A Work in Progress

Parnassus on Wheels, Christopher Morley

Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley is just as charming and delightful as I was expecting it to be.  Definitely one of those why did I wait so long to read books!  I absolutely adore Helen McGill and she elicited more than one chuckle and the odd guffaw out of me.  If I had a brother like her, though, I think I would have 'run away' a little sooner.  Then again, in his way he does save the day, so I guess he redeems himself in the end.  Actually I quite admire Helen and think she's a woman of much wisdom, a lot of practicality and just enough desire for romance in her life (but not exactly actively pursuing it, if you know what I mean) to make her story rather enviable.  At almost forty, and maybe a little frumpy, she makes me feel as though maybe there's hope for me yet.  I just might find a little adventure and romance in my own life, but if all else fails I have books like Parnassus to entertain me. 

In case you're not familiar with this lovely novella, Parnassus is a travelling bookshop in the form of a caravan that is pulled by a horse named Peg and accompanied by a dog called Bock.  It's owner is a spry little gentleman, a contemporary in age, who Helen refers to as the Professor.  He's been the sole proprietor of Parnassus for years.  He travels up and down the east coast with his supply of books proselytizing the joys of reading.  But he's getting a little tired of the wandering life and wants to settle back in his native Brooklyn to write his memoirs.  His idea is to sell Parnassus to someone he knows appreciates literature--Andrew McGill, Helen's brother, is a literary man.  He's a successful writer but is known to take off at a moment's notice in search of a story or following an inspiration.

When Helen hears of the Professor's plan to offer Parnassus up for sale to Andrew, she decides to intervene and buy it herself, loathe is she to let him go off once again while she stays at home taking care of their farm.

" . . . all the time I was counting eggs and turning out three meals a day, and running the farm when Andrew got a literary fit and would go off on some vagabond jaunt to collect adventures for a new book."

"I made up my mind to give Andrew some of his own medicine.  And that's my story."

Helen estimates that over the course of fifteen years she's baked more than 400 loaves of bread a year which comes out to more than 6,000 loaves total.  And then there are the meals she's cooked and all the eggs she's collected and sold (giving her a reasonably comfortable nest egg, which she dips into to buy Parnassus) and the care and support she's given her brother.  She leaves Andrew a note, packs her bag and sets off with the Professor.  She'll give him a ride to a train depot and he'll give her a little hands on training on how to sell books as they go.  Yes, indeed, Helen deserves a vacation! 

What follows are all sorts of adventures and misadventures with Andrew hot on their heels.  He thinks Helen has been hoodwinked, and she fears he'll spoil her fun and then take Parnassus for his own.  The Professor is well known and well respected and a talented and enthusiastic bookseller.  His yearly stops at familiar farms and businesses are looked forward to and he's invited in to share meals and partake of free board in exchange for his literary expertise of matching reader with book.  Helen watches with admiration and picks up his skills, but knows she is in his shadow and as long as he travels with her, she'll never feel quite so comfortable in the job until he is on his way back home to Brooklyn. 

It's 1907 and not many women travel on their own in the way Helen plans.  While she's entirely competent in taking care of herself, it's just not quite the same traveling on her own.  Both animals obviously miss the professor and even Helen finds over the course of their short acquaintance he's grown on her.  All of a sudden this solitary life of bookselling is not quite as appealing.  And then there is the matter of the strange footprints she finds outside the caravan one morning and a lost horseshoe that pains Peg . . .  Helen is a practical woman but maybe, too, just a little soft-hearted as well. 

This is a story made for bibliophiles and surely written by a bibliophile.  Christopher Morley knows what we're thinking, just how make his reader mentally nod their head in agreement, turn down pages and make notations in the margins.

"'Lord!' he said, 'when you sell a man a book you don't sell him just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue--you sell hm a whole new life.  Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night--there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book I mean."

* * * * *

"A good book ought to have something simple about it.  And, like Eve, it ought to come from somewhere near the third rib: there ought to be a heart beating in it."

* * * * *

"When you see the marvellous insight into human nature which a truly great book shows, it is bound to make you feel small . . ."

* * * * *

" . . . all the great things in life are done by discontented people."

Hear, hear!  The last is something the Professor had written in his journal, and considering my own discontent in life of late, it makes me somehow feel better about it all.  See, isn't this a wonderful little book.  It's just the sort you press into a friend's hands.  So, I am 'virtually' pressing it into yours.  You can read it for free via Project Gutenberg.  Helen's adventures continue in The Haunted Bookshop, which I have at the ready and will be starting to read later this week.  I suspect it is going to be a treat of a book, just like Parnassus on Wheels was!

