I’m enjoying some time in Somerset, cat-sitting and thesising – with breaks for lying in a hammock and reading a book! If you sit in a hammock in the Rectory garden, chances are you’ll be joined by Sherpa, who is not only the most beautiful cat, but the silliest, and the cat with the worst balance. As you’ll see in this brief clip…
All
The Egg and I – Betty Macdonald
There are some authors, because of the influence of the online reading group I’m in, that I stockpile before I get around to reading them. Elizabeth Taylor and Elizabeth von Arnim were among the number for years (and I love them now, of course) – on the other hand, so were Margaret Drabble and Iris Murdoch, and now I’ve tried them without success, I’m left with piles of their books to keep or give away…
Anyway, long-winded introduction to: Betty MacDonald. I believe it was Barbara or Elaine who first mentioned Ms. MacDonald to me, and her books were definitely compared to E.M. Delafield’s Provincial Lady novels – which is, of course, a surefire way to get me to try them. It’s taken me a few years, but I’ve finally read one – The Egg and I (1945), which I bought in Edinburgh in 2009.
You might be disappointed – but you’ll probably be relieved – to learn that no supernaturally large egg features in the novel, but it does feature farming. Indeed, that is what The Egg and I is about – an account of being a farmer’s wife in 1920s America. As with the Provincial Lady books, and my other favourites by Shirley Jackson, it’s memoir thrown to the wolves of exaggeration – or fiction tempered by reality, depending on which side you see it.
And it is very amusing. MacDonald realises the comic potential in the astonishing workload of running a small holding with an ambitious husband, and there is plenty to delight the reader in accounts of a recalcitrant stove, suicidal chickens, and uncooperative bread. My chief reaction was gratitude that the shifting class system in Britain meant that my father and I could go to university and pick our careers, and that I didn’t end up in the great tradition of Thomas farmers (which stretches back as far as anyone knows, I believe.) Nothing wrong with being a farmer, of course, only I have always suspected that I would be totally hopeless at it – a suspicion confirmed by reading The Egg and I. You have to assume that Betty MacDonald deeply loved her then-husband Bob, because nothing else could possibly persuade a sane woman to embark on this venture with him. It is a mark of her exceptionally good nature that, even when she is being teasing about the chores Bob suggests, there appears to be no deep-seated malice (which would be entirely justifiable):
By the end of the summer the pullets were laying and Bob was culling the flocks. With no encouragement from me, he decided that, as chicken prices were way down, I should can the culled hens. It appeared to my warped mind that Bob went miles and miles out of his way to figure out things for me to put in jars; that he actively resented a single moment of my time which was not spent eye to pressure gauge, ear to steam cock; that he was for ever coming staggering into the kitchen under a bushel basket of something for me to can. My first reaction was homicide, then suicide, and at last tearful resignation.
Did I mention that she has a baby in the middle of the four years spent on this farm? Betty MacDonald basically IS superwoman – and with a sense of humour too.
Then there are her neighbours – on one side is a large, lazy couple with about a dozen children. Mrs Kettle seems quite good-natured (if not wised-up to the etiquette of everyday living), but Mr Kettle and his progeny seem to have no object in life but getting other people to provide food and assistance – and they do charmingly awful things like burning down their barn and starting a forest fire. On the other side is the direct opposite: a farm kept so spotless you could eat your food off the floor. All these secondary characters seem like exaggerations, but that didn’t stop the Macdonalds’ old neighbours filing lawsuits, according to the Wikipedia page.
The Egg and I doesn’t have the same laugh-every-page that I found in the Provincial Lady books, has a slightly slow start, and the workload is exhausting even to read about, but I still loved reading it. Anybody drawn to self-deprecating, cynically optimistic accounts of a person’s everyday life (albeit an everyday life few of us would recognise), then this is a great book. As so often, reading about the author’s real life changes things a bit – she was divorced from Bob, and remarried to Donald MacDonald, by the time the book was published (one wonders quite what her current husband thought about her achieving fame writing so fondly about her ex-husband) – but it’s easier simply to let The Egg and I be the simplified, all-American tale it wants to be. As I wrote before – it’s neither fiction nor non-fiction, but a delightful amalgam of the two.
