're going, I don't need say it). And this morning, the forest and moors are enveloped in a thick mist. The trees are full of berries here. It's time, once again, for that great change equinox brings, this time autumnal. Solstices always pass me by, but Vernal and Autumnal equinoxes fascinate me. 

It's changing, again. What next? I don't know, even my reading goals are uncertain (for weeks, I've come close to deleting my 2012 challenges and admitting defeat). Whilst I am enthusiastic about reading, it also feels very much on the back burner. I wouldn't say this made me unhappy, but all the same I miss the enthusiasm. All of my concerns are practical right now, and I'm not a practical person. All the same, I'm very excited about finishing the bedroom!

The Fortune of the Rougons, by Émile Zola.

Family Tree of the Rougon Macquarts.

Pascal looked intently at the madwoman, then at his father and uncle; his professional instincts were getting the better of him; he studied the mother and the sons, with the fascination of a naturalist observing the metamorphosis of an insect. He pondered over the growth of the family, with its different branches springing from one parent stock, whose sap carried the same seeds to the furthest twigs, which bent in different directions according to the ambient sunshine or shade. For a moment he thought he could see, in a flash, the future of the Rougon-Macquart family, a pack of wild, satiated appetites in the midst of a blaze of blood and gold.

I have finished it: the first book, The Fortune of the Rougons, in Émile Zola's The Rougon Macquart cycle. And it was brilliant, it was bloody; it was Zola. It was early Zola, more to the point, and I don't think it's unfair to say his style wasn't quite as advanced as Germinal, however that did not stop me from enjoying it. In fact, it rather added to the enjoyment: early Zola: reading this book and being aware that as I read this cycle, I will see the man Zola's writing grow even sharper. I wonder how I would have felt if that was my first Zola. I dare say I perhaps wouldn't be as gripped as I am by him, however I still would have wanted to read on. Forgetting Zola, forgetting that it was early on in his writing career, it is still a great book (and, all that said, I loved Thérèse Raquin, which preceded Fortune)

And, oh, it is grim, and reminded me of the opening of Our Mutual Friend (written six years earlier) in a way. Dickens wrote,

Allied to the bottom of the river rather than the surface, by reason of the slime and ooze which it was covered, and its sodden state, this boat and the two figures in it were obviously seeking what they often sought..... But, it happened now, that a slant of light from the setting sun glanced into the bottom of the boat, and, touching the rotten stain there which bore some resemblance to the outline of a muffled human form, coloured it as though with diluted blood.

I remember it well, many novels by Dickens have opening passages that stick in the mind forever, and Our Mutual Friend seemed especially foul and dark. Zola sees this foulness, and he raises it:

In the past it was a cemetery under the patronage of Saint-Mittre, a Provençal saint greatly honoured in the locality. In 1851 the old people of Plassans could still remember having seen the walls of the cemetery when they were still standing, though the place had been shut for years. The earth, gorged with corpses for over a century, exuded death, and a new cemetery had had to be established on the other side of town. The abandoned cemetery had then gone through a process of purification every spring by covering itself with thick, black vegetation. The rich soil, into which the gravediggers could no longer sink their spades without turning up some human remains, was extraordinarily fertile. After the May rains and the June sunshine, the tallest weeds sprouted higher than the walls and could be seen as far away as the main road; while inside, the place seemed like a deep, dark green sea bestrewn with big, strangely coloured flowers. Underfoot, between the mass of stems, you could feel the damp soil bubbling and oozing with sap.

That is how Zola set the scene to the novel, and so to the whole cycle. In this book, we see the very beginning of the Rougon-Macquart dynasty. I don't know how easily you can see the family tree, pictured above, so I'll write briefly: the very eccentric Adélaïde Fouque married Rougon, and they have a son - Pierre. Following Rougon's death, Adélaïde has two children to her lover, Macquart: Ursule and Antonie. Pierre Rougon marries Félicité Puech, and they have five children: Eugéne, Pascal, Aristide, Sidone, and Marthe. Ursule Macquart marries Mouret and has three children: François, Hélène, and Silvère, and Antoine Macquart marries Joséphine Gavaudan, and they have Lisa, Gervaise, and Jean (the family tree goes on, of course, but I'm sticking just to Fortune).

It sounds more complicated to keep track of than it actually is: like War and Peace, the character list, and their relationships, seem tricky, as though a great part of the energy it will take reading the book will be largely spent on keeping track of who is who, but it's not like that at all. Furthermore, although the novel opens and closes with Silvère Marquart, the focus of the novel is Pierre and Félicité and how they scheme to be rich at any cost. As Adélaïde said,

What a wretched woman I am! I brought nothing but wolves into the world... a whole family... a whole litter of wolves.

