Other Stories

Information Overload

This isn't in the slightest bit book, or feminism, related.

I added a new stats tracker to the blog yesterday and now I know a freakish amount about all of you. There are a few regular readers who I can put my finger on thanks to knowing where they work/how they mispell my blog name/they keep landing on a random old post from last year, etc. But now I can see all sorts of graphs about how many pages people read, which search engine they used, their search terms, even whether they have java enabled or not.

On the one hand, this is all really fascinating. There is an inherent nosiness in me that is satisfied by being able to see who is reading the blog, and it's always gratifying to see the stats climb. On the other hand, this all means that other people can see the same information about me, and that freaks me out slightly. I know that all sorts of people and companies store all sorts of information about everyone on various databases and god knows what - I'm sure the good people of Nectar have a pretty good idea of my lifestyle from what I buy at Sainsburys. For instance, they could easily work out that I have cats, that I have an alarming cheese addiction, that I'm now living with a vegetarian from the amount of Quorn we're suddenly buying, and that I am developing a bit of a dependency on parma ham. They probably also think I have a cider problem because every so often we buy a plastic bottle of Strongbow. What they don't know is that sometimes I drink cider out of a champagne flute for my own amusement, but enough about my bizarre foibles.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'm an information hypocrite. I like being nosy about other people, but it scares me that people know so much about me. But I write a blog , there are therefore elements of my life that I'm happy to share with whoever reads this, and I have a facebook profile (though with the very strictest security settings). What I mean is that people can see where I work, my computer's specs, what pages I read and for how long. Weird.

Hmm. This has turned into a bit of an odd ramble. I shall stop. Anyway, my eyes hurt. I have hayfever, and my eyes are all puffed up, and people keep asking if I've been crying. I haven't. Pollen hates me.

The Best of Bookers - Shortlist Announced

This year is the 40th anniversary of the Booker Prize, and as I noted some time ago in a post that I not can't find, three judges have put together a shortlist of what they consider to be the six best Booker winners since the prize's inception. Said shortlist was annuonced this week. The lucky nominees are:

• The Ghost Road Pat Barker (1995)
• Midnight's Children Salman Rushdie (1981)
• Oscar and Lucinda Peter Carey (1988)
• Disgrace JM Coetzee (1999)
• The Conservationist Nadime Gordimer (1974)
• The Siege of Krishnapur JG Farrell (1973)

Now, here's the kicker. I haven't read any of them. In fact, I only own one of them (Oscar and Lucinda). Therefore, the chances of me making giving an informed opinion on any of the above are, frankly, slim to none. I can, though, give my opinion on books that aren't on the list. Pointless? Possibly. Possibly not.

Firstly, I would like to express my relief and profound thanks to the judges for not selecting Life of Pi. Rarely has a fiction book made me actually angry, but this one did. I was also angry at the judges who chose it that year over Sarah Waters's Fingersmith. Now, I am not a person particularly confident in my writing abilities; as much as I harbour the novel-writing dream (along with God knows how many other readers), I do not think my writing is yet good enough to start showing to anyone other than my boyfriend and my cats. I am not that arrogant. However, reading Life of Pi, I found myself thinking "I could do better than this. I could definitely do better than this" all the way through. And don't get me started on the ending, OK? Just. Don't.

However, I am sad not to see AS Byatt's bloody fantastic Possession on the list, which remains pretty much my favourite Booker winner, like, ever.* In fact, I must reread it soon, when I have got over the reading block. Speaking of the reading block, I have taken all the novels away from the bedside table and have stacked them in a neat pile in the corner. In their stead lies a small pile of short story and poetry collections, thus: The Book of Other People, edited by Zadie Smith, The Collected Stories of Grace Paley, The Collected Stories of Lorrie Moore, The Collected Novels and Stories of Kate Chopin, and The New Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. I must say that so far the plan is working rather well. Last night I managed to read one story from the Grace Paley, one by Lorrie Moore, and one by Kate Chopin, while this morning before I got up I read one from the Zadie Smith volume, and a few Edward Lear poems.  I think I might have cracked it.

*The "like" is ironic. I promise. 

Reading Block and Possible Cures

I am having trouble settling on a book.

I keep starting things, getting 50 pages in, then losing interest. It's nothing to do with the books themselves, I think it might be me. I want to read all of these books, I really do. I know enough about the characters to care what happens to them. It's just that my brain seems to want to wander off in its own direction and think about... cake or cats or aeroplanes or aardvarks or honey or hats. Anything, it seems, other than what I've been reading.