Ghost Story Sunday: Two of the Uncanny

In a very round about way I have Caroline to thank for this week's ghost stories, or better to call them stories of the uncanny since that is the theme of the collection I found at my library that I read from this weekend.  I had a feeling it would be a good choice as it contains Truman Capote's story Miriam in it that I just recently mentioned.  Caroline suggested giving Poppy Z. Brite a try, and while my library doesn't have any of her collections on hand, there was an anthology that contains her story "The Devil and Delery Street" which appears in McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories edited by Michael Chabon.  I already have next week's selection picked out it would seem.  For this week, however, I read two stories from Night Shadows: Twentieth-Century Stories of the Uncanny edited and introduced by Joan Kessler.  These two books as well as one other happened to be sitting close to each other on the shelves so I did a little browsing and found a few new anthologies to explore. 

So now a little something different than the last few weeks of stories.  These two stories are not your traditional ghost stories, nothing to go bump in the night.  From the introduction:

"Rather, their settings are the familiar scenes of modern, everyday life, and their characters are ordinary, twentieth-century people.  As one might expect, these stories are more disquieting, their horrors sharper-edged, for their down-to-earth realism and verisimilitude.  What their protagonists have in common, regardless of age, profession or social status, is that at a certain point in their lives, by imperceptible degrees or with disarming suddenness, reality turns strange, the unthinkable becomes actual, and uncertainty and fear become their constant companions."

I read two stories this weekend and both were studies in subtlety.  Neither was scary in the way we think of ghost stories or horror stories being scary, but they both had that little something to make them unsettling. 

I'm a great fan of L.P. Hartley's The Go Between, so when I saw he had a story called "W.S." in the collection I was intrigued.  Then when I saw that the story had to do with a succession of mysterious postcards with postmarks coming closer and closer with each card, I was sold.  The first postcard came from Forfar and on it was written: "I thought you might like a picture of Forfar.  You have always been so interested in Scotland, and that is the reason why I am interested in you.  I have enjoyed all your books, but do you really get to grips with people? I doubt it.  Try and think of this as a handshake from your devoted admirer, W.S.".

Curiously the recipient of the card is called Walter Streeter, a novelist, who on receiving the first few cards thinks nothing of it.  It's not at all unusual to get an anonymous card or letter in the mail when you have published books.  W.S.?  But the two share the same initials.  Is Walter going mad?  Surely he's not sending them to himself.  The handwriting is so very ordinary.  When he shows the cards to a friend, the friend is sure the sender is a woman.  And the woman's a lunatic.  A bit unfair, that, I'd say.  The cards keep coming.  And they are being posted from ever closer mailboxes.  One of the closer/later card reads in part: "I have been rereading your novels, living in them, I might say.  Another hard handshake."

To tell you more would be to spoil it and I hate to spoil a good story.  This is the sort that gnaws at you after the fact.  It's the sort that isn't so troubling on reading it, but later in the dark of night when you think about it and just who the sender turns out to be . . . very creepy.

Apparently Ray Bradbury not only wrote often from the point of view of the child, but his stories often center on death.  "The Screaming Woman" has not only a young girl as the storyteller, but ten-year-old Margaret is hearing screams of a woman she is sure is buried in her back yard.  Screams that only children can hear and that seem to get less frequent and quieter and quieter as the hours pass by.  Is it just because children are so naive, or that they are so pure compared to adults--like slates that are more blank than written on, so that they are almost like conductors of energy between this world and some other.  Adults are so jaded they simply refuse to believe anything they can't see before their eyes.

Margaret is sure she hears a woman buried alive.  She cannot convince her parents--or even get them to listen to her strangely fantastic tale.  She enlists the help of a friend, but then they are caught digging they are made to fill the hole back in.  Finally Margaret tries to do her own to discover just who is buried, even if she doesn't understand the why.  I love Ray Bradbury and while this is not my most favorite of his stories, it was nicely done (nicely in the 'impressed by' sense).  It's told almost entirely in dialogue and he gets the 'voices' just right with a good twist at the end.  Are you wondering if the woman was real or not, or just a figment of an overactive child's mind?  You'll have to read the story to find out.

* * * * *

I loved this week's New Yorker short story (September 15 issue).  It is a perfect slice of life and a study all its own in subtlety.  I had never heard of Irish writer Danielle McLaughlin before, but she is only now just working on her first book of short stories to be published in Ireland in 2015.  In "The Dinosaurs on Other Planets"McLaughlin drops the reader into the lives of one family as they gather unexpectedly together.  It seems unfair to call them dysfunctional, though they all have their problems and limitations.  A daughter calls from London telling her parents she is coming to them.  Home is rural Ireland, a house in what appears to be national parkland.  Unknown to the daughter her parents have stopped sleeping in the same bedroom.  And unexpectedly for the parents, the daughter brings not only her young son (that was actually to be expected) but also a lover who was never announced as a boyfriend.  Of course there is a clash of personalities, things are said and hinted at, nothing is really resolved but at the same time so much is said and understood.  I was hugely impressed by this one.  I wish she had written more, but I will have to wait patiently for her first story collection, I guess. 