The whole thing is intriguing, and I could not read this novel and not wish to go on. On the other hand, it is contained, so that would be entirely possible. I wondered about that, and when I read Swann's Way and realised that the end clearly wasn't an end at all, I wondered how Zola would compare. I just can't not read on. Two of the passages I've quotes here, the "I brought nothing but wolves into the world", and "For a moment he thought he could see, in a flash, the future of the Rougon-Macquart family, a pack of wild, satiated appetites in the midst of a blaze of blood and gold" come right at the very end of the novel, and naturally I want to see how these prophecies are fulfilled. Because of this, I'm very eager to start reading the second book, The Kill, very soon.

When, though, I'm not sure. Things are so busy at the moment, I wouldn't have had time to even write this post had I not been supervising the budgies (it's going very well, by the way, despite the fears I shared on Twitter last night). There are so many books I feel ready for: The Kill, Within a Budding Grove, Little Dorrit, Mansfield Park, and Robinson Crueso. All these books I could happily read this month, were it not for the complete lack of time. I also want to finish Katherine Mansfield (being as they are short stories, they are most convenient, however I have next to no interest in them). And Chaucer - poor Chaucer has been snubbed entirely.

But of course, writing about lack of time is hardly helping matters. Today I'm working on painting the study. I'm hopeful that this will be the easiest room of all!

Myshkin.

Trotwood to the left, Myshkin to the right.

Trotwood has a new friend! Meet Myshkin, he's about 16 weeks old (Trot is now 8 months old). We bought him just a few hours ago, and have been home for about an hour. We were warned there'd be a bit of fighting for a week or so, but remarkably the fighting lasted all of a minute and now they're sitting behind me eating seed and talking to each other. Myshkin was fine the moment he left his box and didn't seem to be too worried. Trot, on the other hand, was upset and flung himself around the study a bit. I managed to get Mysh on one hand and Trot on the other, Trot turned his back on Mysh and looked particularly sulky, but suddenly turned around and took more interest. Mysh flew off on to the bird house, Trot followed him, and they sat close together. And now, as I say, they're on the window sill: I just turned around and they're kissing each other. I wish I could take a picture, but I think tonight it's best to leave them be. I'll sit with them, catch up on my reading, and let them bond a bit rather than interrupt them by moving about to take a picture.

There's still some hurdles to get over, for one they haven't been in their cage together yet, but it's looking hopeful. 

So, tonight - I was planning on emptying the study ready for painting tomorrow, but that can easily be done tomorrow. Tonight, I'll finish The Fortunes of the Rougons and possibly start Within a Budding Grove, or maybe I'll go for Dickens (Myshkin, by the way, was very nearly called Boz, however Big C preferred the former). I may, perhaps, even start reading a "challenge" book. Not sure: it's nice to have a surprise night off from decorating, and I don't know whether I'll use it to relax with a book, or tackle one of those "ought tos". Either way, I shall be supervising the budges and trying to get to know Myshkin a bit!

Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust.

Du côté de chez Swann - the first of the seven now read: I am underway!

As I've said, as you knew anyway no doubt, Remembrance of Things Past is a novel, of which Swann's Way is only the first part. I say that because I mistakingly believed it was a series, and if you've read Swann's Way, one certainly gets that sense. I don't feel that I've read something "complete", and because of which I don't feel able to write a great deal other than an "impressions so far" type of post. And, impressions so far? I like it. A lot. It's like Virginia Woolf with a dash of Dickens and a hint of Dostoyevsky: Virginia Woolf loved Proust, asking, "What remains to be written after that?" (nb. I found that quote on Amanda's blog when searching for a VW on Proust quote: Amanda has reviewed Swann's Way also, oddly enough almost exactly two years before this post!), and one certainly can sense the influence Proust had on Woolf. And Dickens, yes, some of the characters remind me of Dickens in a way, and the dynamic between Swann, and Odette, the woman he loves, is like a cross between David Copperfield and The Idiot. It's rather brilliant.

And I love the way Proust writes about smells, and what they remind me of. I've shared a few quotes on Tumblr from Swann's Way, but here's the best one to illustrate my point:

When, before turning to leave the church, I genuflected before the altar, I was suddenly aware of a bitter-sweet scent of almonds emanating from the hawthorn-blosson, and I then noticed on the flowers themselves little pathces of a creamier colour, beneath which I imagined that this scent must lie concealed, as the taste of an almond cake lay beneath the burned parts, or of Mlle Vinteuil’s cheeks beneath their freckles.

