A Work in Progress

October 31: Reading Notes (RIP Edition)

If the beginning of the month started out slow for me, I've made up for it here at the end.  Although I didn't quite manage to finish all the books I had wanted (isn't that always the case, though), I still managed to finish five in the last week.  Don't be too impressed as they were all ongoing reads, several holdovers from previous months so just whittling the pile down a little.  I'm a bit behind writing about them, too, so expect some follow up posts on those completed books soon. 

Since it is Halloween (at least for a few more hours), a little run down of what I've been reading for the last couple of months.  As usual I've thoroughly enjoyed my R.I.P. reading.  I read two novels and am still working on one last book, and I've read some very good ghost stories.  The Haunting of Maddy Clare by Simone St. James was a nice atmospheric ghost story set in the 1920s with a dash of romance thrown in for good measure.  I'll be watching for St. James's new book which comes out in the spring.  The Hunting Ground by Cliff McNish is a YA novel was quite creepy.  Don't be fooled by the YA label as I think older readers can easily appreciate it as well.  I was actually surprised by just how scary (considering the intended audience) the story was. 

I think I enjoyed all the ghost stories I read.  Some were more chilling than others, most where just good stories with a healthy dose of autumnal atmosphere, which is more than satisfying during these chilly and increasingly short days.  I'm not sure I can pick a favorite.  Ray Bradbury is always a good choice and The Playground was dark and a little disturbing.  I definitely want to read more M.R. James.  And Rosemary Timperley was a new-to-me author and Harry has lingered in my mind even weeks later.  I'm contemplating ordering The Big Book of Ghost Stories, edited by Otto Penzler, since there are so many intriguing-looking stories in it to explore.  You can click on my RIP tag in case you're curious to see a rundown on all the ghost stories I've read this year.   

I also listened to Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book on audio.  I just finished earlier today as a matter of fact, so I got in a little Halloween listening--my way of celebrating the holiday.  I have a hard time writing about audio books since I am a very visual reader and need something concrete to refer back on.  It's another YA novel, which mattered not one whit since it was a great listening experience.  I would happily listen to anything Neil Gaiman read as he is such a wonderful reader--the pacing, the voices, the characters--he gets it all right.  The story is about Nobody Owens (otherwise known as Bod) who is raised in a graveyard when his family is murdered.  The Man Jack isn't about to let Bod go, though on that fateful night of the murders, little Bod (baby though he was) somehow slipped through Jack's fingers.  The story was suitably escapist, not terribly scary, but nicely done--even with it's bittersweet ending.  

Now I am well into Peter Straub's Ghost Story, which is a slow burn sort of story.  It starts out slowly.  There is lots of scene setting and many hints at something terrible having happened decades earlier.  Five men, known as the Chowder Society, gather weekly to tell ghost stories.  But the scariest one is the real ghost that is haunting them all.  And one by one something seems to be killing them.  It's taken  me a little time to get into the story, but I am now well and truly hooked.  I hope to finish soon.

Before the month slips away, I have to share this list of the Top Ten Ghost Stories Ever with you.  How many have you read?  To attest how much I like the genre, I have very surprisingly read all of them!

1.  The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

2.  The Turn of the Screw by Henry James

3.  Whistle and I'll Come to You by M.R. James (serendipity since I just read this one!)

4.  The Monkey's Paw by W.W. Jacobs (read this one in pre-blogging days and should give it a reread now)

5. The Shining by Stephen King (another read from years ago--at least twenty I'm afraid to say).

6.  The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

7.  The Woman in Black by Susan Hill

8.  Ghost Story by Peter Straub

9.  A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

10. Casting the Runes by M.R. James

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November will mostly be filled with German Literature, the Slaves next book Crewe Train, and my newest postal reading group book.  I'll also be reading more for the Canadian Reading Challenge and whatever other assorted books that pique my curiosity and come my way! 

The Violin of Auschwitz

There was a time when I would, while not eagerly, but with great interest and anticipation pick up a book of Holocaust literature.  I like stories (or memoirs and biographies) about survivors.  Stories that show humans at their best in the worst circumstances.  Stories that show just how resilient people can be in the face of extreme hardship and even in cruel or demeaning (which so often seems to be the case when writing about the Holocaust) situations.  I wonder if thinking or reading about the world as it was during WWII (the Holocaust in particular) is easier when you have youth on your side?  The older I get the harder it seems to face these stories for some reason.  So it was with both anticipation and a little wariness that I picked up Maria Àngels Anglada's The Violin of Auschwitz (El violí d'Auschwitz). 

Anglada was a Catalan author who passed away in 1999.  She was an important and well known figure in Catalan literature and won a number of awards for her work.  The Violin of Auschwitz was originally published in 1994 but not translated into English until 2010.  It's a work of fiction (I had been wondering if she had based her story on true events), but it's not hard imagining that just such a story could have taken place during the dark days of the war.  It's quite a slim novel, really more of a novella, which deals with exactly the sort of subject I would normally find myself seeking out--the idea of human resiliency.  It's a story of how one man doesn't allow himself to lose his dignity in the presence of those who would treat him as less than human.

The story begins and ends in the present day.  It opens in Krakow, Poland where a musician notices a dignified older woman playing a violin with such perfection and passion that the sound haunts him by its beauty.  Regina tells him the violin was made by her uncle, a luthier, to the measurements of a Stradivarius.  It's her most prize possession.  It's the story of how the violin came into being that makes up the bulk of the story.