You can read her Q&A here, where she says she is still relatively new to short story writing and has a lot of reading of short stories (by masters like William Trevor, Alice Munro, etc.) to do.  You'd never tell by the sophistication of this story.

Fallen Women by Sandra Dallas

Do you ever feel a sense of righteous indignation when a character in a story you are sympathetic towards is mistreated or comes up against a situation that is grossly unfair?  I must admit that quite often I tend to get wrapped up in a character's life so immersed in a story I become.  I know they aren't real even if the situations they find themselves in might mirror reality. 

In this case I'm thinking of Beret Osmundsen in Fallen Women by Sandra Dallas.  The story takes place in Denver, Colorado during the Gilded Age of the late 1800s.  Typically to me 'Gilded Age' evokes stories by Edith Wharton set in monied New York or anywhere really, where High Society women wear elegant clothes, sit in well-appointed drawing rooms sipping tea from china cups so thin you can see through them as they gossip about their contemporaries.  In this case, however, it's rough-hewn Denver we're talking about with muddy streets strewn with garbage, and omnibuses filled with workmen dressed in dirty clothes who don't give up their seats for a lady and then spit tobacco onto the floor without the least hesitation that it might soil a silk skirt.  Setting aside, and Denver would have been pretty rough and tumble at the time, High Society would still have existed no matter how far west the drawing room happened to be.

The scene I'm thinking of, and one that comes near the end of the story--hence is so fresh in my mind, is when Beret arrives at the police station (without giving anything away) only to be accosted by a group of journalists.  Keep in mind that the press at this time would have been quite sensational, 'muckrakers' is that what the worst of them would have been called?  Without any sense of propriety that Beret is a lady of a good family, some wealth and quite dignified, they get in her face demanding answers to a crime only recently 'solved' of which she has some knowledge.  They grasp her arms, they taunt her and no one comes to her rescue.  At least not at first.  And Beret is no empty-headed Society girl.  What recourse does she have?  And fitting to the time we're talking about, she simply tries to hold up her head and stare them down, but cannot or will not defend herself.

Beret is only lately come to Denver from her home in New  York City.  The daughter of Norwegian immigrants who began their own lives in the tenements but raised themselves out of poverty and then died far too young.  Beret was left with a generous inheritance, an attractive but philandering husband and a much younger sister who she then raised.  Beret is plain where her sister Lillie is beautiful.  And she's serious and works in a mission in order to help those needy where Lillie is shrewd and a little wanton.  Maybe not even a little.  Wanton enough to cause a fracture between she and her sister so severe that she heads West to Denver where her aunt and uncle live. 

Imagine only finding out that this younger sister has been murdered through the pages of one of those disreputable newspapers.  And worse that this beautiful younger sister, for whom you feel responsible for--and feel as though you have let down--was found stabbed in a whorehouse.  Lillie is one of those 'fallen women' (aka 'soiled dove') of the title and Denver would have been replete with them.

Too late to save her, but not too late to try and find out who killed her, Beret travels to Denver to try and discover what happened to her younger sister.  Beret is no fool and is wise to the wicked ways of the world having met her share of the down-and-outs in her mission work, so her only thought is to take matters into her own hands.  Plain though she may be, she is still a lady and knows how to comport herself as one, yet she has little patience for Society games.  Her aunt and uncle move in the higher social circles of Denver's elite as they work towards getting him nominated to the Senate.  It's tricky business.  While they try and distance themselves from the dirty business of not just a niece who became a prostitute and then went and got herself murdered, Beret uses their social standing to finagle her way into the 'investigation' (such as it is).

Fallen Women is Sandra Dallas at her best, though I think she is always pretty good.  One of those 'reliably good' writers I am so fond of.  I went through a period (pre-blogging days) where I read all the books by her I could get my hands on, though it has been years since I picked up anything new.  Dallas is a Denver native and often sets her stories in Colorado or at least in the Midwest, so she seemed the perfect choice for mood reading as I got ready for my own travels out 'West'  (happily under far more propitious circumstances).  The reader is always aware of the setting, but it is not in any way overpowering.  And I love her books for that reason.  I don't mind the bit of romance, of which this also has.  I did figure out the mystery, but there is more to the story than just a twist at the end, if you know what I mean.  I have a feeling I will always think of this book fondly since I was reading it when I had the perfect backdrop (literally) for it!

All in all this was a wonderfully satisfying read and it reminds me why I binged on her years ago.  I had to scope out the books she has written in the interim and now have on my reading pile, Prayers for Sale, which is "a powerful novel about an unlikely friendship between two women and the secrets they've kept in order to survive life in a rugged Colorado mining town".  In terms of setting it sounds like it is an even better fit for the places I saw and the views I had outside my window.  I'm already looking forward to reading it.