I think the only course of action is to put everything down, move them all away from the bedside table, where they are growing into a menacing pile threatening to teeter over and bash me on the head, and pick up Mrs Dalloway or Jane Eyre. They are my favourite books, I can practically recite them, and they might be just what I need to kick me back into reading shape.

Also, I bought The Collected Stories of Lorrie Moore this weekend, so a few short stories might be excellent therapy too. Wish me luck!

Guest Blog: The Black Strat - Phil Taylor

Another guest post today on Other Stories. Boyfriend isn't a big fan of fiction - something to do with an inability to suspend his disbelief and forget that "it's all just made up" - but give him a book about guitars and he's a happy chap. Today, then, I am posting his review of The Black Strat: A History of David Gilmour's Black Fender Stratocaster by Phil Taylor.

The Fender Stratocaster is probably the most famous and popular electric guitar in the world and there have been many notable examples in the history of rock music; George Harrison’s psychedelically painted one from The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper/Magical Mystery Tour era, the white one that Jimi Hendrix played at Woodstock, Rory Gallagher’s one that had almost all the paint worn off and, perhaps most famous of all, Eric Clapton’s ‘Brownie’ and ‘Blackie’ which fetched around $500,000 and $1,000,000 respectively when they were sold at auction in recent years.

Perhaps less famous, but no less notable, is the black guitar that Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour has played on and off since 1970 and which is the subject of Phil Taylor’s book. Taylor has been Gilmour’s guitar tech since 1974 and has restrung, tuned and handed this guitar to Gilmour on countless occasions at concerts and in studio sessions since then. This guitar was played on Floyd albums ‘Meddle’ ‘Dark Side of the Moon’, ‘Wish You Were Here’, ‘Animals’, ‘The Wall’ and ‘The Final Cut’ and during that time it went through several changes of neck, pickups, scratchplate and vibrato bridge. The only original parts still remaining are the body and two of the pickups.

Gilmour retired the guitar in 1984, just after the tour to promote his second solo album, ‘About Face’ and just before he played as part of Bryan Ferry’s band at Live Aid in 1985. In 1986 the guitar was loaned to the Hard Rock Café in Dallas, Texas where it remained for the next eleven years until Taylor requested it back on Gilmour’s behalf. It was restored to playing condition and was eventually seen again in Gilmour’s hands, with yet another neck, in the Classic Albums TV show about the making of ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ in 2003, the album’s 30th anniversary.

The guitar was next seen at the momentous and emotional reunion of Pink Floyd’s classic lineup of Gilmour, Richard Wright, Nick Mason and their long estranged bass player and principal lyricist Roger Waters at 2005’s Live 8 concert and Gilmour continued to use it (with another neck!) for the recording of his 2006 ‘On an Island’ album and the subsequent tour.

Taylor’s book is a dream for guitar geeks with loads of detailed pictures of the guitar (and some others from Gilmour’s collection) from every conceivable angle. It’s also oddly moving to read about a musician being so attached to one instrument for so long, even after lengthy periods of playing other guitars and, as a Pink Floyd fan, it was nice to see the best parts of their career nicely bookended (Live 8 almost certainly marked the end of the band) with Gilmour playing the same guitar. Well, almost the same!

Chunks of Bits of Things and Stuff

Today, some bite-size chunks of Kirstyness, or things wot have occured to me recently:

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It's the start of summer, and the smell in the air is gorgeous. Every time I step outside I can smell new flowers and green things and... summer. It is glorious, and I would give just about anything to be lying in the back garden, reading a book, hanging out with Boyfriend and the mogs.

Instead, I am in the office, staring out the window. Roll on the weekend, I say.

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Speaking of books I am reading, you will have perhaps noticed that I have banished the "Current Reading Pile" list at the side of the blog. This is because I'm going through a stage of finding it hard to settle on something, and keep picking things up, reading 30 pages, then putting them down again. Currently on the go are: Vanity Fair (still), Proust, Inglorious by Joanna Kavanna, and The Victorians by A.N. Wilson. The latter is a re-read, but it might as well be a first time read, it's been a long time since I read it, and I seem to have forgotten large chunks of it.

Of course, this list may have changed by this time tomorrow.

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On Saturday it's the bi-annual Big Oxfam Book Sale in Oxford, and Scottish Friend and I are chomping at the bit to go along. I have been clearing out a lot of books recently - BookMooch is amazing - but I keep ending up either having another charity shop haul, or getting books from BookMooch. I fear I will not leave the Oxfam sale empty-handed.