On Writing – A.L. Kennedy
Although I have never read any fiction by A.L. Kennedy (which is about as inauspicious a way to begin a review as any), I couldn’t resist when Jonathan Cape offered me a copy of On Writing to review. This isn’t so much because I intend to be a writer myself (although I have always rather hoped to be – and, I suppose, in some ways I am – just theses and blog posts rather than novels, at the mo) but because I thought it might reveal more about the author’s life and processes.
It’s just as well that I approached On Writing with this proviso, because it’s a bit of a misnomer – there isn’t a great deal about writing, particularly not about how to write, but there is a great deal about being a writer. A crucial distinction. Rather than giving step by step instructions, or even general guidelines, Kennedy writes about the life of a writer – which seems to consist almost solely of travelling, getting ill, and running workshops for other people who want to be writers.
No one can teach you how to write, or how you write or how you could write better. Other people can assist you in various areas, but the way that you learn how you write, the way you really improve, is by diving in and reworking, taking apart, breaking down, questioning, exploring, forgetting and losing and finding and remembering and generally testing your prose until it shows you what it needs to be, until you can see its nature and then help it to express itself as best you can under your current circumstances. This gives you – slowly – an understanding of how you use words on the page to say what you need to.
So, that explains why she concentrates on other matters. If, however, you are desperate to read about the act of writing itself, in the minutiae of prose details, then turn straight to chapter 22. That’s precisely what A.L. Kennedy does there – building up the opening sentence to a story, rejecting versions, explaining why she doing so and what thought goes into the construction of each sentence. Granted, I didn’t much like the end result (it didn’t encourage me to read her fiction, I must confess), but it was fascinating to observe.
This early part of the book is a collection of blog columns Kennedy wrote for the Guardian, and I found them compulsively readable. I love her sense of humour, the dryness of her writing, and her obvious love for the craft of writing. Occasionally, I’ll admit, I wanted her to lighten up a tiny bit – as she often admits, writing is not back-breaking labour – but I suppose that’s better than flippancy about writing, in a book about writing. And while Kennedy writes about the horrors of appearing in public or having her photo taken – being very deprecating about her own appearance – she has the sort of face that, if you saw her on a bus, you’d say “By gad, good woman, you must write!” It’s so wry and cynical, and you get the feeling that it would be world-weary if she didn’t find every facet of existence ultimately so amusing.
The next section of the book has longer essays, significantly about running workshops – offering a really interesting insight to a world I know so little about, and showing how much thought Kennedy puts into preparing them (as well as her scorn for those who put on workshops without similar levels of thought.) There is also – of course – more about writing, and I particularly loved this paragraph, which brilliantly demolished a tenet of writing which I have always thought nonsensical:
Personal experience may, for example, be suggested as a handy source of authenticity, perhaps because of the tediously repeated ‘advice’ imposed upon new authors: “Write about what you know.” Many people are still unacquainted with the unabridged version of this advice: “Write about what you know. I am an idiot and have never heard of research, its challenges, serendipities and joys. I lack imagination and therefore cannot imagine that you may not. Do not be free, do not explore the boundaries of your possible talent, do not – for pity’s sake – grow beyond the limits of your everyday life and its most superficial details. Do not go wherever you wish to, whether that’s the surface of your kitchen table or the surface of the moon. Please allow me – because I’m insisting – to tell you what to think.”