Favorite Ghost Stories: A Thursday 13

You know how fond I am of a good ghost story, don't you?  As I work my way through my RIP books and select new stories to read each weekend as companions, I can never decide whether to stick to my tried and true favorites or hope that I will discover a new one to add to my list.  Ghost stories are very hit or miss, aren't they?  It's really hard to pull of a truly scary story, but I am most happy with a little suspense and lots of atmosphere, a good creepy feeling that comes with a story well done.  I like the kind that leave a little to the imagination, that you can curl up on the sofa with and have a cup of hot something in one hand and (my own favorite treat) a few graham crackers in the other!  So, here are my recommendations to you--ten stories (with the odd novella thrown in for good measure) and links back to my original posts so you can get a feel for what they are about (in no particular order):

1. The Turn of the Screw by Henry James -- a classic you may well have read and if not, it's online so give it a go!  Definitely a story to think about and open to a variety of interpretations.

2. The Lady's Maid's Bell by Edith Wharton -- not sure if I will ever understand just what happened in this one, but that's part of the fun of it really.

3. The Signalman by Charles Dickens -- beware of those train tunnels!  Deliciously creepy.  Dickens's stories are always delicious, aren't they?

4. Oh, Whistle and I'll Come to You, Lad by M. R. James -- you have to have at least one story by M.R. James in your repertoire and this one is an absolute classic.

5. The Playground by Ray Bradbury -- oh, you can't beat Bradbury for a good and thoughtfully creepy story.  Usually more than meets the eye with his work.

6. Don't Look Now by Daphne du Maurier -- she is such a wonderful short story writer, I like almost all the stories by her I've read (and I have read a fair few by her!).  This is my favorite amongst the lot.  The film adaptation is also excellent and actually pretty scary without an ounce of gore.  Also noteworthy are her stories The Blue Lenses and The Birds (which is nothing like the Hitchcock film).

7. The Tower by Marghanita Laski -- just mentioned this one last Sunday.  It's quite short but she manages to pack in the chills in a very few pages.  Check out her The Victorian Chaise Longue novella, too!

8. Miriam by Truman Capote -- who would have thought Capote could pull of such an amazingly creepy story?  He can!

9. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving -- another classic and understandably so.  Have you read this one?  You must!

10. The Woman in Black by Susan Hill -- you probably have read this one so know what I'm talking about.

11. Haunted and Where are You Going, Where Have You Been by Joyce Carol Oates -- there is no one quite like JCO.  She is wonderful, though I have to be in the right mood for her.  She knows just how to make you feel uncomfortable (in a good way, strangely).  And the hairs rise on the back of your neck.

12. Harry by Rosemary Timperley -- this one reminds me of Capote's "Miriam".  What is it about children in ghost stories?  Small children should not freak me out, but put them in a story like this and . . .

13. Three Miles Up by Elizabeth Jane Howard -- my most recent find and a new favorite.  A ghost story that's just a little bit different--one set on a riverboat traveling up a canal.  Spooky!

Have you got a favorite ghost story?  I am always up for a good one!  I hope to find a few more treasures this RIP season to add to my list.  I have read lots of good ghost stories and I even have a tag for them in case you want to mosey through my older posts.  It's almost time for a new one, so must begin leafing through my books again in search of something that will draw me in. 

A Monday Mishmash

I have a confession to make.  After trying to get my reading piles in order, I picked up a new book to read over the weekend.  But in my defense it is one of those 'fine print' books I mentioned since it is going to count towards my RIP reading.  Now ideally I would have finished one of my other RIP reads before starting it, but sometimes you just have to go with the moment.  Book in question?  Laurie King's fourth Mary Russell mystery, The Moor.  It's set in Dartmoor, the scene of one of Holmes's most celebrated cases.  This time, though, there is more than a phantom hound--the sighting of a "spectral coach carrying a long-dead noblewoman."  I have no idea what prompted me to go and pick it up, but I just had this overwhelming desire to read another Mary Russell book right now, and the setting and story was so perfect, I knew I had just the right excuse.

Not too many Sundays ago I decided that I was not in the mood for gritty crime stories, but I find I am still in the mood for a good cozy mystery, and my pile seems to be lacking in one so I think the Russell/Holmes mystery should do the trick. 

Judith at Reader in the Wilderness has announced she's organizing a Russian Literature Month in January, which is not so very far off if you think about it (but maybe best if we don't think about it too closely yet).  If I can organize myself I might raid my pile of unread novellas as I have quite a few by Russian authors and try and read along.

The Longlist for the Scotia Giller Prize has been announced.  I am always curious about these lists and check them out for potential new reads (because I am always on the lookout for something new and different--and you know I never have enough reading material on hand . . .).  I am most interested in reading the books by Frances Itani and David Bezmozgis.  More books to add to my wishlist.