How can such a beautiful object, one that creates such an penetrating sound, have been crafted in the ugliness of a concentration camp?  As that is where Daniel, Regina's uncle, was forced to make the violin.  To be given the job of constructing a violin, especially when that had been your profession, sounds like it would not be a hardship under more normal circumstances.  Daniel's job in the camp is to work as a carpenter, and when he successfully fixes a violin for the music-loving commandant, he's set the task of creating an instrument as perfect as a Stradivarius for his collection.  But Daniel isn't told that his life hangs in the balance as the commandant and the camp doctor have made a wager on whether Daniel will finish the violin in a set time--unknown to him.  The winner gets a case of fine Burgundy wine.  It would seem that is the price of one life.

When another prisoner in the camp, a musician who will play the instrument for the camp's officials, tells Daniel of the wager, there are nightmarish moments for Daniel as he knows the cruelty the camp doctor is capable of.  But working with the wood, planing it and measuring it and turning it into the perfect instrument is also calming for him.  It reminds him of his life before.  So the beauty of music, of the possibility of music plays out against the ugliness of life in the camp--the beatings and starvation and hours long roll calls.  Creating such a magnificent instrument, his instrument, as Daniel thinks of it, gives him the dignity that is taken away from living in the camp. 

It's a curious juxtaposition of events.  What happened to Daniel, whose violin survives the war, is revealed when the story wraps back around to the present day.  The premise of the story is quite powerful, and the writing, while simple and straightforward, is often elegant.  Strangely, however, I felt always at a distance from Daniel.  Maybe it's a good thing in a story like this to feel outside and only looking in, but it also made me feel quite tepid about the events.  All the right elements were there, but they felt very slight somehow.  I can't decide whether the length of the story works in its favor or against it.  But I am happy to have read another Catalan author and would be curious to know what the impetus for Anglada was to choose this subject matter.

I read The Violin of Auschwitz for Caroline's Literature and War Readalong.  You can read her thoughts on it here.  Next up is The Stalin Front by Gert Ledig.

Mythology: A Few Lesser Myths & An Intro to Norse Mythology

Edith Hamilton has been my weekend companion for five months now, but I've finally turned the last page on her Mythology.  It's been an entertaining and educational journey, and I have a feeling I won't be able to leave behind the gods and goddesses for too long. In any case references to myths seem to pop up all over the place in my reading now (they probably always have but now I am much more attuned to them), and I am contemplating starting a new page (perhaps a tab will show up at the top of my page soon) with quotes from my reading.  I want to keep up with things so people and stories don't fade too far (or too quickly) from mind, so expect further reading in the future (and maybe even viewing of movies or documentaries) to help it all stay fresh.

The last two sections of the book deal with the lesser Greek myths--some familiar but most were new to me--as well Norse mythology.  Both sections are brief yet broad overviews.  I was wondering why she felt the need to tack on Norse myths at the end since they vary so much in tone, but after having read the section I now see why.  But first a few highlights from the lesser myths.  There are too many to summarize here, and many so brief they only get a short paragraph, so let me pick out a few favorites. 

Midas you'll have heard of since he's famous.  His name has even crept into our current jargon.  If you don't immediately think of gold when you hear him mentioned, I bet you might think of a popular automotive jingle.  Midas might have had the ability to turn anything he touched into gold, but the joke was on him.  The gods can be so literal.  Either they're jokesters at heart or are simply not in the least practical.  When Midas asked to be able to turn whatever he touched into gold, he should have been a little more specific.  Everything he touched turned to gold, and the poor man (no pun intended) couldn't even pick up food to eat.  When dealing with the gods it's best to remain quiet and agree and not give them any wiggle room for creative interpretations to any requests.

My favorite of the lesser myths is that of Arachne.  The story is only told by Ovid and hence was written in Latin.  It didn't dawn on me at first that this is where Arachnid (Arachnida) must have come from.  Arachne was a fine weaver, but no matter how good she never should have called her work better than that of Minerva's (Athena).  Do mortals never learn not to mess with the gods?  Even if Arachne's work was finer, Minerva would never thank her for pointing it out.  The two had a contest.  Arachne finished her work at the same time as Minerva and her work was equally as good and she didn't fail to point this out.  In her fury Minerva slit the web (weaving) from top to bottom and then smacked her with her shuttle (yes, really, that's what Hamilton says--smacked her).  Arachne was not only mortified and disgraced but also furious.  She hanged herself, which caused Minerva to feel a little remorse.  She removed Arachne's body from the noose, sprinkled it with a magic liquid and turned her into a spider.  So in the end Arachne kept her great skill in weaving.  I really liked this one--it has an air of Roger Deakin about it, too. 

Another case of the gods taking requests literally.  In the story of Aurora (goddess of the Dawn) and Tithonus, Aurora asks Zeus to make Tithonus immortal. He agrees but since she didn't also specify that he should remain young, Tithonus continues to age but will never die.  He becomes a dry husk of a man, and eventually Aurora puts him out of his misery by turning him into a (noisy) grasshopper.