And finally in On Writing is a piece she refers to often throughout – one which she takes to the Edinburgh Festival, as well as performing around the country. It’s very, very funny – in a rather broader way than the rest of the book, and if it feels less natural than her blog writing, then that is because it is a performance piece. Some of it repeats things she has mentioned earlier, but for a book which is compiled from various sources, and also for a blog-based book, On Writing is remarkably unrepetitive. I dread to think how repetitive Stuck-in-a-Book has been. I dread to think how repetitive Stuck-in-a-Book has been. (A-ha-ha.)
All in all, a great book to have on a bibliophile’s bookshelf – perhaps not the first place to go if you are penning your own novel – although if you’ve got past the ‘getting published’ stage, On Writing might well be an invaluable guide to the life of the writer. For the rest of us, it’s simply a great read.
And… more books!
On Saturday I was in London to watch Judi Dench on stage in Peter and Alice – which I will write about soon – but whilst I was there, I also bought some books… well, in actual fact I bought one book, and exchanged a lot. I took a big bag of unwanted books to Notting Hill Book & Comic Exchange (and loitered outside until they opened at the curious time of 10.25am), was given a fistful of vouchers, and bought this pile of books…
From the top down…
Down The Rabbit Hole – Juan Pablo Villalobos
Somebody is responsible for this being on my radar… Simon Savidge, is it you?
Screwtop Thompson – Magnus Mills
I don’t think I even knew about this Mills novel, but it’s a lovely edition, and I’m happy to add to my pile of unread Mills!
The Fifth Child – Doris Lessing
My book group will be reading this later in the year – the only Lessing book I’ve read before was Memoirs of a Survivor, and jury is very much out…
Knole & The Sackvilles – Vita Sackville-West
I have read through this in the Bodleian, and I do hanker after the beautiful first edition I read there, but this paperback will do for now.
Twelves Day – Vita Sackville-West
Who knew VSW wrote travel literature? I certainly didn’t – but now I do.
1066 and All That – W.C. Sellar & R.J. Yeatman
This has been on my Amazon wishlist for many years, and I finally nabbed a copy when I could.
Young Anne – Dorothy Whipple
This was the one I bought, in an Oxfam in Angel! Quite a coup, since it doesn’t seem to be available anywhere online – and I nearly lost it to the lovely man behind the counter, who hadn’t spotted it. We had a quick chat about Whipple, Persephone, and Stella Gibbons – excellent customer service!
The Charlotte Perkins Gilman Reader
I’ve read The Yellow Wallpaper, naturally, but there is plenty more to read, it seems!
My Brilliant Career – Miles Franklin
Since I own the sequel, I figure I should get this one too! (And, er, maybe read one or other of them sometime.)
Poor Caroline – Winifred Holtby
Anderby Wold – Winifred Holtby
One of these days I’m actually going to read something by Winifred Holtby, you just see if I don’t.
Over to you, as always! Let me know if you’ve read any of these – or if any grab your fancy. I certainly think it was an impressive haul for a net total of £3.99 and a bagful of books I didn’t want!
The Cynical Wives Brigade (A Woman of My Age – Nina Bawden)
When Karen mentioned that she’d bought some Nina Bawden books, I commented that I had a few on my shelves, but had never got around to reading her – and, hey presto, a joint readalong of A Woman of My Age (1967) was born. Karen’s already posted her review here, but I have to admit that I have yet to read it – because I wanted to give you my thoughts before I discovered hers.
I didn’t know what to expect from Nina Bawden – I’ve never even read her famous children’s books – so I started the novel with more or less a blank canvas. Elizabeth is the heroine (if the term fits… which it doesn’t, really) and is in Morocco with her husband of eighteen years, Richard. The heat is stultifying and their companions a trifle wearying – the obese, overly-friendly Mrs Hobbs and her quiet husband, and the unexpected friend from home, Flora. Unexpected to Elizabeth, anyway…
As their journey across the country continues, the web between these characters gets more and more complex, as secrets are revealed and alliances kindled – but the mainstay of the narrative is Elizabeth’s musings on her past life, as her marriage to Richard is slowly documented, and considered in minute detail. For Elizabeth is nothing if not introspective – she’s even introspective about being introspective, which does lead to one amusing line at least:
She peered appraisingly at herself in the mirror, pulling faces as if she were alone, and I was embarrassed by her candour. (Though I have as much interest in my appearance as most women, I feel it is somehow degrading to admit it. Before we came away, I bought a special cream supposed to restore elasticity to the skin, but I destroyed the wrapper on the jar and the accompanying, incriminating literature, as furtively as I had, when young, removed the cover of a book on sex.)