Last Friday I saw a really interesting film.  I guess my tastes don't coincide with the tastes of the rest of the world.  As it is a new film and only just opened at the cinema, I thought I might  not get a seat.  Silly me, as I was the only one in the theater until midway through the previews when finally another lady came in.  The film is called Fifi Howls from Happiness and it is a biographical documentary of Iranian artist Bahman Mohasses who spent most of his life in exile.  He lived in relative seclusion in Italy until his death in 2010.  He had quite a presence in the film, incredibly irreverent.  I had not heard of him prior to seeing the movie, but maybe it is not so unusual since he destroyed quite a lot of his own work, which I find sort of surprising.  I guess he did his art as a means to an end--at least to some degree--it is how he lived.  I especially like his sculptures.  You can see the movie trailer here.

I am probably just about the only person in the world who is not on Facebook (and have no plans ever to do so), so I know I should probably not complain, but I really hate it when companies (publishers especially) have online giveaways or do promotions via FB.  I guess I should not be so greedy in any case, as it is not as though I have a shortage of reading material and (thank you public library!) I can pretty much access new books as long as I don't mind waiting my turn for them.  Still, I feel like sometimes the world revolves around social media and it annoys me.  Is that irrational?  Am I showing my age?

I've been very slowly finishing a couple of stitching projects.  The 'mystery' project that I had been stitching on is basically done--other than the actual finishing it into something useful and practical, or if not that at least something nice to look at.  And my bee sampler only has a few small motifs and part of a border left to complete.  I was going to share a photo today of the latter but as I am so close to properly finishing it, the next photo you'll see will be a complete (though not yet framed) bee sampler.  I definitely need something autumnal to work on next.  I have several Halloween charts that I wouldn't mind working on--but here we are midway through September, so I wonder if it is almost too late to start something?  Naw, I can always carry it over to next year.  (That was said only partly in jest--I know how pokey I am so it isn't too much of a stretch to think I might start it in 2014 but finish it in 2015.

I am running a little behind in emails and postcards and blog commenting, which seems to be a normal state of being for me.  Part of the trouble I have with finishing books in a timely manner is just not having enough reading time.  As I am never going to find a tree to grow more time that I can just conveniently go out and pick a random hour of, I will have to come up with another solution.  I think I must threaten to do this at least once a month (if I don't say it, I know I am thinking it), but I want to cut down on posting so regularly.  Maybe only three or four times a week?  This is always such a dilemma for me.  I like posting regularly and I like chatting with other readers (always my main motivation), yet I often think how nice a break would be so I could spend more time reading.  So I guess I'll keep thinking about it. 

Ghost Story Sunday: Three Miles Up

This has been a weekend chock full of short stories and I am still reading--am working on my weekly New Yorker story and will return to it as soon as I finish this post.  I started with three stories by Amos Oz for my literature class that will be discussed on Tuesday (and I still hope to share more about what I've been reading later this week), then I moved on to two ghost stories, one by Elizabeth Jane Howard which I thought really good, and one by J.S. Le Fanu which I feel like I should have enjoyed more than I did.  And not am working on a story by Thomas McGuane.  I am feeling greedy for stories for some reason and might just see what else I can slip in before the weekend fizzles to an end. 

Elizabeth Jane Howard is a wonderful writer, I think.  She wrote the Cazalet Chronicles (which I was in the midst of rereading and will continue on with eventually) along with a number of other books (several on my shelves) and a memoir called Slipstream which I thoroughly enjoyed reading.  I was looking for something a little different this weekend (I feel like I have mined my own ghost story collections for all their worth and need a little fresh material).  I was flipping through The Norton Book of Ghost Stories edited by Brad Leithauser at the library and it contains a number of stories by my favorite authors--Edith Wharton, Elizabeth Taylor, Shirley Jackson, Penelope Fitzgerald to name a few.  I'd never read any of EJH's short stories (didn't really even realize she had written any) so decided to give her a try. 

"Three Miles Up" would make a great movie, I think.  It is a different sort of ghost story with the potential to be wonderfully atmospheric with a really good set of visuals.  I like a varied approach to the usual sort of story--there are lots of haunted houses and mysterious old crones in your traditional ghost story, but this one takes place on a canal as two friends take a pleasure cruise of sorts.  It reminds me a lot, though the story settings are quite different, of Marghanita Laski's "The Tower" (one of my all-time favorite ghost stories).  Fittingly the Laski story is included in the collection and comes directly after Howard's.

"It has been Clifford's idea, which, considering Clifford, was surprising.  When you looked at him, you would not suppose him capable of it.  However, John reflected, he had been ill, some sort of breakdown these clever people went in for, and that might account for his uncharacteristic idea of hiring a boat and travelling on the canals."

A good idea it might have been, but in actual practice everything seems to go wrong.  They can't seem to handle the boat, and can't seem to work the primus stove correctly.  Everything sets them to arguing and the weather won't cooperate on top of it all.  And then they come across a young woman asleep on the banks of the canal.  She's a bit of a mystery to them but personable enough.  She offers to cook a meal for them in exchange for a place at the table and a share of the food.  They decide to offer her a ride as far as they're going and she happily agrees, willing to do the cooking and tidying up.  Everything rights itself in her presence it seems and they're off and moving along at a nice steady clip.