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I love baking cakes. I haven't done any baking for a few months. I shall do some baking this weekend.

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Everyone must watch The Daily Show tonight, Thursday if you are in the US, or tomorrow if you are in Blighty. The author of our book Blog Wars (David Perlmutter) is going to be on talking about political blogging. He talks about it on the OUPblog here, and while you're there take a look at the last two posts I have contributed.

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I only have one more week of university to go. Then I'll be finished my first year. How scary is THAT? It's gone so fast. Next week is the final presentation on the Opium Wars. What a note to end on.

I want my Yeats essay back. I imagine it'll be weeks yet.

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It's the bi-annual beer festival at our local next weekend. 19 ales over four days, plus some organic lager and some proper scrumpy. Lovely lovely lovely. The In-Laws Elect are coming down for the weekend specially and everything. These are the things I look forward to in life.

*** *** *** ***

Anyone know how to stop cats eating plants? I have a new little cherry tomato plant, and three new little sunflowers that I want to put in the garden, but the mogs are showing an unhealthy level of interest in them.

*** *** *** ***

Thus, the round-up of Kirstyness endeth. Tomorrow: more books. Now, where are my sunglasses...

Joshua Spassky - Gwendoline Riley

I had never heard of Joshua Spassky by Gwendoline Riley before. In fact, if I am quite honest, I’d never heard of Gwendoline Riley before at all, despite the fact that according to the inside blurb she has written two books previous to this one. However, it made up a Buy One Get One Half Price promotion in Borders, and it sounded alright going by the back of the book and anyway, the shop was closing in ten minutes, and the table was near the till. I took a punt. I bought the book. And boy, I’m glad I did.

This is a short book that follows Natalie as she leaves a meandering existence in Manchester to meet Joshua in North Carolina. She is a novelist (though her success to this point seems to be questionable), he’s a playwright who is doing well enough to have had plays put on in both his native USA and in England, which is how he knows Natalie. They have history, largely involving whisky and unfulfilling random sex.

The novel opens with Natalie packing her bags, and in the process unearthing old family documents and momentos that cast her mind back into her past: her violent father, his death, her mother’s death some years later, the realisation that we all are bodies and that bodies can fail and break and are messy things. She has been, ever since, obsessed with the physical.

He said, ‘There’s no use being squeamish, Natalie,’ and asked me to pass his toilet bag up. I found it in the dresser cupboard, a shabby brown cord case with a snap fastener. He opened it on his lap and pulled things out to show me, to rattle at me. I wasn’t feeling squeamish, exactly. I thought it was interesting. Steradent and Anusol. ‘That’s what bodies are,’ Dad said.

And this obsession with the physical permeates her life from that moment on. The emotion is too difficult for her to verbalise, coming out only through the existential novels that she writes, based “in her head” rather than any actual location. The physical characterizes her relationship with Joshua, and this latest trip to the States begins in just the same way. Joshua drinking neat whisky from a sticky bottle, cheap hotel rooms where they have sweaty sex, sheets sticking to them in the hot room. They talk about the intervening months since they last saw each other. Joshua talks about other girls he’s dated. Natalie tries to figure out what she’s doing there, what they’re both doing there, and why they have this pull to each other.

Finally, they decide just what they’re doing, and as the novel begins with endings – the deaths in Natalie’s family – the novel ends with a new beginning for both Joshua and Natalie.

Gwendoline Riley has a strong, vibrant narrative voice, and has a real knack for dialogue and characters. As a reader, I could feel the laden silences, the growing tension, the things not said, and that is a real skill for a writer to have. Someone once said to me that what makes a novel good is for there to be something to find in between the lines, for the author not to say everything and leave you to work out nothing. Riley manages that with panache, and I’ll be seeking out her first two novels post haste.

Hearts and Minds - Rosy Thornton

Much like Gifted by Nikita Lalwani, Hearts and Minds is a book which, if I had seen it in a bookshop, I wouldn’t have even picked up. The cover is all pinks and pastels, with florid script and, just for good measure, a dove soaring across the top with a heart in its mouth. In short, it screams “chick lit”, and that for me is a Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect Another Commitment Phobic Sub-Mr Darcy. I wouldn’t have even have thought to glance at the blurb to see what it was about.