I've always liked stories of people who are turned into trees (either willingly or not) like Daphne.  Dryope made the mistake of picking blossoms floating near a tree from a pool to "please her baby".  She's terrified when she discovers the stems are dripping blood.  As it turns out the tree was actually a nymph who had been fleeing from a pursuer and had taken refuge in the form of a tree.  An outcome that now will be shared by Dryope however unintentional her own flower picking was.  She had only enough time to tell her husband to warn their son "never to pluck flowers, and to think every bush may be a goddess in disguise." 

**********

I was ill-prepared when I read A.S. Byatt's retelling of the Norse myth Ragnarok.  It would have been really helpful to have read these short chapters by Edith Hamilton to at least get a little background.  It's interesting reading about Norse myths since they are so very different than Greek myths.  Although she really only give a very cursory nod to them, I liked being able to compare the two. 

First it's helpful to share a few names since knowing the cast of characters is always helpful.  Odin is the equivalent of Zeus, the "sky-father".  But the two couldn't be more unalike.  As a matter of fact Greek and Norse mythology are really quite different.  Odin resides in a golden palace called Gladsheim, or with the heroes in a place called Valhalla.  He's serious, solemn and aloof.  You'll not find him partaking of any ambrosia.  Balder is a name that will pop up right away.  He is the most beloved of all the gods and is joined by Thor, Freyr, Heimdall and Tyr in terms of importance.  And Loki.  He's not a god but he's going to stir up a lot of trouble.  He's a trickster and it's thanks to him that the events leading up to the end of the world (Ragnarok) were set in motion. 

Asgard is where the gods reside, and Midgard is where the first man and woman were created.  A wondrous tree known as Yggdrasil had roots both in Midgard and Asgard.  It supported the universe, and over it hung the threat of destruction.  The thing about Norse mythology is that it's really dark.  Both Yggdrasil and the gods were destined to die.  Therein lies one of the greatest differences between Greek and Norse mythology.

"No god of Greece could be heroic.  All Olympians were immortal and invincible.  They could never feel the glow of courage; they could never defy danger.  When they fought they were sure of victory and no hard could ever come near them."

Although the gods in Norse mythology know they are doomed to die, they will still enter the struggle between good and evil.  Despite the outcome gods and men will fight to the end as it is the glory of courage that matters.

"The only sustaining support possible for the human spirit, the one pure unsullied good men can hope to attain, is heroism; and heroism depends on lost causes.  The hero can prove what he is only by dying.  The power of good is shown not by triumphantly conquering evil, but by continuing to resist evil while facing certain defeat."

I find this fascinating and illuminating.  It's certainly a different way of thinking though not entirely foreign.  Hamilton touches only briefly on the history of this literature.  Much of it is based on the Elder Edda and the Younger Edda, though they had no Homer like the Greeks did to "work it over".

Of course this is all calls for much more exploration.  I can see now why Hamilton only tacked on such a short section for the Norse myths, but she raises more questions than answers them and ignites curiosity to learn more. 

My mythology reading is going to have to continue, but I plan on taking a breather for a while and will be embarking on a new long reading project soon (as soon as I have made a choice between the few books that I've narrowed the field down from). 

Ghost Story Sunday: Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad

When I discovered from Caroline that M.R. James's story "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad" was the basis (or the inspiration?) for Susan Hills's The Woman in Black, I knew I had to read it.  It seems the perfect story to round out my ghost story reading during RIP VII which is now quickly wrapping up.  I was hoping to read four novels, but I'll only manage three (and the third is still in progress), but I have read some really good ghost stories and have been listening to the wonderful Neil Gaiman read The Graveyard Book.  I'm nearing the end of it and am of course very curious to see how things turn out for the very likable young character Bod, who has been raised in a graveyard.  More about that one later.

This week's story is once again collected in James's Count Magnus and Other Ghost Stories (the first volume in a two volume collection).  It was written in 1903 and first read at a Christmas gathering at King's College in that year.  The title is from the first line of an untitled song (1793) by Robert Burns.  According to the notes from the story it is one of his most distinctive 'ghost' stories, "which may have derived from a dream".  I think it's my favorite so far by him.  The thing with James's stories--they are much more about atmosphere than actual chills, since by contemporary standards they are very tame stories.  Still, they're perfect fall, and especially October/Halloween reading.  (A few possible spoilers may follow). 

I wonder if all of James's stories feature professors?  This one is no exception.  It's certainly obvious that a scholar wrote the story since there are notes at the end to explain literary, geographical and  historical references (much appreciated by me by the way).  As in last week's story a narrator gives a sort of prologue or introduction before the action of the story and then will occasionally drop in a comment or two during the narrative.  I'm guessing this is James himself.  Professor Parkins is preparing for his holiday to Burnstow on the East Coast.  It's ostensibly a golf vacation, but he also hopes to get a bit of work done.  In chatting with one of his colleagues who Parkins is trying to discourage from coming along, the colleague teases him with:

"It's all right.  I promise not to interrupt your work; don't you disturb yourself about that.  No, I won't come if you don't want me; but I thought I should do so nicely to to keep the ghosts off."

No truer words were ever spoken considering what happens to Parkins on his holiday.  The narrator sets the tone and gives the first impression of Parkins, who he calls "something of an old woman--rather henlike, perhaps, in his little ways . . ."  A bachelor academic who spends his days 'improving his game' in the company of a fellow guest at the Globe Inn, he decides to check out the ruins of a church belonging to the Knights Templar.  Looking for evidence of masonry he's scraping around a mound of earth and digs up a cylindrical object about four inches long, which he drops in his pocket determined to return the next day and see if he can find any other objects of archaeological interest.  The light begins to fade and as he starts back for the inn he notices someone following him.