There are many, many other absolutely beautiful passages as well, and I did thoroughly enjoy reading it, however it is difficult. For one thing, the chapters: there are four chapters in over four hundred pages, and the middle chapter, 'Swann in love' runs to over two hundred pages. Furthermore, there are very few breaks; it's paragraph after paragraph, and when the time comes to put it down, there are very few places where it feels appropriate to put it down. I don't much like putting a book down in the middle of a chapter, but it has to be that way, unless I plan on reading a vast amount in one sitting.

It's very dreamy, and sometimes it's a relaxing experience, lying back and letting it wash over, other times it takes my mind to somewhere it ought not to be and my concentration would lapse. It can, as I said, be rather difficult. But it is worth it, I think.

I planned on reading a book a month for Remembrance of Things Past, however I don't think that's appropriate on reflection. So, not tonight, but in the next day or so, I'm going to start the second part: Within a Budding Grove. Tonight, I finally can start Fortunes of the Rougons by Zola! I've been waiting for the right moment for this, I've saved it for days, but tonight is the night! Today has been brutal hard work with the kitchen: all that is left is a patch to go over on the skirting board, then vacuuming (it's nearly midnight now, so perhaps a bit inconsiderate to do it now!). Tomorrow it will be done, then I can do the bathroom (that just needs cleaning), Friday I'm out all day, then Saturday I will begin the study. After that, the bedroom and living room needs doing (also the utility room, but I can't do that because of the spiders), and then done. Finishing by autumn is entirely realistic! As for when I'll finish Proust: no time limit. I'm just going to read it and enjoy it.

Another Stash.

Today we went to Barter Books in Alnwick. It was completely unplanned: we were supposed to be "just nipping to the Post Office", but both of us forgot that it's a Scottish Bank Holiday today, so we decided on Alnwick as it isn't terribly far away, and both of us wanted to do something nice and escape mess, dust, paint, and fumes for a day.

For me, Alnwick is Barter Books and little else, and I spent a good hour and a half in there while Big C looked in the antique shop next to it. Always, I walk into Barter Books in a hurry, racing through it to check for certain books (today was about Zola, mostly, and looking for Anthony Trollope). Then, gradually, I settle, and retrace my path, wandering through the shelves over and over again, seeing titles I missed, looking for anything that pops into my head. The final leg of the shop is about deciding, "Do I need this? Can I afford to get this? Should I put this one back?" I heard a woman say, "I ought to cut down" and I think about how puritanical this society can be. Restraint, even pain, is a virtue. Eat less always, no matter what, buy less books, cut down on alcohol, run 5k: do something, one thing, every day that makes you suffer somehow. The small pleasures in life should be limited. Why is that? Who knows.

But, that's not the point of the post. The point is to show you my new stash! I'd take a picture of the new little pile, but as I say, the house is a mess and there's no corner that is even vaguely presentable, so I shall just put up a little list:

• Zola - L'Assommoir: The seventh in the Rougon-Macquart cycle. I'm so excited to start reading these, and I now own eight of the twenty.
• Flaubert's Madame Bovary: I've read this and loved it, but I let someone (who, I can't remember) borrow it and never got it back.
• The Book of Margary Kempe: the earliest known autobiography. She was born in 1373 and died in 1440.
• Charlotte Lennox's The Female Quixote. Apparently well-loved by Henry Fielding, Samuel Johnson, Samuel Richardson, and Jane Austen.
• George Gissing's The Nether World. Described as Zola-esque, so I had to have it!
• Samuel Johnson's Major Works: I'm thinking about getting into Samuel Johnson, and last time I was at Barter Books I bought James Boswell's Life of Johnson.

So there is my stash! And tonight, I'm going to be pretty anti-social. Going to have my tea and watch Coronation Street with Big C, then head to bed with Trotwood to read Proust. I want to get up fairly early tomorrow and try to finish the kitchen (probably looking at Wednesday evening for that, though). Once that's done, we were going to start the living room, but I think I'd rather do this room (the study), as it isn't such a big job. Nor is the living room, really. The bedroom is going to be the worst, and really, I could do the bathroom in an hour. 

Have a lovely evening, everyone!

A Brief History of Favourites.

This month, the Classic Club is asking, "What is your favourite book? Why?" How do I choose?