Thank God, then, for author Rosy Thornton, who emailed me a while ago and offered to send me a copy. She gave me a run down of the storyline, which peaked my interest, and so I accepted with glee. It arrived shortly thereafter and, I confess, my heart did fall when I set eyes on the dove with the heart in its mouth, but I by then knew enough of what it was about to remove the dust jacket and start from a lovely plain red (and very nicely produced) hardback. No flowers here, oh no. Also, Rosy T has a dog called W.G. Snuffy Walden (so it says on her website) and frankly any friend of The West Wing is a friend of mine.

Hearts and Minds is proof positive that you should never judge a book by its cover. Set in the academic world of St Radegund’s College, Cambridge, a new Master comes to take the reins after the retirement of the formidable Dame Emily. Transitions of this kind are always fraught with difficulties, but to make matters more complicated than usual, James Rycarte is taking over the helm of an all-female college, and some members of staff (and of the student body) are less than happy with a man being installed in the top job. Senior Tutor Martha Pearce, though, only wants what is best for her college, and while in an ideal world she would have wanted a woman in the post, if Rycarte is the best person for the job then so be it and let’s get down to business. After all, Martha’s domestic life is falling apart around her ears thanks to a lethargic poet-husband and a daughter who is spiralling into depression, has dropped out of school, and is rejecting the academic world of her mother so strongly that she won’t even ride her bicycle in Cambridge because it is too much of a signifier for the student world.

Add into the mix a restless student body, the initiation rituals of the St Radegund’s “Tigresses” – a collective of the very coolest girls that not just anyone can join, a subsiding library, and the offer of a sizable donation from a friend of Rycarte’s that will only stand if the college admits said friend’s daughter, and you have a very entertaining, very funny, but above all very intelligent novel that is part campus-novel, and part coming of age tale. It also offers rare insight into the politics and mechanics of academic life at Oxbridge made all the more realistic when you know that Rosy Thornton herself is a real life Fellow of Emmanuel College, Cambridge. You can sense the frustration with bureaucracy, admin, and archaic University laws that seem to be designed absolutely to get in the way of the teaching and research that the academics came there to do in the first place.

It’s a great book, and I’m going to be lending it to Academic Friend straight away. After all, she is taking up a Junior Research Fellowship at Cambridge later this year, and I wouldn’t want her to rock up at her college in September ill-prepared! :o)

I recommend Hearts and Minds to all. But I still don’t know why there’s a dove with a heart in its mouth on the cover.

It's Kitty Time!

*Genius*

Link Love, or What Kirsty Has Read This Week

You will have to excuse me as I sit and blearily rub my eyes. I don't seem to be able to sleep enough at the moment, and my concentration is sadly lacking. Needless to say, Proust has taken somewhat of a back seat recently (sorry Lauren), and I have been doing a great deal of staring out the window. Also, sales of strong coffee have recently rocketed in the work canteen, and all of those extra large cups have been reported as being clutched by a slightly shambolic-looking publicist who may or may not have brushed her hair this morning. I must say I have been willing my phone not to ring, after I had a vaguely confused conversation with someone at Radio 3, and ended up having to put him on hold and sit for a few seconds till I figured out what I was trying to say. Oh dear. I'm not at my best today.

So, since the chances of me putting together an even vaguely coherent blogpost are slim-to-none, here is some lovely linky love:

• Man, I love literary bitchfights! Jonathan Franzen recently said that "the stupidest person in New York City" was the lead fiction reviewer for the New York Times. The lady in question, Michiko Kakutani, is famously barbed, which is probably why she has a few enemies. The Guardian Book Blog takes a look at some of her spikier criticisms.
• Johnny Vegas is a prick. Boycott! Boycott!
• This is a very interesting, and I think very good, perspective on the Elisabeth Friztel case, once again from the lovely ladies of  The F Word.
• We Brits do love a bit of healthy innuendo, not least by the late Chairman Humph. Here's a nice BBC article on innuendo through history.
• LadyFest Oxford is coming! Who's with me?
• I *heart* Word Magazine. Here is their Very, Very Hard Rock Quiz. The eyes have it, etc, etc.
• I only found out the other day that the BBC website has an archive of poets reading their work. Sylvia Plath reading 'Lady Lazarus' is particularly moving, given that she wrote it - and therefore read it - so close to her death.
• An oldie but a goodie. The Smoking Gun's archive of what various music artistes demand on their riders. Hilarious.

That's all folks. Hopefully I'll be on better form tomorrow, but I wouldn't bet the house on it. Must. Sleep. More. Zzzzzzzzzz...