"He quickly rattled and clashed through the shingle and gained the sand, upon which, but for the groynes which had to be got over every few yards, the going was both good and quiet.  One last look behind, to measure the distance he had made since leaving the ruined Templars' church, showed him a prospect of company on his walk, in the shape of a rather indistinct personage, who seemed to ba making great efforts to catch up to him, but made little, if any, progress."

Upon closer scrutiny of the little tube he decides it looks very much like a dog whistle, but this one has markings on the side which when cleaned off reveals an inscription, "who is this who is coming?".  Parkins makes the mistake of blowing into it.  I won't give away the ending, but will remind you of the indistinct personage who had been following him on the beach.

The story has been adapted twice to film, in 1968 and 2010, neither of which is available here in the US sadly.  I'll have to keep M.R. James in mind at Christmastime for another story, since he seems a reliably good teller of entertaining tales.

Lost in the Stacks: The Voyage Home

I go in phases with my reading.  Sometimes what appeals most is dependent on my mood, sometimes (strange as this might sound) it's dependent on the season or the weather, sometimes it's reading challenges and sometimes library due dates affect my reading pattern.  I'll go for long stretches wanting a certain sort of book to the exclusion of all others until I feel satiated and am ready to move on to something else (or am urged along by something new).  But it's all pretty cyclical.  I'll eventually return to a favorite theme, genre or sort of book. 

Lately I crave lots of mysteries, the cozier the better (the cold weather?).  I'm not sure how many mysteries I have started or have in progress (am up to four perhaps? and eyeing others...).  It's not impossible to find good mysteries in my library's stacks (maybe a little challenge for myself to find one for next week), but I came across an author I have wanted to read (and even own) who reflects, too, another desire of late.  A certain sort of story, and if I say the sort of story that Persephone Books or Virago would publish, I bet you'll easily be able to envision the type of book I am thinking of I suspect.  I am sure that very soon I am going to be raiding my bookshelves for just such a book.

In the meantime, have you heard of Storm Jameson?  I am sure a fair few of you will have not only heard of her but read her, too.  She is a Virago Modern Classics author.  I have her Women Against Men, which contains three short novels.  I'll get back to that, but let me share one of her books that caught my eye as I was browsing the stacks.  The Voyage Home is actually the second book in a trilogy.  It's a pity we don't have the first book, since the story sounds right up my alley: "The towering saga of an English family at the dawning of a new century. This story is a spiritual voyage about finding a balance between career and family."  The trilogy is made up of The Lovely Ship, The Voyage Home and A Richer Dust.

Jameson was a hugely prolific writer.  Her first novel was published in 1919 and she was writing well into the late 1970s.  It's not surprising that this trilogy is about a shipbuilding family as Jameson was born in Whitby and grew up in North Riding of Yorkshire.  Whitby was formerly a shipbuilding and whaling town but at the time Jameson lived there it still had a harbor and her father was a seaman.  The books are in particular about one woman, Mary Hervey.  The Lovely Ship follows Mary's life through her youth, marriage and family.  The Voyage Home picks up when she is more mature and taking stock of her life.  The review of The Voyage Home that appeared in the New York Times on January 19, 1930 is very favorable.      

"In Mary Hervey, Storm Jameson has created a fine and recognizable character.  There are a depth and insight in her writing which evoke--in Henry James's hackneyed but valuable distinction--the emotion of recognition.  She penetrates the obscure corners of human will and motive, and she presents her conclusions in phrases which make even the most familiar objects more real and significant."

The reviewer noted that she hoped the trilogy would at some point appear in a single volume as "Mary Hervey's life richly deserves a more unified presentation", but from what I can tell the books unfortunately never did get published in one volume.  I think I have just (inadvertently) talked myself into finding and ordering the first book of this trilogy, so I can start at the beginning.

In the meantime I have a Virago edition of Jameson's 1933 novel Women Against Men, which is made up of Delicate Monster, The Single Heart and A Day Off. 

". . . these three novels explore the love that women bear men, powerfully illustrating that this love can become a weapon women use, sometimes against others, but most often against themselves."

It appears that the three stories are related only in theme but not characters, each telling a slightly different sort of story.  Jameson seems to take as her subject strong women, and as Virago thought highly enough of her to publish her works she's basically a shoo-in as a potential (and likely) read for me.  On an entirely different and shallow note, I love the illustration for the Virago edition.  It is a painting by one of my favorite artists, Edward Hopper called "Tables for Ladies", painted in 1930 and is located in NYC's MoMA. 

October (and RIP reading) is quickly nearing the end.  November will be taken up with books translated from German.  Maybe I should make December my own personal Virago/Persephone reading month.  Hmm.  Something to contemplate. 