Before I go further, I should put forward the weak statement that I quite enjoyed A Woman of My Age, because I’m going to harp on about the things I didn’t much like. So, while I do that, please bear in mind that Bawden’s writing is always good, her humour (when it comes) is sharp and well-judged, and her characters are generally believable. There is even some pathos in the account of Elizabeth’s ageing relatives, but I shan’t comment much on that – because they are pretty incidental.
Elizabeth’s age, referred to in the title, is 37. She has been married for nearly half her life, and is obviously rather dissatisfied. We know this, because she often tells us. Sometimes (in this mention of her early married life) it is almost laughably stereotypical:
We were bored with our husbands. They were sober young men, marking school books, studying, advancing into an adult world of action and responsibility.
This is, I shall admit now, my main problem with the novel – and that which inspired my title to this post. Elizabeth is a card-carrying, fully-paid-up member of the Cynical Wives Brigade. You may remember how little I liked Margaret Drabble’s The Garrick Year – you can read my thoughts here – and a lot of A Woman of My Age is cut from the same cloth. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never been a wife, and because I wasn’t around in the 1960s, but I find this gosh-is-my-privileged-life-wonderful-enough unutterably tedious, not to mention the casual adultery that all these characters indulge in. Adultery seems, at best, a stimulus for another tedious, introspective conversation or contemplation. Children, as with Drabble’s novel, are included simply to show the passage of time, and none of the adult characters seem to have any particularly parental instincts.
Was this a 1960s thing? Well, Lynne Reid Banks’s The L-Shaped Room (1960) is one of my favourite novels, but I can’t deny that it is very introspective – but Jane isn’t a wife, so she manages to escape the Cynical Wives Brigade. I haven’t read many novels from this decade, but already I get the idea (supported by this novel) that it’s full of this type of navel-gazing, morally-lax types. For someone born in the 1980s, incidentally, there were a couple of moments which are very of-their-time, and rather shocking to me. (Were these views still acceptable in the 1960s?? Both are from Elizabeth’s point of view, and neither seem ironic.)
As a result, I drank more than was sensible in my condition: like a lot of women, I always felt more unwell during the first three months of pregnancy than afterwards, and alcohol went to my head very quickly.
and
I was surprised at the violence of his remorse – after all, he had only hit me
I suppose I can’t blame Bawden for that, if those were still prevalent opinions and actions in the time. But what I can blame her for is making an interesting scenario and potentially interesting characters get so dragged down by the dreariness of reading about Elizabeth’s self-pity and moping. To do her justice, another character in the novel does accuse her of exactly these faults. I cheered when I read this:
If they are a sample of your usual conversation I’m not surprised that he doesn’t listen to you. You’re no more worth listening to than any bored, spoiled young woman, whining because the routine of married life has gone stale on you. It really is very provoking, to a woman of my generation. When I was thirty, we didn’t have the vote, we had to fight for a place in the world. Now you’ve got it, most of you don’t bother to use it. I daresay it’s dull, being tied to a house and young children, but it was a life you chose, after all, you were so eager to rush into it that you didn’t even take your degree.
I’m always curious when authors incorporate criticisms of their novel or characters into the narrative itself. Is it a moment of self-awareness, to distance themselves from the voice of the narrator? Is it the belief that recognising one’s faults is the same as correcting them? Or is simply a moment of regret, for the direction a novel should have taken?