Late 90s: Sixth Form. Something was definitely wrong. I read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. My gran bought it for me because I wanted it, and when she read the back of it she didn't want me to read it, but Sylvia Plath seemed the obvious path and so I read it and loved it, and yes, I was supposed to be having the time of my life. It was my favourite book.

Early 00s: university, second year, by this time I'd been seeing a psychiatrist for two years. Prozac Nation (of course). It gave me a voice, even if I didn't use it, and I wasn't so alone. I was at a very good university, and in a department with a few of the top scholars in their field, and it should have been so much better than it was. Elizabeth Wurtzell referred to her doctor's surgery as "the crack house", and honestly, that fit. My psychiatrist was a big fan of medication, yet somehow I never really responded to it ("If you're going to suggest therapy, don't. I'm living proof that it doesn't work"). Either I got Prozac Nation, or Prozac Nation got me. It was my favourite book, whatever the answer.

2004 (I think): Fourth year in university (I had to repeat a year, as you may have gathered, I wasn't doing so well). Five years of seeing a psychiatrist, and therapy was suggested. A brief affair with Girl, Interrupted ("You lie down, you confess your sins, and you are saved! Ca-ching! The more you confess, the more they think about settin' you free"), but it was the year I discovered Orlando by Virginia Woolf. Something new to think about, something that wasn't so depressing, so grim, or so hopeless. Reading for the sake of reading, not looking for answers to my own questions, but finding a new world. It was a revelation, and I loved it so much I managed to work it into several of my essays (keep in mind I was doing Religious Studies). It wasn't my first Virginia Woolf (To the Lighthouse was), but it was the most important.

2005 - 2009: Graduated, and spent those four years flitting between a miserable job in retail, and, still, my psychiatrist (no therapist by then, it just didn't work out). By 2009, I was nine years in his care. I had a boyfriend, then another, both disasters (but not interesting disasters), and I loved Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson. It was my favourite book for years. I wanted to be loved and I wanted to love, and somehow, what she was writing about and what I wanted didn't correlate with how things were, but I wanted it to. That book fascinated me, and I read it so many times. In fact, I don't believe I read much else.

2010: January - discharged and recovered after twelve years  of seeing a psychiatrist (don't believe them when they say you can't recover from something, by the way). And I was better, I was actually better. I was thinking straight. Three months later, my second disastrous relationship ended (admittedly not my choice), and everything was different. That summer.... Nothing was read, I didn't read a single book, but I read every issue of Vogue from cover to cover.

2011: By the time I started this blog, I had been with Big C for ten months. I love and I'm loved. I started reading again, partly because the time was right, and also because when I went (and still go) to gigs with him, there's hours (blissful hours) while he's on stage. I think the first book I fell in love with was The Secret History by Donna Tartt. It reminded me of university!

So, then, how do you decide what your favourite book is? Between starting this blog and now, I've read two hundred and twenty two books, and I'm reading for the sake of reading, the thrill of the chase, discovery, sometimes escaping, sometimes not. I can't pick an all time favourite because since 2010, it's like I'm another person. I wouldn't go as far as to say I started life in 2010, but sometimes it feels like it, and I do think there's always another reason for picking a favourite. 

There is a book that has stood by me through all of this: The Diary of a Provincial Lady by E. M. Delafield. I read it because I enjoy it, or I need comforting. Perhaps that is my favourite, although I haven't read it for a few years. For the same reason, I enjoy reading the Mallory Towers and St. Clare's series by Enid Blyton. They are my favourite comfort reads, so familiar and warm. 

But if I don't need comforting? What is my favourite book that I have ever read....? I was thinking about this in the bath before. As you may remember, I'm redecorating at the moment, and before I had my bath I was filthy. The kind of dirt that doesn't wipe off, it has to be scrubbed off. For weeks, a large part of my day has been listening to MTV, thinking about colour schemes, and working out odd things I ought to have known before I started painting (plastering, sharp lines, how to effectively clean paint brushes and dry rollers), and I go to bed aching and sore, accomplished, and so tired. Proust, therefore, will be a favourite. Reading Proust is like sitting in the evening sun listening to someone talk, just talking, just listening. It's engaging, and I may not be so far through, but Proust will be a favourite, I'm so sure of it.

Clarissa, though, how could I forget Clarissa? That takes concentration and also a bit of determination. It was the longest novel I had ever read, and I was proud of that, and happy as well that I loved it so much. Yes, that's a favourite. Clarissa and I spent a month or longer together, and she sat in the kitchen, by my bed, in the car, on the dashboard, at my feet, at my mother's, at various friends. Clarissa was my companion as well. A favourite.