The Progress of Love: Miles City, Montana

The thing about short stories is you never know quite what you're getting.  Like a box of chocolates that has no description of the contents, you just have to try your luck.  It always takes a few paragraphs, sometimes even a few pages to orient myself and figure out what's happening and why.  Sometimes the why takes longer and a little effort, but with Alice Munro, it's always worth it.  How's this for an opening for her story "Miles City, Montana" in The Progress of Love:

"My father came across the field carrying the body of the boy who had been drowned.  There were several men together, returning from the search, but he was the one carrying the body.  The men were muddy and exhausted, and walked with their heads down, as if they were ashamed.  Even the dogs were dispirited, dripping from the cold river.  When they all set out, hours before, the dogs were nervy and yelping, the men tense and determined, and there was a constrained, unspeakable excitement about the whole scene.  It was understood that they might find something horrible."

Don't you want to keep reading?  I did.  Who's the boy?  What happened to him?  And who is telling the story?  Initially you don't know who the narrator is--a child perhaps?  Boy or girl?  I thought a boy, but over the course of a few pages the reader learns the story is narrated by a woman telling the story from the vantage point of adulthood.  Munro seems to like this layered sort of storytelling.  The action takes place over the course of time, often moving around in time, but usually it's a matter of someone looking back at events that shaped their life or an event in the past that throws light on some other big event in their more recent history.  (Possible spoilers coming).  

The latter is the case here.  This death of a small boy opens the story.  The drowned boy has no mother or even any other woman in his life "to receive Steve Gauley and give him his due of grief".  Only a father who is a hired man, a drinker but not a drunk.

"His fatherhood seemed accidental, and the fact that the child had been left with him when the mother went away, and that they continued living together, seemed accidental."

But for all his faults, the narrator doesn't hold him in contempt, unlike the other adults attending the funeral.

"I felt a furious and sickening disgust.  Children sometimes have an access of disgust concerning adults.  The size, the lumpy shapes, the bloated power.  The breath, the coarseness, the hairiness, the horrid secretions.  But this was more.  And the accompanying anger had nothing sharp and self-respecting about it."

Flash forward twenty years or so and the reader finally discovers that the narrator is a woman, now a mother herself.  She and her husband are traveling cross country from Vancouver by way of the US to Ontario to visit their parents. 

"What we are doing this for, I thought, and the answer came--to show off.  To give Andrew's mother and my father the pleasure of seeing their grandchildren.  That was our duty.  But beyond that we wanted to show them something.  What strenuous children we were, Andrew and I, what relentless seekers of approbation."

It's summer, and it's hot.  Their daughters sit in the backseat watching the cities and states go by.  They want a beach, somewhere cool or somewhere to cool off.  Maybe the next city will have a pool and they can stop for a dip.  And by chance they do find one, but it's closed for lunch and the family can't wait.  They talk the lifeguard into letting the girls take a quick swim and then they'll be on their way.  And as the mother walks away to find a cool drink, leaving the girls in the care of the lifeguard who watches over them while she eats her lunch, she has an overwhelming feeling of fear.

"Where are the children?"

It takes only a moment.  One glance away.  A kiss bestowed by a boyfriend.  An older sister turned away watching the pair in fascination.  And the younger sister sees something at the bottom of the pool she wants.  But she doesn't realize just how deep the water is and plunges in head first.  Pure terror for the parents.     

The story finally wraps around, and the reader discovers just why the narrator brought up the death of the little boy she knew so many years ago in childhood.  It's not just the death, and the circumstances and the fear of it all being repeated, but the understanding--now as an adult herself--of what the adults experienced.  She now sees it all from the other angle.

"When I stood apart from my parents at Steve Gauley's funeral and watched them, and had this new, unpleasant feeling about them, I thought that I was understanding something about them for the first time.  It was a deadly serious thing.  I was understanding they were implicated.  Their big, stiff, dressed-up bodies did not stand between me and sudden death, or any kind of death.  They gave consent.  So it seemed. They gave consent to the death of children and to my death not by anything they said or thought but by the very fact that they had made children--they had made me.  They had made me, and for that reason my death--however grieved they were, however they carried on--would seem to them anything but impossible or unnatural.  This was a fact, and even then I knew they were not to blame."

This is a story, to take it directly from the narrative--of trust and forgiveness--a lesson that can only be learned through time and experience.

Alice Munro is brilliant.  Have I already said that?  I'm joining Buried in Print's ongoing reading project as she works her way through all of Alice Munro's story collections in the order they were published.  I only wish I had joined in at the start.  Next week's story is "Fits".  Do you think it's weird to read two books by one author concurrently?  I am itching to go back and read Munro's first story collection, Dance of the Happy Shades.  I've always been too greedy when it comes to books and stories, but when I read Alice Munro I really can't help myself.

Ashcombe by Cecil Beaton

Cecil Beaton's Ashcombe: The Story of a Fifteen-Year Lease is a memoir that's both charming in the telling and the presentation.  It's a pity that it is not only out of print but used copies are selling at far beyond what my budget allows, as this is a book I would happily keep in my own collection.  If you google Cecil Beaton and look at the images attached to his name you can see some of the gorgeous portraits he took over the course of his long career.  In his entry in the wikipedia he's listed as not only a photographer, designer and writer but also as a socialite.  After reading Ashcombe it's a label that fits him perfectly.  

Ashcombe is a rather idiosyncratic memoir covering the fifteen years he leased Ashcombe House, an 18th century property in Wiltshire that he fell in love with when he first saw it in 1930.  He literally called it love at first sight, and it was to become his refuge.  It was difficult to get to and quite isolated, it required much attention and renovation but house and tenant could hardly have suited each other better.