(I should make clear – a lot of the things Elizabeth complains about are probably genuine issues. But complaining does not a novel make.)
And I haven’t even mentioned the big twist at the end. I don’t really know what to say about it.
I’m still glad that I read Nina Bawden, and I’ll have a look at the other one’s on my shelves to see if they’re any less frustrating. Right now I’m off to see what Karen thought… come join me?
A very, very quick Bank Holiday post…
25 signs you’re addicted to reading?
I reckon we’ll all tick at least 20. Aaaaaand… go!
The Great Gatsby: What Next?
I thought, with The Great Gatsby (1925) being a big film at the moment, there might be people out there who are looking for other novels of the 1920s to enjoy. I haven’t seen the film, and I have to admit that I wasn’t particularly impressed by the novel when I read it a decade ago, but I do know a thing or two about the 1920s. So do a lot of you, of course, but I thought, nonetheless, in case people stumble across Stuck-in-a-Book wanting to read more from the 1920s, I create a little decade Stuck-in-a-Book best-of (clicking on the title takes you to a full-length review). Most of these don’t have much in common with The Great Gatsby except for decade of publication, but – whisper it – I’d argue that they’re all better.
1920 : Queen Lucia by E.F. Benson
To see how the Bright Young Things were behaving on the British side of the channel – or, rather, the Bright Middle-Aged Things – you can do no better than Benson’s hilarious series Mapp & Lucia, featuring the warring heroines and their sniping, fawning, and eccentric associates. But don’t be one of those people who starts with Mapp and Lucia, the fourth book – start at the beginning, with queen bee Queen Lucia.
1921 : The Dover Road by A.A. Milne
If you’ve never read any of AAM’s books for adults, or never read a play, or both, then this is a great place to start. It was P.G. Wodehouse’s favourite play, and is definitely one of mine too – an eloping couple stop for the night in a hotel, and curiously can’t leave in the morning… it’s all very funny, ingeniously plotted, and surprisingly poignant in the end.
1922 : The Heir by Vita Sackville-West
A short, powerful novella about a man who inherits a house unexpectedly, and slowly falls in love with it. There is more passion in this tale than you’ll find in most romances, and if you can find the beautiful Hesperus edition, all the better.
1923 : Bliss by Katherine Mansfield
The link is a slight cheat here, since it goes to Mansfield’s Selected Stories, but I had to include KM somewhere. Her writing is modernist without being inaccessible, and she is one of a tiny group of authors whose short stories satisfy me whatever mood I’m in. Observant, striking, entirely beautiful.
1924 : The Green Hat by Michael Arlen
The British equivalent of The Great Gatsby, at least in terms of parties, glitz disguising melancholy, and an enigma of a central character. Also rather better, I’d say – although a writing style which perhaps takes some getting used to. I described it as ‘like reading witty treacle’.
1925 : Pastors and Masters by Ivy Compton-Burnett
If you’ve never tried any of Dame Ivy’s delicious, divisive fiction, this is a good litmus test. Set in a boys’ school, it’s Ivy-lite. If you like it, you’ll love her richer works – if you don’t, then you’ll know to steer clear forever.
1926 : As It Was by Helen Thomas
A biography/autobiography by the poet Edward Thomas’s wife (followed later by World Without End) – together they are exceptionally good accounts of marriage, in all its pitfalls and peaks, and subsequently its fragility.
1927 : The Love-Child by Edith Olivier
One of my all-time favourite novels, this tells of a spinster who inadvertently conjures her childhood imaginary friend into life. From this premise comes a very grounded narrative, which is heart-breaking as well as an increasingly clever manipulation of a fanciful idea.
1928 : Keeping Up Appearances by Rose Macaulay
Rose Macaulay is one of those bubbling-under authors – both from critical acceptance and middlebrow adoration. She deserves better in both categories, I think, and this delightful, thoughtful novel about a lightweight novelist and an aspiring highbrow woman is both funny and clever.
