I have written about Nancy Pearl on many an occasion, even as far back as 2006. That was before I considered myself a book blogger. For those who haven’t perused her first Book Lust book you are missing a wonderful guide for what to read next. Granted, many of us have more than we could possibly need in our TBR piles, but Pearl helps one get beyond our normal comfort zones. Or if nothing else, I know we all like a list so you can page through it and check off the ones you have read.
I found a clean, used copy of this for 50 cents at a book sale and couldn’t pass it up even though I already own it. So I am going to give it away. Unfortunately, I am going to have to limit it the giveaway to North America. The US Postal System’s rate structure is killer when sending things abroad. (I nearly bankrupted us sending out those Anita Brookner copies.) The UK system must have cheaper options or I doubt that The Book Depository could exist.
So if you reside in North America and want a crack at this book, just leave a comment below by June 10th saying you want to be entered into the giveaway.
Published in 1957, The Sandcastle is the third of Iris Murdoch’s 27 novels. For those who have yet to dip their literary toes into Murdoch’s work, I think her novels from the 1950s are a great place to start. I find most of her work is pretty accessible but these early works gently ease one into the sometimes cerebral world of Mudoch’s fiction. Contrary to my intentions, I have probably now scared more than a few of you off. You shouldn’t be.
At the risk of gross oversimplification, I think it is fair to say that most of Murdoch’s novels are really just soap operas. Sure, they may delve into politics, religion, philosophy, morals and any number of other deep thoughts, but they are at heart soap operas. And I mean this in a good way. Lots of English folk running around having affairs or near affairs with other English folk. These are the kind of affairs that, while physically consummated, most times seem to be driven much more by intellectual stimulation than physical. Some of her later work in the 70s takes on a real who’s shagging who kind of vibe. These earliest novels deal with many of the same issues but the affairs are undertaken with far more seriousness, or in a reflection of the more rigid moral standards of the time in which they were written, don’t happen at all.
The Sandcastle (finally he gets around to the book at hand) takes place at a “sound and reputable public school of the second class”. Bill Mor, a senior master at the school, and his wife Nan have a less than ideal marriage. Both seem bored and at odds about their future ambitions for themselves and their family. Their two teenage children seem equally alienated from family affection. This is the kind of family that Americans like to look at and think, “tsk, tsk, those English”. You know the kind of family where a handshake between father and son seems like a gross public display of affection. (No doubt you in England have an equally reductive stereotype of American families that you fall back on when you feel intellectually lazy.) So all this goes along as one would expect until the famous young painter Rain Carter comes to campus to paint a portrait of the former headmaster. And let me just say stuff happens. Rain and Bill…well I’m not saying…and then the son who appears to have more than a mancrush on one of his father’s friends not to mention a Maurice-ian relationship with his best pal Jimmy Carde does something that is really scandalous, but isn’t necessarily what you think it might be…but it is wife Nan who ends up defining the outcome in an unexpected way. (Her manuever at the end reminded me a bit of Dorothy Whipple’s short story called The Handbag.)
Hard to say if any of the characters will ever get what they want and be happy, but most readers will. So for those of you sitting on the fence about Murdoch, do you really want to continue to be that person. The one who has never read anything by Dame Iris? Grab one of these novels from the 1950s and if it helps, think of them as really smart chick-lit. Remember how saucey Kate Winslet…I mean the young Iris Murdoch was in the movie Iris? Well art imitates life.
It has been several weeks (months?) since I last did a Seen on the Subway post. The only reason I haven’t done one sooner is that I haven’t really noticed anything interesting in anyone’s hands lately. Admittedly I haven’t been looking as much–too into my own reading material–but more than that I have just seen a lot of bestseller type stuff and what would be more boring than me telling you that I saw someone on the Metro reading a bestseller.
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
The Reader: Late 30s/early 40s man in one of those grey suits that has kind of a green tinge to it with a non-descript green tie. His work ID lanyard was from the University of Florida. I actually saw this gentleman twice on successive days. Both times I saw him on the bus in my neighborhood going to the Metro station in the morning. But the second day I also saw later in my commute after I had changed from one train to another. Turns out we both got off at the same stop.
The Book: Rather than say anything about this classic novel that everyone is sure to already know, I will comment on the particular edition the man was reading. He had this very cool edition seen in the photo here, and coincidentally the exact same edition I have at home. But wait! Then when I saw him again the next day I noticed he was reading a different book and I thought “Hmm, this guy likes to mix it up.” On closer inspection, however, although he was reading a different book, it was the same title. For some reason he had another edition of The Sun Also Rises. He went from the edition shown here to something with a rather plain blue cover. I almost broke my rule of not speaking to my subject to ask him why he switched editions. The only thing I can think of is that given the unimpressive plain cover of the edition he was reading on day two, is that it probably was an annotated/academic edition.
The Verdict: I own the book and I generally like Hemingway so I will definitely read this one.
The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh
The Reader: A twenty-something pocket gay at the end of a work day with his bow tie untied, slouching way down in his seat. (For those unfamiliar with the term “pocket gay”, it was coined by Jack on Will and Grace when Jack referred to a rather diminutive guy (not just short, but petite) with whom Will had a date. Since then I have used the term to refer to any well groomed man of similar stature–whether they appear to be gay or not.) The clip below has terrible quality video but still funny when Jack explains.
The Book: Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited is one of my favorite books of all times. And I enjoyed the film Bright Young Things based on Waugh’s Vile Bodies. But in general I am not a big fan of his more satirical stuff. A little too whimsical and chaotic for me. This one, however, is billed as an Anglo-American tragedy, so maybe it will be more my thing. Still it is hard to picture Evelyn Waugh (or any Englishman for that matter) in Los Angeles.