"No one can have been more house-proud than I, when first I took possession of Ashcombe.  I firmly believed that nobody possessed a more beautiful home, such magnificent furniture and decorations or such wonderful food, that no one gave such entertainment or boasted such delightful company."

Cecil Beaton was only twenty-one when he took over Ashcombe and along with the help of his good friend writer Edith Olivier (who was also instrumental in helping Beaton find and lease the property) he turned it into an amazing country home with elegant gardens that was a draw for artists, writers and poets, an endless string of Beaton's friends.  The world he inhabited in 1930 was so drastically different than what the world became so many years later when he wrote this memoir. 

"So utterly has the world changed since that summer day, nearly twenty years ago, when I stood for the first time under the brick archway at Ashcombe, and surveyed my future home, that ways of living and of entertaining which then seemed natural today seem almost eccentric.

Ashcombe is a snapshot of a vanished era--the sort of memoir I so thoroughly enjoy and the sort I find myself drawn to quite often lately.  The life Beaton led there was idyllic and it suited his artistic sensibilities.  He turned a dilapidated structure into a showhouse, however eccentric it might seem now with its Cinderella-like, Baroque interior design.  Despite its isolation it was ideally situated and just waiting for the love and care Beaton lavished on it.

"The warm-coloured brick and silver stone-work had a perfect background in the sombre green of the ilex trees.  From the summit of the downs, the house seemed  to be buried among the trees, but when one looked from its windows into the valley below one realised that it was perched at least six hundred feet above the sea."

It's not just the physical improvements that Beaton made upon the property that made it so unique.  He breathed new life into it with his parties and gatherings.  He was indeed a socialite, and visiting Ashcombe House must have been a unique experience.

"For many years Ashcombe was used as a setting for non-stop Saturday-to-Monday parties.  Each Friday the lawn-mowers provided accompaniment to the preparations inside the house for the ensuing festivities.  Hampers were collected from nearby stations, the latest books and American magazines were littered about for slight perusal.  The floral arrangements were a major item in the curriculum and took several hours to erect."

Much thought and attention went into everything about this house, and lovingly so.  The nearby town became so used to partygoers passing through on their way to Ashcombe that guests didn't even need to ask directions--one glance from villagers could tell where the carload of people were heading and directions were willingly given.  Ascombe was even a bit scandalous as guests fresh back from Venice or the South of France would sunbathe in bathing suits or trunks--unheard of at that time--giving rise to gossip that it was a nudist colony.  Not all the activities at Ashcombe were so eye-raising, however.  There were even amateur theatricals given, and given the fact that Beaton was a designer and his guests were often artists must have been quite an impressive accomplishment.

Beaton didn't spend the entire year at Ashcombe.  He spent the winter months in America, and often went to France, Italy, Austria or Hungary in August and September.  He was working actively as a photographer at the time and spent much time away on assignments or marketing his work.  He would return to Ashcombe exhausted, but the seclusion and beauty of the place was always just what he needed to restore his equilibrium and replenish his energy.

As the years passed and the world marched steadily towards war, life at Ashcombe and the surrounding village changed with the times, too.  While the greater part of the book is taken up with happier scenes Beaton writes also of the children who were evacuated to the countryside, of the friends who went to war, and of those who didn't return and of his own war work with the Air Ministry.  While the overall tone of the memoir is quite breezy and gossipy, it is also imbued with moments of sadness, particularly as the years of his lease neared the end and it was not renewed for a third time.  This is a lovely book and just a touch bittersweet.  It's really a love letter of sorts to a very special place that obviously held much meaning in Beaton's life. 

If you ever happen across this, do snap it up or borrow it from the library.  Ashcombe was recommended by a reader in an online reading group I belong to, and it turned out to be another little gem of the book (wonderfully illustrated as you can see).  Simon at Stuck in a Book wrote about it first last February and just recently the book came up in a discussion once again--prompting me to look for a copy.  For me it was another bit of social history, very personal and intimate and particular to a time and place and a small group of people.  It was unplanned but it complemented nicely Agnes Jekyll's A Little Dinner Before the Play, so a nice companion read.  Must search more of these types of books out.  Do let me know if you've read any memoirs of a similar sort as I am keen to read more.

Mythology: The Royal House of Athens

Some interesting insight as I get to the end of my Greek mythology reading.

"Greek mythology was full of stories such as that of the rape of Europa, in which never a suggestion was allowed that the deity in question had acted somewhat less than divinely.  In his version of the story of Creüsa Euripides said to his audience, 'Look at your Apollo, the sun-bright Lord of the Lyre, the pure God of Truth.  This is what he did.  He brutally forced a helpless young girl and then he abandoned her."  The end of Greek mythology was at hand when such plays drew full houses in Athens."

I guess the gods were becoming a little tarnished and awe of them was weakening.  I really am nearing the end of my reading.  In this week's chapter, The Royal House of Athens, there is still the usual violence and drama (not quite so brilliant as the previous few myths), but the stories seem to be losing some of their sting.  Or, as Edith Hamilton says, "The old stories had begun by then (the last part of the 5th century that is) to lose their hold on men's minds."