1929 : A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
You’ve probably heard of this essay, and you probably know its central tenet (about women needing an income and a room of their own, in order to write) but if you haven’t read it, you’re missing a real treat. If you find her fiction too flowery, this is a perfect place to sample her exemplary writing.
I hope you’ve enjoyed that quick whirl through the 1920s! Why not do the same mini project for the 1920s – or any other decade – on your own blog? Pop a link in the comments if you do…
The Help (in which I step off my high horse)
I recently read The Help by Kathryn Stockett – I shan’t bother giving a full review, since I’m so late to the party that nearly everyone seems to have read it already, but it does provide a useful opportunity to talk about a general trend in my reading.
Very briefly, for those not in the know, The Help is about 1960s America – Jackson, Mississippi, specifically (which to me is chiefly notable for producing Eudora Welty and this wonderful song) – and the racial tensions of the time. Particularly those between maid and employee – the cast of characters is almost exclusively women, including the three narrators Aibileen, Minny, and Skeeter Phelan. All three narrators are marvellously engaging, the whole novel is a terrific page-turner without sacrificing any narrative polish, and all in all it’s a very good novel. If it weren’t tremendously popular already, I would be waxing evangelical about it to all and sundry.
It’s not a flawless novel. You think the characters are complex (and some are) but then you realise that some of the racist characters are unrealistically bad in all ways – and there is an incident involving a naked man and a poker which needn’t have been in the novel at all (and isn’t nearly as unpleasant as I’ve realised that sentence sounds.) But it’s an extremely impressive debut novel, and it’s bewildering that 50 agents turned it down.
Simply to create three characters so empathetic and engaging (that word again; but it is appropriate) is an exceptional achievement. Novels were multiple narrators usually end up having one who isn’t as vibrant as the others, or one who is head and shoulders above the rest – not so, in Stockett’s case. I was always delighted to see any of them turn up in the next chapter – with perhaps a slight preference for irrepressible Minny. No, wise Aibileen might come top. Oh, but what about Skeeter’s enthusiastic confusion and determination? Oh, hang it, I love them all.
So why am I writing about The Help without reviewing it properly? To expose one of my failings, I’m afraid.
I had assumed, since it was so popular, that it would be very poor. If it hadn’t been for my book group, I wouldn’t have read it – and I’m grateful to the dovegreybooks ladies for giving me a copy (although I don’t know which of the group it was!)
You can excuse me – or at least understand where I’m coming from. If you’ve found your way to Stuck-in-a-Book, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve experienced a similar thing. Seeing Dan Brown and his ilk at the top of the bestseller charts, it’s difficult to believe that anything of quality could sell millions of copies, in the way that The Help has.
I did love The Time Traveller’s Wife, but other bestselling representatives of literary fiction have proven singularly disappointing to me. Ian McEwan’s recent output has been rather ‘meh’; Lionel Shriver’s fantastically popular We Have To Talk About Kevin was so dreadfully written that I gave up on p.50. Things like The Lovely Bones and The Kite Runner weren’t exactly bad, but I found it difficult to call them good, either. Bestselling literary fiction is usually vastly better than bestselling unliterary fiction (yes, Dan Brown, I’m looking at you) but it doesn’t excite me.
Remember a little while ago I posted that quotation from Diana Athill, about the two types of reader, and how the second type created the bestseller? Well, my experience had led me to believe that I’d never find a chart-topping novel that I really loved and admired. Perhaps a few would be page-turners, but I couldn’t imagine any would actually bear closer analysis too.
Well, reader, I was wrong. While Kathryn Stockett isn’t (yet, at least) on the scale of great prose writers like Virginia Woolf, she is certainly a cut above the usual. I’m delighted that I stepped down from my high horse long enough to enjoy it – or, let’s face it, that I was pushed off against my will.