UK Top 20 Bestselling Books - week ending 19 April

I haven't posted the Top 20 books for a while, so here goes with last week's fiction-heavy list:

1. Book of the Dead -- Patricia Cornwell
2. Nineteen Minutes -- Jodi Picoult
3. How to Cheat at Cooking -- Delia Smith
4. Friend of the Devil -- Peter Robinson
5. The Quest -- Wilbur Smith
6. A Thousand Splendid Suns -- Khaled Hosseini
7. An Absolute Scandal -- Penny Vincenzi
8. Enchanted: The Book of the Film -- Disney
9. Skin Privilege -- Karin Slaughter
10. 31 Dream Street --Lisa Jewell
11. Engleby -- Sebastian Faulks
12. Shakespeare -- Bill Bryson
13. Thanks for the Memories -- Cecilia Ahern
14. The Children of Hurin -- JRR Tolkein
15. The Last Empress -- Anchee Min
16. Slam -- Nick Hornby
17. Bad Luck and Trouble --Lee Child
18. The Proms Guide 2008
19. Call the Midwife -- Jennifer Worth
20. The Gathering -- Anne Enright

My, we do like our crime and our chick lit, don't we? And The Proms, which is fair enough. We're starting to get into the "holiday reading" time, so I imagine the 3 for 2s will be going great guns in bookshops across the land.

Speaking of holidays, I have a whole two weeks booked off work, starting in a couple of weeks. Bliss. Not going away anywhere as such, but we are instead planning the odd overnight stop in a few places of interest around Britain, and a few day trips. Stone Henge. Cathedrals. Interesting places. I want to spend a day at the seaside. Roll up my trouser legs and go paddling, eat a Mister Softee 99, get sand in my toes, that sort of thing. Might even put a knotted hanky on my head and buy and bucket and spade.  But best of all, think of all the pure, unadulterated reading time. I'm cracking on with Vanity Fair, and also greatly enjoying Hearts and Minds by Rosy Thornton at the moment. I'm trying to make it last because it's a book I could easily tear through, but I don't want to gorge myself.

Roll on the holidays!

The Return of the Soldier - Rebecca West

I don't know if you saw it, but on Saturday there was an excellent piece in the Guardian by Carmen Callil, who started Virago back in the 70s. It explained the motivation behind setting up this publishing company that championed women ('How often I remember sitting at dinner tables in the 1960s, the men talking to each other about serious matters, the women sitting quietly like decorated lumps of sugar. I remember one such occasion when I raised my fist, banged the table and shouted: "I have views on Bangladesh too!"'), and it was a wonderful article that made me feel really quite inspired.

And so today, I return to my First Ever Virago Modern Classic, The Return of the Soldier by  Rebecca West. For such a short book, it really does pack quite a punch, and I find myself thinking of it surprisingly often. It sort of slots into my head with Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf because two of the main themes are more or less the same: the passage of time (public and private), and The Great War.

Chris Ellis returns from fighting in the war a shell-shocked man. Via hospital, he eventually returns to the marital home (or mansion, rather) and his beautiful wife Kitty. However, the shell-shock has destroyed his memory, and because of that we discover that Kitty wasn't his first love. Five years previously he had been in love with - and planned to marry - the considerably more humble Margaret Allingham. He had had a huge argument with her, which was what put paid to their marriage plans. In his amnesia, though, he believes himself to be still in love with Margaret, and has no idea who Kitty is. Narrated by Kitty's sister Jenny - who lives with them - we watch as Kitty allows Chris to meet with Margaret, but only deep in the grounds of the marital estate - never in the house.

Kitty's disgust with the situation is not just about jealousy. Kitty is a wealthy, beautiful woman, who thinks constantly about social position, while Margaret is of a more meagre income and ordinary looking. Thus, the house becomes representative of the public: public (i.e. linear) time, the show we put on for the neighbours, social position, outward gestures, while the garden becomes a forest of the past, of the private time scale in Chris's head, of the breakdown of Edwardian social structure that the war caused. As the novel moves forward (and West is different to Woolf in that she tells the story simply in a straightforward fashion) and Chris begins to regain his memory, we watch the struggle between very different feelings for two very different women, and therefore two very different lives.

I won't spoil the ending for those of you who haven't read the book, but I do beg and implore you to go and read it. It's only short (less than 200 pages), and its simplicity of language makes the story incredibly moving.   

I got tagged! Again!

The lovely Sara at A Salted got me right back for tagging her with the 'Six Random Things' meme by tagging me for a more bookish meme. This time the rules are:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

So, given that I spent a large part of this weekend getting myself right back into the Vanity Fair zone, and that I am now carrying it around in my bag, that's the book which is closest to hand at the moment.