This chapter is broken into short sections concerning several women in one family: Procne and Philomela and their nieces Procris, Orithyia and Creüsa.  Unfortunate women all.  Procne was married to Tereus who proved to be a liar and cheater.  He allowed Procne to incvite her sister Philomela to visit them.  When he went to bring her to their home he fell for the beautiful Philomela, told her Procne had died and then forced her to marry him.  When she discovered the truth of the matter, that her sister was alive and well, she castigated and threatened him.  In reply he cut out her tongue and had her hidden away.  He then told his with that Philomela died on the journey.

Things were looking pretty dire for Philomela who could not write and now could not speak, but she had her revenge.  She created a beautiful tapestry revealing what had happened to her.  When Procne saw it she knew immediately what had happened.  In her rage she killed her child who looked so like his father, cooked him up in a hearty stew and served him to his father.  When he finished his meal she told him what she had done.  Just before he moved to kill her, the gods turned them all into birds.  Procne became a nightingale, Philomela a swallow, and Tereus an "ugly bird with a huge beak".  Modern day dysfunctional families have nothing on the Greeks.

Now Procris was happily married to Cephalus when the goddess of the Dawn, Aurora, carried him off.  Cephalus wasn't much fun for Aurora as he was still in love with his wife, so much so that she finally told him to go back to her.  But first she planted in his mind the seed of uncertainty.  Was Procris faithful to him while he was away?  He of little faith.  He returned to his wife in disguise to see if he could catch her up.  She would not succumb to this stranger's amorous advances and was angered when she discovered it was Cephalus all along.  It took her some time to forgive him.  Wouldn't this make for a great romantic movie?  It's got all the right elements.  Just when the pair made it all up, however, Cephalus managed to murder his wife while out hunting.

Orithyia's story is the tamest of the group, and hers might even have what could conceivably be considered a happy-ish ending.  The North Wind, Boreas, fell in love with her, but the family wasn't about to give their consent.  After the bad luck Procne and Philomela had (Tereus being from the North, too), they didn't want to let another Northerner into their family.  You know what the North Wind is like (I know I do come the bitter month of January), he blew through and carried her away.  They had two sons who joined Jason in his Quest for the Golden Fleece.

Creüsa's story is not an unfamiliar one.  She was carried off by Apollo and taken to a dark cave against her will.  She was but a young girl, and despite his good looks and stature (he being a god), she wanted only to return to her mother.  When she bore a son she left him in the cave (because as she well knew no good end came to a single woman with a lover and a child--gods kidnapping unwilling girls being no excuse).  Many years later when she was married and unable to have a child she went to Delphi to ask for help.  The young man attending the temple  was oddly familiar.  He had been found wrapped in a veil and a maiden's cloak and left on the steps of the temple.  Only later did Apollo admit that he had looked after the boy.  What should have been a happy reunion, was for Creüsa, bittersweet--too little, too late it would seem.

Next up are the lesser myths and then tacked on to the end is a bit about Norse Mythology.  A mere fifty pages separates me from the end of Edith Hamilton's Mythology.  It's been a fun, sometimes even wild, ride.  I can see I will have to explore the work of Euripides, Aeschylus, Ovid and others now that I have the basics under my belt.  I may not get to them this year, but I am going to have to compile a list of 'must-reads' to expand upon what I've learned.

Ghost Story Sunday: Casting the Runes

I used to love watching episodes of Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone when I was young.  I had this idea not so long ago that I would watch them all from the beginning once again.  The show made it through four seasons in the early 1960s, and entertaining as it may have been when I was very young, it didn't quite hold up to the same scrutiny as viewed through the eyes of the adult I've become.  It's a bit unfair to be critical, but somehow the shows seemed awfully hokey, though the premises were good, and I am sure there are still many classics episodes that would be as enjoyable now as they were then. 

In one of the really early shows a character is haunted by the ghost of a man who appears in a painting.  Strangely the painting changes and becomes more eerie--with each new painting, the ghost comes closer, and Boo! he comes knocking on the door.  A true haunting, and no doubt when I was young it was probably pretty terrifying.  In M.R. James's "Casting the Runes", which is in Count Magnus and Other Ghost Stories, the first of two volumes of collected ghost stories by James, there is a similar thing going on here.  In the James story, however, it's what is on the page of a manuscript that is so terrifying, a page which you don't want to be in possession of if you care to live a long and healthy life. 

I've read M.R. James before--he seems to be the quintessential writer of ghost stories.  Although he lived a long life--died in the 1936 at the age of 73, I always think of him as being a Victorian writer.  Reading about him is fascinating.  M.R. (Montague Rhodes) James led an interesting life.  A lifelong bachelor, he was not only a distinguished scholar of medieval manuscripts and early Christianity, but he was a professor and administrator at Cambridge University and Eton College, and he also managed to write ghost stories in his spare time.  It's his ghost stories that he is known for today.  He was a busy man, and I loved this description,

"How exactly James found the time for all this work, let alone the writing of ghost stories, was a puzzle to friends and colleagues alike, especially when one considers James's other interests--his devotion to Dickens, P.G. Wodehouse, and Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories; his interest in card games and crossword puzzles; and of course, the abundant conviviality he showed to friends, students, and almost any others who came within his horizon."

He also traveled widely, which served him well in his writings.  In 1892 he took his first bicycle tour of the Continent, and later he took at least one trip a year to France where he studied Medieval cathedrals, visiting nearly all those there were to see.