Some books…
Wow, thanks for all your comments on the previous post – I will reply to them soon, but basically it seems like we all make wishlists somewhere or other, and I’m very impressed by how organised some of you are!
And I thought I’d treat you with a little pile of books which have recently come to Stuck-in-a-Book Towers… let’s work from the bottom up, shall we? (I hadn’t realised until I put these together for the photo quite how blue books have dominated of late…)
London War Notes 1939-1945 by Mollie Panter-Downes
I thought this book was absolutely brilliant, and essential WW2 reading, when I reviewed it earlier in the year – but I didn’t actually own a copy. When an affordable one came up in my abebooks alerts, I high-tailed it to… well, the internet. But the book is mine now, and I’m thrilled!
Selected Poems by Anthony Thwaite
The Norman Church by A.A. Milne
The Man in the Bowler Hat by A.A. Milne
These all came via a connection Claire/The Captive Reader brought to my attention – as you might know, A.A. Milne is one of my favourite authors, and the first one I loved wholeheartedly in my adult reading. 2012 was Claire’s year of discovering AAM, and she read many of his books – and Ann Thwaite’s exceptionally good biography A.A. Milne: His Life. I’ve read it a few times, in pre-blog days, but haven’t posted about it yet. Anyway, Ann Thwaite spotted Claire’s review and commented on it that she’s looking to sell some of AAM books – read her comment on this post – and I got in touch with her. We had a chat on the phone, and she was lovely – and I bought the Milne books mentioned here. The collection of poetry by her husband came as a surprise bonus, and I must write to thank her soon :) I can’t tell you have special it feels to have these books come from the author of a biography which affected my reading so much.
The Maiden Dinosaur by Janet McNeill
This one was a recommendation by a SiaB reader, Tina, as mentioned in my previous post.
Symposium by Muriel Spark
One of the few Spark novels I didn’t already own. very kindly given to me by Karen. It might well be my next Spark read…
The Towers of Trebizond by Rose Macaulay
Coming Up For Air by George Orwell
What Was Lost by Catherine O’Flynn
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down And Wept by Elizabeth Smart
I bought these in the brilliant Amnesty Book Shop in Bristol last weekend – I did already have a copy of the Macaulay, but not in this gorgeous NYRB Classics edition… I’m not the sort of person who could resist that, as well we all know.
Mel recommended the Catherine O’Flynn, and the other two are books I’ve been intending to read for ages. Well, actually I just want to read more Orwell in general, and had hoped to find The Clergyman’s Daughter, but this will more than do.
Letters of Lewis Carroll
Well, why on earth not? (Also timely, as I am going to see Judi Dench in Peter and Alice this weekend. Can’t wait!)
Wish lists?
In the comments to my previous post, Christine made a comment about wish lists – and about how she was thinking about keeping a notebook for books to look out for, rather than little bits of paper, which are all too easy to lose.
And, of course, it made me want to widen the net, and ask all of you how you keep track of books on your wish list? (I am, of course, assuming that almost all of us are beset by books we want to read on a daily – nay, an hourly, basis. For those of you who aren’t… well, just thank your lucky stars that your bank balance isn’t under similar threat.)
As for me, I don’t actually have a physical wish list anywhere. I tend to go to Amazon and add things to my wish list there – which explains why there’s about a hundred items on it – simply for my own benefit. My memory is utterly appalling, and it helps to add things there – although quite often I can’t remember at all why a book is there.
Mostly, though… well, I just go and buy the book straightaway online. Bad Simon.
I’d love to know whether you carry around a notebook with suggestions, keep an online list, commit titles to memory, or a mixture of all three – or if, like me, you give your aching memory a rest by simply cutting out the middle man and buying things as soon as you get the idea. (Speaking of which, an impulse Amazon buy the other day was The Maiden Dinosaur by Janet McNeill, as SiaB-reader Tina got in touch to tell me I’d love it… anybody else read it?)