So many others that either came along at the right time or didn't: not all favourites match one's circumstances. Agnes Grey, The Aspern Papers, Dante's Inferno all just happened. The magical kind of writing: the writing that doesn't care what you were doing before because it stands alone. That is strong writing, I think. Could I read Prozac Nation now and think it was wonderful? I don't think I could, but that's not to undermine it. Prozac Nation matters for different reason. 

This year, one hundred and eleven books in? I won't look at my list to remind myself, I'll list as they pop into my head... Mill on the Floss, North and South, Sketches by Boz, Shirley, and, at the top so far, Zola's Germinal. Zola knows.

It's so hard, isn't it, picking a favourite. So many books. The magical "here I am in my awesomeness" books that fly at you when you least expect it, the comfort reads that wrap you up and take you away gently for a while, or the books that match your circumstances and give you a voice, or at least make your thoughts more comprehensible.

Which, then? I'm going for Zola's Germinal for the absolute best. Ask me tomorrow, next month, next year... I wonder what I'll say then...

The Rougon Macquart Novels by Émile Zola.

Two posts in one day! Astonishingly, the postman actually brought something, not, however, what I was referring to a few posts ago. No, he brought The Fortunes of the Rougons by Émile Zola - the first in the Rougon Macquart cycle. And, I've also lined up the other books in the series - some I have, and the rest I've found on Amazon, some very cheap, some not unreasonable. So, tomorrow I shall begin reading, finally reading, the Rougon Macquart cycle! I've put a page up, and one for Proust as well, and am so happy about starting both challenges!

Meanwhile, the decorating continues. About to start the last wall, and then give a second coat to the whole lot. Not so sure I'll manage the ceiling - it's not the time factor, it's that looking up for long periods makes me sick and dizzy. Also, I should say - had a template disaster, not sure what exactly what wrong so I thought I'd quickly change it. I hate and detest this template but have no time to do it properly. Tomorrow, though, it'll go back to what it was.

Can't wait to finish decorating and get back to serious reading!

Plans for today and beyond.

For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out the candle, my eyes would close so quickly I had not even the time to say to myself: "I'm falling asleep." Amd half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would make as if to put away the book which I imagined was still in my hands, and to blow out the light; I had gone on thinking , while I was asleep, about what I had just been reading, but these thoughts had taken a peculiar turn; it seemed to me that I myself was the immediate subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V. This impression would persist for some moments after I awoke; it did not offend my reason, but lay like scales upon my eyes and prevent them from registering the fact that the candle was no longer burning. [Proust, Swann's Way]

I cannot tell you how many times I have read this - the opening of A La Recherche du Temps Perdu. I can't say why I've never read much more than a few pages because I do love this, and have wanted to read it since I was in university! Now is the time, though. I picked three books from my challenges list, and decided on Moll Flanders, but as I was walking out the study I passed my new (and ridiculously cheap) three volume set of Proust containing all the books in the series and decided, "Yes. Now is the time". I aim to read them all (translation by Terence Kilmartin, not C. K. Scott Moncrieff!), one of the longest novels in literature (1.5 million words, compared to Clarissa's 1 million, and War and Peace's mere 500 000)

• Du côté de chez Swann (Swann's Way) - 1913. 
• À l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs (Within a Budding Grove) 1919
• Le Côté de Guermantes (The Guermantes Way) 1920/1921
• Sodome et Gomorrhe (Cities of the Plain Sodom and Gomorrah) 1921/22  
• La Prisonnière The Captive 1923 
• La Fugitive (The Fugitive) 1925
• Le Temps retrouvé (Time Regained) 1927

I'm not, as usual, giving myself a deadline. Perhaps I'll focus on them once I've finished Dickens because I like to replace a finished challenge with a new one (and I know I haven't replaced The Bible challenge - I'm waiting for a book to arrive before I can start, it's not a religious text, and it's most exciting, but I'll wait for the book to arrive in the next week or so before I announce it). But, whilst I'm finishing off Dickens, and I am completely ready for Proust, I have begun Swann's Way. Once again, it's been an odd start: I decided to have an evening of reading last night, but I fell asleep, so I'm barely into the Overture. Such is life, and it doesn't put me off. I'm ready! As soon as Dickens is finished, Proust shall be a focus (but not the only author I'll be focusing on. Just a few more days and that book will come!).