James would often read drafts of his stories to friends and collegians, usually at Christmastime.  Although his earliest couple of stories had been published in magazines, he probably wouldn't have considered publishing them in book format had not a friend wanted to do the illustrations for them.  It seems  as if James's work can be seen as a bridge between Gothic novelists of the 18th and 19th centuries to a more modern tradition of ghost stories.  Writers of Gothic novels liked to set their tales firmly in the Medieval period, but James wrote about more contemporary subjects.  James used an "antiquarian background" (or as the editor describes it--he wanted to create a "patina of verisimilitude"--I love the way that sounds) in his tales.  His stories usually are set in a small village or seaside town, or an abbey or university, involve a gentleman scholar (no doubt his stories were somewhat autobiographical) and there is usually a discovery of an antique book or artifact that is in some way supernatural or menacing.

Books play a role in "Casting the Runes", a story which is considered by many as one of his best.  This is a story of the supernatural rather than a ghostly haunting.  It's what happens when a man with wicked intentions uses a book, in this case an alchemical text, to destroy (or murder) his enemies.

". . . and now his book seemed to me to be a very sinister performance indeed.  One chapter in particular struck me, in which he spoke of 'casting runes' on people, either for the purpose of gaining either their affection or of getting them out of the way--perhaps more especially the latter. . . "

The book belongs to Mr. Karswell, who at the beginning of the story is the subject of a series of letters between members of a scientific association who have declined to invite Karswell to read his paper to the group.  A similar affront years earlier resulted in the death of a man who reviewed Karswell's book to poor notice.  It's Mr. Edward Dunning who nixed the idea of Karswell coming to read his paper calling it "perfectly hopeless."  Karswell is a man easily angered and vengeful, too.

Strange things begin happening to Dunning.  He sees graffiti-like inscriptions referencing John Harrington, the author who reviewed Karswell's book, who died under unusual circumstances.  One day in the library of the British Museum a man hands Dunning a paper which he believes Dunning dropped.  Dunning gratefully accepts it not realizing at first that it's Karswell who has given it to him--a paper that bodes ill for Dunning.  Upon talking to the brother of John Harrington and the realization that Karswell has put in motion his devious plan to murder Dunning as well, the men discover that three months to the day when Karswell hands the men this paper, something terrible will befall them.

Just like the painting in the Twilight Zone episode with the premonition of what's to come, so too the paper in the men's possession gives warning of what's to come.

"One was a woodcut of Bewick's, roughly torn out of the page: one which shows a moonlit road and a man walking along it, followed by an awful demon creature.  Under it were written the lines of the 'Ancient Mariner' (which I suppose the cut illustrates) about one who, having once looked round--

'walks on,
And turns no more his head,
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.'"

The great thing about this story is it has a bit of a bite that you won't expect.  Dunning with the aid of John Harrington's brother turn the tables on Karswell. As with the previous stories by James that I've read this one was wonderfully atmospheric and nicely crafted, but it has the added pleasure of being suspenseful as well.  It has all the makings of a good movie, and it has indeed been adapted to the big screen as Night of the Demon.  Ever since I first bought this set of James's stories I've wanted to read through them all.  One more weekend to go, and I might just pick out another of James's stories to finish off this year's RIP reading season. 

Pretty in Pink (stitches that is . . .)

It's been a while since you've seen this, hasn't it?  I'm almost finished with my "Pink Hill Manor", and I am itching to put in those last stitches so I can move on to something new.  My task is made easier since I am having internet connectivity issues at the moment.  As the slowness is frustrating me, I am only too happy to turn off the computer and work on this instead. 

So my planned Lost in the Stacks post is getting bumped to next week.  I even have a book all picked out and sitting next to the computer, but as I have frittered away so much time unplugging it and restarting everything (to little avail), I've lost all desire to write about it tonight.  Better to pop in another few episodes of The Big Bang Theory (I'm watching season three right now and it is hilarious) and relax instead.

I'm not sure if I ever shared this design here or not.  It's by Lizzie Kate.  I started stitching it a while ago and am almost finished with this one as well.  Just a little backstitching and a few more motifs to finish.  I want to finish this as a pincushion (like this one).

Have I mentioned lately how much I miss stitching?  I can't seem to get the energy to stitch on the weekends these days, and it goes without saying I never seem to have enough time to accomplish all the things I want to when I do have free time (but I know I'm not alone with this problem!).

Of course lack of enough free time doesn't stop me thinking about what I might stitch next (much like looking ahead in my reading).  These samplers are by Prairie Schooler and are from their "Country Seasons" chart.  I think I'd stitch the "Autumn Sampler" if I can pick one soon.

Or maybe something quick like this little sheep from Shepherds Bush called "Queen Bee".  They have a whole series of sheep designs, and I've been trying to stitch them all.  I'm not sure how I'll finish them all--little pillows maybe to fill a basket?  Anyway, I think I'm ready to add a new sheep to my collection.

But, first things first.  I'm not allowing myself a new project until I finish one first!  Aside from stitching I have lots of reading planned this weekend, too.  I have my ghost story all picked out and bookmarked for this Sunday (something Victorian . . .).  I've got my Greek Myth sitting at the ready, and have a stack of books I plan on continuing.  It's been cold, wet and dreary here, so it's perfect weather to stay indoors with a cup of hot chocolate and a book or needlework in hand.

Have a great weekend everyone!