The ordnance maps they're following are wonderful until the canal they are travelling up runs off the map.  Perhaps they took a wrong turning but the banks become more and more wild and the water muddy and clotted with rushes.  The villages become sparser and farther between.  They come across an old man who tells them the next village is just three miles up and so they keep going.  They find that in the dusk they spot scattered cottages that in the morning light seem to have disappeared.  And they never seem to pass any other boats.  The strangeness of the journey seems to coincide with Sharon's arrival.  I'll only say that by story's end, she mysteriously disappears just when . . .

* * * * *

I'm sure I must at some point have read something else by J.S. Le Fanu, and while "Madam Crowl's Ghost" was a good read, it just didn't click with in the same way that the Howard story did.  Maybe I have become too jaded by the predictable?  You can find the story online, but I found it in the Oxford collection, Twelve Victorian Ghost Stories edited by Michael Cox.

The story is told from the vantage point of old age, but when the narrator was just thirteen she went to work in a great house where her aunt was the housekeeper.  She was to look after, really more a case of make sure the old lady didn't get up to any mischief, Dame Arabella Crowl.  It seems that she was "possessed by the devil, and more than half a ghost."  Just what has driven her mad is at the heart of the story as when Dame Crowl was a younger woman she was quite the beauty.

"But there was not one about Applewale that remembered her in her prime.  And she was dreadful fond o' dress, and had thick silks, and stiff satins, and velvets and laces, and all sorts, enough to set up seven shops at the least.  All her dresses were old-fashioned and queer, but worth a fortune."

For all her madness the old Dame is well cared for and looked after--she was loaded you see and everyone knew that without her they would be out on the streets to fend for themselves.  It's the story behind the story I want.  Just what did the old woman mean by--

"'Ye little limb!  What for did ye say I killed the boy?  I'll tickle ye till ye're stiff'."

The house keeps its secrets well, and hidden behind secret doors is the evidence . . .

* * * * *

Thomas McGaune's "Motherlode" in the Sept. 8 issue of The New Yorker is actually a fitting story since it begins with a man eating a meal in a diner.  When he leaves and is crossing the parking lot to his car, another customer comes up to him, presses a gun in his stomach and orders him to drive . . .  Now I'm off to find out what happens.  You can read about the story in the Q&A here.  And if you want to read along, the story is here.

This week's Library of America short story looks good, too, "The Ice Palace" by F. Scott Fitzgerald.  I think I might try and squeeze just one more story this weekend.

The Curious Gardener: August

Well, where did August go.  I blinked and it disappeared.  Actually I'm sure I was too focused on going away for a short vacation and those last days just slipped away without my having a proper chance to read the August chapter of Anna Pavord's The Curious Gardener.  So, today August and next week September and I think I'll be back on track. 

Although I just said I don't have any plans in mind for next year, I guess I am catching myself in a little fib.  I have had in the back of my mind for many months now a few ideas of another 'serial' read like this for next year.  I have two books in mind as a matter of fact.  One is another nature book (not quite a gardening book like this) and the other involves letters--a sort of epistolary nonfiction book that would make a perfect daily/weekly sort of read.  But more about those later, as I am sure I will change my mind (back and forth) several times before the year is out.

I'm really enjoying the Pavord, however, and have the last third yet to read.  While some of the brief writings are a little over my head (in which case I begin wondering just what am I doing with a book like this in hand) and maybe a tiny bit technical, at least technical in the gardening and botany terms, most of them are breezy, easy reading and sometimes are only peripherally associated with her garden.  She was wise to mix it up a little and make all her readers happy and contented.  each chapter is perhaps an hour of pleasant reading time.

While some of the more technical (and for me technical is probably pretty basic stuff for most dedicated gardeners) references are beyond my experience somewhat, it's amazing how some little fact will be picked up and incorporated into my slowly growing gardening knowledge--if only from an armchair gardeners standpoint.  I tuck the information away knowing you never know when it will come in handy.

For example she writes about creating a butterfly garden, you know the sort that attracts and nurtures local butterflies.  She writes about a neighbor who takes keen interest in creating just the sort of garden that will be a draw and haven for butterflies.  But he is disappointed when after a 'bad summer' he throws a garden of a party and no butterflies show up.  She talks about her neighbor's "carefully managed wilderness".  This wilderness is made up of wild flowers, which surprisingly are harder to keep up and tidy as "they don't stay where they're put".

"Most of the wild part of the garden lies on a steep hillside which falls away from the house.  The soil is relatively poor, which is a help, as wild flowers generally favor starved ground, where they are not crowded out by the coarser type of grass.  There is plenty of ragwort (horse-lovers will hate that), tawny-colored fox and cubs and bird's foot trefoil, which provides food for the caterpillars of the common blue."