Quite a challenge, even bigger than Clarissa! But it's not the biggest challenge I face today: today, I have set myself a ridiculous challenge. Big C has two gigs today, and will be leaving in the next half hour (quarter past twelve) and won't return until after midnight, probably around 2am. I am going to aim to not only start to decorate the kitchen, but actually finish it. This may not be possible - there's a good chance two of the walls will need a minimum of four coats, however I think the paint I have is quick-drying, so perhaps, perhaps, it is possible. It's quite a big room, and I am dreading the ceiling! The wood needs stripping as well, so it's not just a matter of painting walls. I want to do it all, mainly because it will make Big C so happy, and also because I think, after the now-completed hall and stairs, it is the most difficult room to do. So wish me luck!

Even if I don't, I'm buzzing with excitement of possibility! I'm so looking forward to Proust, I'm so determined to have the house finished by autumn (well before autumn, preferably), and I am so adamant that it is possible to finish the kitchen and have it sparkling in the next thirteen hours. So, I'm going to gran some breakfast, open the windows, but MTV on, and get started!

August.

This month will be a busy month. I've said already somewhere we're redecorating right now, and I had underestimated what a mammoth task it was we had undertaken. But still, it needs to be done. And this will shape August, and I daresay part of September: I'm determined to finish by the autumn. I think, I hope, today the hall and stairs will be done, which is good, it's something to tick off.

Decorating, then. Hall and stairs finished today for sure, and kitchen will be started. Big C is doing the utility room because of my morbid fear of spiders, and I think once those two are done and the bedroom is done, the rest will be easier. All energy is directed at decorating, and it's good of course in itself, but also a perfect distraction. I'm doing something. It's tiring and messy but it's a good task to preoccupy myself with.

And because it's so engaging, it means I need to organise my time a lot better. For the past week I've been falling into bed very late and going straight to sleep, sometimes not even finishing my drink. It's very difficult to concentrate, and so I have about six books I'm reading right now and none of them are being read "properly". For example, Don Quixote: I'm aiming to read at least a chapter a day (and so it will take until December to finish at that rate), and it's sitting on the kitchen table, to be picked up when the kettle or a pan is boiling. Wuthering Heights - I'm enjoying re-reading it, but going at a painfully slow pace. Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell - I must admit that has failed to engage me, Down Under by Bill Bryson has been forgotten about (I only remembered because I glanced over at the pile and saw it at the bottom), and finally the final book of Lord of the Rings - I'm up to date with the reading schedule, but have little interest in it.

What I need to do is get into a routine for the next six weeks or so while we decorate. I lay awake last night, understanding why people say "too tired to sleep" until 3am: lying in the dark, letting my hopes get the better of me, heart quickening at the thought of the letter coming (if it comes), and what it would entail. I imagine the beginning, the real beginning of our project, then squeeze my eyes tighter and focus on sleep, but it doesn't come. And now, it's gone 12 and I'm in bed typing this when usually I would at least sit in the study. Of course everything is a mess, no one can be bothered to put shopping away or wash up when hours have been spent painting and scrubbing.

Book plans. Adam is hosting Austen in August, which I've signed up for: I'm going to read Mansfield Park. I can't say I'm looking forward to reading it, but I am looking forward to everyone else's thoughts on Austen so I shall be watching his blog closely. I'll finish Wuthering Heights, and I'll finish Lord of the Rings (that will be a proud moment!), and I will get into Don Quixote. I don't want to abandon my 2012 Challenges, however tempted I was a week ago, so for now I'll stick by them. I think I have twenty seven left - I'll aim to read five of them, which will include Wuthering Heights. And a Dickens, of course, but I'm not sure which. The three I have left are Little Dorrit, Barnaby Rudge, and Martin Chuzzlewit. 

I don't want to come up with a plan that is too detailed. How happy I would be to read ten off my list, or finish Charles Dickens entirely, but that's very unrealistic given how things stand. I'll aim for five, though I'm not sure which. I think Edith Wharton will be one of them: a few days ago I began House of Mirth and enjoyed it, but had to put it down and never picked it back up. Actually, I don't think I've set foot in my study for at least a week, apart from grabbing the laptop, the odd book, and dumping the ladders in there. Everything is chaotic, but at least it is engaging!

So, that wasn't the most inspiring post. Usually, I enjoy writing "the first on the month" posts, but it doesn't feel any different today than it was yesterday or a week ago. Who knows what August will bring? I really can't plan for it, and admit that this post is rather half-hearted. I'm sorry about that, but I wouldn't want to ignore the first of the month when I'm usually particularly excited by it.

Anyway, must finish the hall and stairs! Hope everyone has a lovely August!