The Verdict: This rather short novel was in the stack of books I was going to attack last weekend when I was going to have My Own Private Readathon. Since that never happened I am going to try and make this weekend (a long one at that) a reading weekend so I will probably get to this one soon.
For the most part I don’t talk about my job much on My Porch. This is partly because I have one of those jobs where only authorized individuals are allowed to talk to the press. And while My Porch isn’t the press, it is available to the public and as such I don’t want to get into trouble for speaking out of turn.
The Preserves Room
But let me just say this much. I work on a historic preservation project related to an abandoned insane asylum. Some of what I do requires me to do research including going through great old photographs that make this asylum look downright quaint by contemporary standards. The idyllic campus-like setting and the wonderful old buildings are a far cry from what passes for mental hospitals today. I know this is a romantic view of what must have been a less than happy place. In addition to the unhappy nature inherent in a mental hospital, there was also chronic overcrowding and funding shortages. It was also a time when epileptics, TB patients and other sane folks were kept in insane asylums.
The history of this particular asylum connects it to a famous reformer, a president, more than one presidential assassin, a 20th-century literary figure, the U.S. Civil War, and advances (sometimes quite scary ones) in mental health care.
For much of its history, this institution grew and produced its own food. Patients helped tend the orchards and grew food crops. There was also henneries, piggeries, and a dairy herd.
And just today I came across this very cool picture of the “Preserves Room” you see above. How cool is that photo? I am not sure if you can see in this image, but the jars in the foreground are quinces and the some of the smaller jars are currant jelly.
Bakery in 1915 (the ovens are still there)
Greenhouses and crops
Patient room (this would have been for a less disturbed patient)
Most of you probably know writer, director, actor Mike Leigh from his films Vera Drake and Secrets and Lies or his most recent Another Year (which I have yet to see). But his films that were made for the British televsion series Plays for Today in the 1970s are wonderful in their own dismally funny way. Seemingly made on a shoestring, they often deal with class issues and feature quirky, rather depressing, sometimes hilarious characters.
In Nuts in May, uber anal and officious Keith and his talkative wife Candice Marie go for a 10-day tenting holiday and run into issues with other campers who don’t share their ordered view of the world.
In the next clip, I love the way Keith feels the need to explain who is singing each line of their song about going to the zoo.
This next clip isn’t very good quality but it hilariously shows just how precise Keith can be.
Alison Steadman (who was married to Leigh at the time) not only played Candice Marie, but she also plays Beverly in Abigail’s Party. Does anyone else see shades of a Catherine Tate character in this?
Finally, the following clip is from Hard Labour, the film that first got me interested in these early films. You see a youngish Liz Smith from Vicar of Dibley fame playing an overworked char woman. With a lazy, boorish husband, bitchy daughter, and snotty employer.
Happiness is finding a Whipple for sale online for only 99 cents plus shipping. I have no idea what my edition of Because of the Lockwoods will look like, but I would love it if it had endpapers like the ones Rachel shared on her blog. I know it doesn’t have the dust jacket.
Remember how I said I was going to have my own private readathon? I even inspired Simon S to do the same. Well, in my case the best laid reading plans always go awry. I forgot that I had to give a tour for my job on Saturday which took up half the day. Then we had some people stop by to see if they wanted to buy an old desk of ours. Then I had an urge to mow the lawn. And then I just didn’t feel like reading much. I have been watching the early films of Mike Leigh instead. I am going to blog about these at some point because they are weirdly fascinating. I am getting some reading in–I am in the middle of The Sandcastle by Iris Murdoch–but definitely not the weekend of reading I had planned. With any luck I will be able to dedicate next weekend to my readathon.
Appropriately the subject of this week’s Sunday Painting doesn’t have time to read either (although my guess is that she works far harder than I have to).
What a great find. Knowing nothing about A Kind of Intimacy or its author Jenn Ashworth, I picked this one up at the Border’s closeout for 60% off. I actually picked up a few Europa Editions that day just because they have interesting covers and are well made books. So I guess it is icing on the cake that I really liked the novel itself.
In the early (and I mean early) pages I found myself rooting for Annie as she leaves her past behind and pledges to get a fresh new start in life. I love the opening scene where she kicks her old couch a few times as she prepares to leave her old house for good. I had such a hopeful feeling for Annie and her future. When she arrives in her new neighborhood I bristled at the insensitivity of her new neighbor who mistakes her for a char woman and can’t get it through his head that she is single–that there is no husband and no child still to arrive.
And then you start to realize that something is a little off about Annie–that is until you realize that there is A LOT that is off about Annie. This might be kind of spoilery, but I don’t think it will ruin the suspense created in the book. Annie is a total whack job. She is delusional and a pathological liar. I will leave it up to you to find out if her story is a tragedy or a triumph. I don’t want to give too much away.
I was absolutely drawn into Annie’s story and couldn’t wait to see what happened next. There were moments when I was absolutely squirming in embarassment as Annie is about to get caught in a lie. But like all pathological liars she brilliantly deflects scrutiny, at least for a while. There was suspsense, and humor, and more than a little hmm…kinkiness. Its dark, its disturbing, but eminently readable.
This is a fantastic book. And a debut novel to boot.
The headline to this post was going to be “My Own Private Readathon” but I couldn’t resist typing “My Own Private Idaho”. I haven’t seen that film since it first came out back in 1991. I don’t remember a lot about it except that both Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix were in a film with a gayish theme.
So what does this have to do with a readathon? Nothing. But c’mon weren’t they cute?
I’ve decided that next weekend is going to be an all weekend readathon for me. I am not going to stay up all night or anything crazy like that. I just want to focus on reading. With the cavalcade of guests and home improvements since mid-March, I just want to put my feet up and do nothing but read.
hogglestock 