Who knew.  I guess the trick with wildflowers is to not try too hard?  Maybe I have discovered something I really can grow?

My favorite bits, or one of them anyway, of her writing is when she writes about the personal--herself or her family--in relation to her garden.  She underwent treatment for cancer--she went "into hospital to have various bits" cut out, and she puts her recovery down to sweet peas.  Or at least the smell of them.  The drugs she was given for the pain were excruciating and as is often the case with medication, they really messed her up.  Her husband would bring in a fresh bunch of sweet peas from her garden every day.

". . . what neither of us knew was how crucial they would become to my recovery.  The sweet peas became the most important reason to get the hell out of that horrible place and get myself back into the garden."

Maybe that's one of the reasons why people traditionally bring flowers to friends and family recuperating in the hospital?

She writes about plums (yum) and antique galvanized flower tubs she finds in an antique market that would be perfect for planting bulbs in, and the Columbia Road flower market in London.  And she always shares some visit to an exotic locale--this time around a trip to the scattered islands of the Maddalenas off the coast of Corsica and Sardinia.  It sounds heavenly.  To think I just look and appreciate, but Pavord actually tries to identify the plants and flowers she sees.  I am not sure I would even know how to start.  But one other little nugget of information I am now tucking away--

". . . wildflower books are not laid out alphabetically but according to the age of the family in question.  So my Mediterranean flower books start with pines, which, according to the fossil records, are the oldest group of plants in the region, and finish with families such as the thrifts, olives, gentians and bedstraws, which, in geological time, evolved much more recently."

September's chapter begins with mazes!  Garden mazes fascinate me, so perhaps I'll be back next week with some more interesting things to share about them.  Since I tend to complain a lot about the weather, I will end on a happy note--we are enjoying a perfect Indian Summer.  It has been so pleasant outside this week that I have been taking my breaks, including my lunch, outside.  I find a semi-shady spot where I can have just a bit of sunshine and enjoy my book and my sandwich.  Not too shabby for September!

End of the Year 'Clean-Up Reading'

The state of my reading pile has really been bothering me for some time now.  Things have shifted about somewhat since this photo was taken--a few new books added, a few removed, maybe even a few have been finished (though not many at the rate I seem to be reading this year--what's going on with that anyway. . . ).  With the year completely speeding by I feel I need to take serious steps to reduce the piles and try and get them under control before a new reading year is upon us (and no plans at all in mind as of yet--may have to keep it that way, though I know it is unlikely to happen).  I know we are still months away from 2015, but (scarily) it's not as far off as it seems.  And already we are midway through September. 

So, as in previous years, I have made a list of 'in progress reads', moved a few books back to the TBR pile (if I was not too far into the story), am contemplating what to do with my stack of library books (must learn to be a little more selective, but there is nothing wrong with looking and maybe finding some wonderful new gem of a book) and trying to organize the few books still to come that I plan on incorporating into my reading still this year (yes, can't give those up either), though I would do well to not start a single new book at this point. 

My in progress books in no particular order:

1. The Apothecary’s House by Adrian Mathews
2. Inevitable by Louis Couperus (saving for some other time)
3. Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hary
4. Damsel in Distress by P.G. Wodehouse
5. A Florentine Revenge by Christobel Kent
6. Fear (NYRB) by Gabriel Chevallier (saving for some other time)
7. Burial Rites by Hannah Kent
8. Parnassus on Wheels (Melville House novella) by Christopher Morley
9. Red Joan by Jennie Rooney
10. Fall of Giants by Ken Follett
11. The Chevalier (Morlands) by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
12. By the Shore of Silver Lake by Laura Ingalls Wilder (not yet started but will keep on with my Little House reading)
13. The Cuckoo’s Calling by J.K. RowlingCrossbones Yard by Kate Rhodes
14. My Dear, I wanted to Tell You by Louisa Young
15. Before the Poison by Peter Robinson
16. This House is Haunted by John Boyne

Yes, I realize this list looks a little daunting--and I numbered it so I can come back to this post and keep track of where I am, where I need to go and cross out as I complete books, but keep in mind nearly all these books are underway.  In some cases I only have a hundred or so pages (or even less) left to read.  They've mostly just been left hanging, so maybe 'clean-up' won't be quite so bad.  I am really hoping that over the course of the next four (well, three and a half) months I can whittle it down to a manageable few to carry over into the new year?

I do have a little fine print, however.  I will be starting a few new books along the way---there are still a few books to read for my Vintage Mystery Bingo card, and a few books for Caroline's Literature and War Readalong.  There will hopefully still be a couple of new RIP reads and I have a few review books in progress that I should be finishing soon.  Oh, Anna Pavord got lost in the shuffle last month (double duty this month with both August and September to read!).  And I will keep moving with m subscription books (NYRBs have sort of fallen off the radar and I must fix that).