Page 123 sees us right in the middle of one of the devilish Rebecca Sharp's letters to Amelia Sedley, and the three sentences after the fifth find Becky at her most scheming and spiky:

"Your India muslin and your pink silk, dearest Amelia, are said to become me very well. They are a good deal worn now; but, you know, we poor girls can't afford des fraiches toilettes. Happy Happy you! who have but to drive to St James's Street, and a dear mother who will give you anything you ask."

Ooooh, she's a sly one, that Becky Sharp.

Now, who am I tagging this time? Well, I don't want to tag the same people again, but that doesn't leave me with many options. So, I tag anyone who wants to have a go. Hurrah!

Farewell Chairman Humph

When Boyfriend and I went to see the live show in Oxford last year, we all got kazoos. It was a marvellous show, and Humph played 'Well Meet Again' on his trumpet at the end. Glorious.

We shall be playing Swanney Kazoo in our house today in tribute.

Confuse-a-Cat! Bewild-a-Beast?

It's Friday afternoon, so this can mean only one thing: amusing videos of cats from YouTube!

As a friend of mine said in reaction to this video: "Makes me want to quit my job and dedicate my life to baffling cats." I just love the look on the second cat's face right at the end.

I should probably get out more really, shouldn't I?

I got tagged!

Blog tag is a wonderful thing. It reminds me of primary school, with people chasing each other around trying not to be 'it'. This morning, though, I am 'it'. Dovegrey Reader tagged me in the 'Six Random Things About Yourself' game, so now I have to tell you, er, six random things about me. I'm not sure how interesting they are, but never mind, here goes anyway:

ONE: I have tiny kneecaps. They haven't grown since I was about 9 years old, but the runner things that my kneecaps sit on have. This means that sometimes if I turn too quickly then my kneecaps pop out of place then pop back in again. It is excruciatingly painful, but doesn't happen to often now, happily.

TWO: I was on TV when I was 13. I was a member of the Paisley Youth Theatre at the time, and STV (Scottish Television) needed some bright young things to faff about in the background of a new computer game show called T.I.G.S. (Totally Interactive Game Show... yes, really). We had to pretend to answer phones, hold up picture sent in by the audience etc, and - most embarrassingly - do the T.I.G.S. dance as the end credits rolled. One of the presenters was a very young unknown called Gail Porter.

THREE: I failed Higher Maths (Scottish equivalent of A-Level, sort of) despite my father having paid for a private tutor who I worked with for three hours every Sunday morning for 6 months. Turns out I'm just not very good at Maths.

FOUR: I'm allergic to sticking plasters and certain types of metal. This makes jewellry quite hard to buy sometimes. Not sterling silver, or pure gold? I'll be out in a rash the likes of which you've never seen. I am also intolerant to tannins, so no red wine or tea for me thanks. Cranberry juice gives me a nasty headache too.

FIVE: I can swear very impressively in Italian.

SIX: My love affair with all things Victorian started when I was about 10 years old and my mum and aunt took me to a museum somewhere in Kent which showed you the inside of a Victorian house, with lots of posters and adverts for Victorian products, and the clothes, and the books, and it was amazing. I just fell in love with it. Then, a few years later I read Jane Eyre and it all clicked into place. The Victorians have always had a little constant space in my head ever since.

Right, so there you go. Now I have to tag six more bloggers, as per the rules:

• Link to the person that tagged you - i.e. me.
• Post the rules on your blog.
• Write six random things about you in a blog post.
• Tag six people in your post.
• Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
• Let the tagger know your entry is up.

So, my tagees are....

• Sarah at Filmknitter
• Sara at A Salted
• Elaine at Random Jottings
• Chartroose at Bloody Hell, it's a Book Barrage
• Simon at Stuck in a Book
• Lindsey at Matching Curtains

If you lot are up for it, then I look forward to seeing your answers!

I Am Mary Dunne - Brian Moore

I Am Mary Dunne, the 1968 novel by Brian Moore, is easily straight up there in the list of best books I've read so far this year. I came to him through the enthusiasm about him that permeates Palimpsest, picking up second-copies of this and his first (and possibly more famous, thanks to the film) novel The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne. I read it more or less in one sitting at the weekend, breaking only for a trip to Tesco, and was rivetted to the point of Boyfriend having to say my name several times to get my attention.

I Am Mary Dunne opens with a memory, which is fitting because memory and identity are what this book is all about. The memory is of being at school, with Mary thinking that Cogito Ergo Sum would be more fitting as Momento Ergo Sum: I am what I remember. There have been questions here and there about whether the Latin is actually right, but you know, it's moot. The book's been published for years, I don't think he's going back to change it now. But anyway, the scene cuts to New York in the present day. Mary is leaving the beauty salon, and when booking her next appointment suddenly has a complete mind-block about her name. She eventually gives it as "Mrs Phelan" before realising just after she steps out of the shop that she hasn't been "Mrs Phelan" for years, that was her first husband's surname, and now she's on her third marriage. Her name is now Mary Lavery. But who is she really?

The book follows Mary as she spirals into a crisis of identity, following her as she looks back at how she was around her previous husbands, and realising that they had both wanted her to be a certain type of person, as does her current husband Terence:

I play an ingenue role, with special shadings demanded by each suitor. For Jimmy I had to be a tomboy; for Hat, I must look like a model: he admired elegance. Terence wants to see me as Irish: sulky, laughing, wild. And me, how do I see me, who is that me I create in mirrors, the dressing-table me, the self I cannot put a name to in the Golden Door Beauty Salon?

So, when a woman changes her name, does she become someone new? Who is Mary Dunne, as she was back in school when she realised that we are what we remember? Cue lots of skillful flashback sequences as lunch, and then dinner, with old acquaintances stir up memories which only had to her confusion and distress. Ultimately, no one is really who they seem; everyone has their dark secrets, and their life-altering moments.

It is astonishing that it was a man who wrote this book. His insight and voice as a female first-person-narrative character is absolutely spot on, and there were countless times where I found myself nodding in agreement with Mary as she admitting various failings she perceived in herself; as she came to believe that everything is her fault. If I hadn't known it was a male writer, I wouldn't have even pondered the idea it might have been, it was that good.

He must be a hell of a husband.

Silent in the Grave - Deanna Raybourn

I have been shamefully lax is reading this review copy that was kindly sent to me by Mira Books at the end of last year, but I'm pleased to say that it was very much worth the wait.

Silent in the Grave is the first in the Lady Julia Grey series of whodunnit novels set in Victorian London. No one here needs reminding that "Victorian" and "London" are two words guarenteed to make me rub my hands in booky glee, and this novel was no exception. The story starts with the immortal lines:

To say that I met Nichola Brisbane over my husband's dead body is not entirely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitching upon the floor.

And that really sets the tone for the whole shebang. Lady Julia Grey - feisty, independent, though still with a touch of endearing vulnerability - finds evidence that her husband's death was quite probably not natural, and with the help of the brooding, mysterious, and decidedly Heathcliff-esque Nicholas Brisbane sets about trying to unravel the mystery.

Now, I'm going to be straight with you here. This isn't a literary masterpiece, and I doubt it'll be troubling the Nobel Prize for Literature jury, but that is not to say that this isn't a great book. It really is just bloody great fun; a page-turner in the great tradition of page-turners. The word "rollicking" could have been conjured up expressly for this book. It's obvious too that Deanna Raybourn, the American author of this novel, absolutely delights in all things London-esque: she plainly had as much fun writing Silent in the Grave as I did reading it. Joy just drips from the page, which is a difficult feat in a murder mystery.

Just, er, one small point, and the Victorian Studies geek in me really apologises for bringing this up, but it was the only thing that annoyed me about the book: the word "gotten". No one says that over here. We just don't use that word in Britain, and certainly not in 1886. So, Ms Raybourn, if you happen upon my blog, please, delete "gotten". It stuck out like a sore thumb in an otherwise delightful book. Thanks. :)

There isn't much more I can say about this novel. It's got a brilliantly worked out plot, it elicited a couple of audible gasps from me towards the end as the demise of Edward was revealed in all its glory, and it'll hold your attention right to the end. It's great fun. And now I'm off to find volume two in the series.

Charity Shop Haul and Mini Link Love

I have been trying really hard not to buy anymore books. For one, I bought the iPhone of Joy recently, and therefore should really not be spending anymore money, and for two, I've so behind in my reading at the moment that it's quite painful. Uni work + extremely busy time at work + family stress = not a lot of Kirsty Reading Time.

However, all of these things are done and dusted for the time being, and the weekend just gone saw me creeping back to form with a book and a half devoured over two days. *sigh* That's better. Thus I feel utterly justified in having had a bit of a second-hand splurge on Saturday morning. Boyfriend and I had taken a leisurely breakfast at a local cafe and were wandering home when through the window of the Mind shop I spied some shelves of books. That was it, I was through the door with Boyfriend trailing after me. "I just want to look," I lied, as I suspiciously fingered my purse in my pocket.