And I am totally digging my Israeli War Literature class, too, and have several books I want to read in the coming months which will get priority on the reading pile.  Although we only need to read excerpts from most of the books and in some cases just short stories, I want to read as many of the full texts as I can.  So far I've read one play and one novella and am just starting a novel, though I have several short stories to finish reading first this weekend. 

I have lots of bookishness to share--books I've been reading for my class, books I am reading just because and I still have a small stack of books I have finished that I would like to write about.  If only I could grow extra hours on a tree I would own an orchard.  How can I slip in more reading time (or maximize the time I have for the pile of books in progress)?  Suggestions welcome . . .

A Very Good (Sarah Waters) Mail Day

Look what I found in my mailbox last night when I came home from work!  A good mail day, indeed!  I ordered this back in June--when September seemed so far away.  One of the few reasons I am happy the weeks have flown by.  The Paying Guests by Sarah Water is a nice, hefty tome of over 500 pages.  Normally I might balk a little at that, but this is Sarah Waters--so I don't mind a bit.  Can you guess what I am going to be doing tonight?

It begins:

"The Barbers had said they would arrive by three.  It was like waiting to begin a journey, Frances thought.  She and her mother had spent the morning watching the clock, unable to relax.  At half-past two she had gone wistfully over the rooms for what she'd supposed was the final time; after that there had been a nerving-up, giving a steady deflation, and now, at almost five, here she was again, listening to the echo of her own footsteps, feeling no sort of fondness for the sparsely furnished spaces, impatient simply for the couple to arrive, move in, get it over with."

Teaser Tuesday: This House is Haunted

Yesterday's post was a little on the long side, so I'll keep things short today.  I'm in the middle of John Boyne's This House is Haunted, a ghost story and Victorian pastiche all wrapped into one and I must say I am enjoying it immensely.  I started reading Boyne's The Absolutist, maybe last year?  It was set aside for some reason or other--likely I was reading too many WWI books and I find these days if I read too much on one topic (particularly war stories) I tend to get reader's fatigue (is there such a thing?) and have to pick up lighter fare in between books.  But John Boyne is really good, isn't he?  I mean, really good.  At least he does 'Victorian' exceptionally well.  I feel like snapping up all his books now and having a really good binge, but I will try show a little self-restraint after I've just brought home a pile of new books!  In any case must dig out my copy of The Absolutist once again.

But first no need to rush This House is Haunted, though I might not be able to help myself.  I find myself reaching for it quite often.  One of the blurbs on the back of the book says "a lesson in classic storytelling" and indeed he is a very good storyteller.  I can forgive almost anything if an author knows how to tell a good story, but there is nothing here that needs to be forgiven.  So far I am finding it all pitch perfect.

The story is narrated by twenty-one year old Eliza Caine who is left 'orphaned' after the death of her beloved father.  She has a most engaging voice and manner.  Orphaned is perhaps not the best word since she is actually in her majority, but after her father's death she discovers she is left with nothing.  Her house is not actually her house and there is no money.  She has a job teaching small children in London, but an advertisement in a London weekly catches her notice.  A family in Norfolk is looking for a governess.  Perhaps there is too much sad history where she is and a complete change of pace is in order?

Gaudlin Hall is not at all what it seems.  She should have been tipped off right from the start when the former governess passes her in the train station just as she is arriving.  So hurried to get away she only looks sadly at Eliza but doesn't stop.  It doesn't bode well for Eliza who from her very first day is dropped into a confusing situation that no one seems to have any desire to correct or explain.

My teaser is from early in the story when Eliza arrives at Gaudlin hall after a mysterious carriage ride with the house's caretaker, an odd man who is none too forthcoming (but then no one seems to be so) about the family's situation.  Her charges are two young children, a brother and sister.  Eliza is dropped off at the front door and expects to meet her new family, the parents of her young charges, but--

"A moment later, the door opened and I turned, expecting at last to come face to face with my new employer, whoever he or she might be."

"It was not a man or a woman standing there, however, but a little girl.  She was about twelve years old, I thought, older than my small girls, and very pale and pretty.  Her hair was curled into ringlets that hung down to her shoulders and perhaps a little further.  She was dressed in a white nightdress, fastened at the neck and hanging to her ankles, and as she stood there, the candles in the hallway illuminating her from behind, she took on a spectral appearance that rather frightened me."

The mystery surrounding these children and their lack of any apparent family sets the tone.  You know there is something not quite right and are left imaginging why.  Eliza seems to be the only person (save the reader, of course, and we might find out the why long before Eliza) who doesn't know what's going on, and no one seems willing to let her in on the secret.  I think that will be half the 'fun' of reading this story--that and the atmosphere with which the story simply oozes.  Oh, and I'll try not to think of those cold hands that seemed to grasp Eliza's ankles when she got into bed on that first night . . .

How's your RIP reading going?