Ten minutes later, I emerged into the fresh air £26 poorer but 17 books richer. What a haul! I picked up:

• Four Dreamers and Emily - Stevie Davies (I've never read anything by her, but she's   been highly recommended to me several times over the years, and it was a Women's Press book. And it was 80p.)
• Alberta and Jacob - Cora Sandel (Another Women's Press edition, and translated from Norwegian, so falls into both my "women's fiction" and "translated fiction" quotas.)
• The Remarkable Journey of Miss Tranby Quirke - Elizabeth Ridley (It's VMC. It was 80p. Of course I was going to buy it.)
• Sexual Politics - Kate Millett (Feminist table-thumping ensues.)
• The Brontes Went to Woolworths - Rachel Ferguson (Talked about over at Justine Picardie's blog, and found in delicious old green VMC livery.)
• Zoology - Ben Dolnick (Recently released in B format paperback, it caught my attention in Borders some weeks ago. Finding it in A format paperback for just over a quid was obviously fate.)
• I, Claudius / Claudius the God - Robert Graves (An omnibus edition from 1976, complete with TV tie-ie photo on the front.)

And then, the piece de resistance. For 20 of your British Pounds, a Virago Modern Classics box set, in perfect condition, box still shiny and new, nary a spine broken featuring the following:

• Precious Bane - Mary Webb
• Liza's England - Pat Barker
• The Land of Spices - Kate O'Brien
• The Edwardians - Vita Sackville-West
• Fireworks - Angela Carter
• Good Behaviour - Molly Keane
• Provincial Daugher - R M Dashwood
• Our Spoons Came From Woolworths - Barbara Comyns
• Now in November - Josephine Johnson

I was massively excited. I can't even begin to tell you. Another entirely-free weekend awaits me, so I can't wait to get properly stuck in.

And now, some mini-link love. Knitter Friend has just started her own Etsy Shop, and her creations are quite beautiful. Go see (and buy). Also, her blog can be found here.

Also, all this week on OUPblog, I am posting questions concerning Oxford World's Classics. No prizes, just for fun. But do go and have a shot. Answers on Friday.

Kirsty's A-Z of Favourite Authors

In another case of blatant idea stealing, I am posting my A-Z of favourite authors, and favourite books by that author. Thank you Simon for thinking of it first. :)

A = Atwood, Margaret - The Handmaid's Tale
B = Bronte, Charlotte - Jane Eyre
C =  Chopin, Kate - The Awakening
D = Dickens, Charles - Bleak House
E = Eliot, George - Middlemarch
F = Faber, Michel - The Crimson Petal and The White
G =  Gray, Alasdair - Poor Things
H = Hall, Radclyffe - The Well of Loneliness
I = Irving, John - The World According to Garp
J = Hmm, I appear to be very low on Js...
K = Kay, Jackie - Trumpet
L = Lewis, Matthew - The Monk
M = Mitchell, David - Ghostwritten
N = Nabokov, Vladimir - Pale Fire
O = Oates, Joyce Carol - Rape: A Love Story
P = Plath, Sylvia - The Bell Jar
Q = Also lows on Qs...
R = Radcliffe, Ann - The Italian
S = Shelley, Mary - Frankenstein
T = Townsend, Sue - The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 3/4
U = And Us...
V = Vesaas, Terjei - The Ice Palace
W = Woolf, Virginia - Mrs Dalloway
X = Hmm...
Y = Yates, Richard - The Easter Parade
Z = Still Hmmm...

Clearly I have some letters to catch up on. Anyone know any good authors with surnames beginning with X?

The Proust Book Group

Academic Friend and I are taking on a mighty challenge: Proust.

Proust is scary. We all know he ended up in a padded cell, but the question is, will we? It's time to find out. In Search of Lost Time has even some academic quaking in their boots, but really, is there any reason why the two of us can't read it and get something out of it? We are educated women, Academic Friend is, well, nearly an Academic, give or take a viva. And so, we have decided to start The Proust Book Group! We shall be setting ourselves deadlines to read parts of the text, then we shall get together over a beer or three to see if we can't unravel the beast a little. We both now have our copies of volume one, Swann's Way, and shall shortly be starting in earnest.

Who knows, perhaps soon we'll be able to take part in our own All-England/Scotland/America Summarise Proust Competition...