After spending half a week face deep in a manuscript, a wander into Derbyshire was much called for yesterday. Inevitably, it was hard to avoid the second hand bookshops, and after going in ‘just to look’, it would have been rude to leave without buying anything. So I did.
In my defence – as if one were needed – a couple of fine book were unearthed. Having read, and loved I, Claudius last year it was a pleasant surprise to bump into the sequel in almost mint condition, and as an added bonus with the same cover style as its companion book.
The Dostoyevsky was again close to mint condition and as it’s been a while since I had read anything by him (and the price was right) it made sense to not only indulge again but actually plan write a review for the blog when I’m done reading, as I seem to have missed reviewing all three books previously read by the author.
Now I just have to find the time to get into them as I am taking on a new quest, as well as the usual, but more of that in a week or two.
Set on the French Riviera in the 1920s, American Dick Diver and his wife Nicole are the epitome of chic, living a glamorous lifestyle and entertaining friends at their villa. Young film star Rosemary Hoyt arrives in France and becomes entranced by the couple. It is not long before she is attracted to the enigmatic Dick, but he and his wife hold dark secrets and as their marriage becomes more fractured, Fitzgerald laments the failure of idealism and the carefully constructed trappings of high society in the Roaring Twenties.
This somewhat autobiographical novel is an interesting read, not only for the story itself, but also for the extra examination of Fitzgerald’s dependency on alcohol and his wife’s Schizophrenia. This, his final and favourite novel is certainly a mixed bag but well worth picking up.
The old cliché about Americans who visit other countries is reinforced here as many of the characters retain a strong American identity but seem purposefully oblivious (and superior) to the cultures that surround them. The locals tolerating their shenanigans partly because of America’s role in the war and, inevitably, the riches brought to a shattered continent recovering from the horrors of the First World War.
There is a vacuous nature to the majority of the characters, at one point I began to wonder if I would be bothered by the fates of any of them. In a world filled with frivolous parties and empty conversations, the carefully manufactured and cultivated superficial facades mean so much to the characters, who like actors are putting on a well rehearsed show.
“When there were enough Americans on the platform the first impression of their immaculacy and their money began to fade into a vague racial dusk that hindered and blinded both them and their observers.” Continue reading “Tender is the Night – F. Scott Fitzgerald”
Picking up my – then – latest read, Alberto Manguel’s A Reading Diary: A Year of Favourite Books, it soon became clear that I needed a new notebook to scrawl my thoughts in, such were the number. Thankfully the missus had just such a book ready for me, she knows my needs.
After the mini trauma of filling my last notebook it feels good to be able to be expansive again, as opposed to clumsily noting down phrases on a phone whose keyboard is ill suited to my fat fingers. Sadly, the joy of writing is one often marginalised in the modern technology orientated world.
Enjoying the pristine whiteness of the pages, there was just one thing I had to do first, before inking any of them. On the inside front cover the words ‘I have a dream’ were printed, so below them I added ‘this book belongs to Martin Luther King, Jr.’.
Hilarity thus achieved I left the first page – I always allow myself this small luxury in case appropriate words come to mind to place there – and the second became the start of my copious note taking.
Ploughing through book lover Manguel’s words with a happy heart, I’ve already made a page of notes, some of which will probably be left out of the review for another post – or several – musing on books. With twenty-two drafts started just this morning, words are begetting words in the best possible way.
In rural Australia of the fifties where John Baxter grew up, reading books was regarded with suspicion; owning and collecting them with utter incomprehension. Despite this, by the age of eleven Baxter had ‘collected’ his first book The Poems of Rupert Brooke. He’d read it often, but now he had to own it. This modest purchase marked the beginning of an obsession that would take him all over the world…
This is the book to devour. It has inspired my many forays into mass purchasing, the impact of which had waned somewhat, but has now thankfully been reinforced on rereading this. A Pound of Paper, is not only a call to read, but to read widely; to gather, and appreciate the book as a whole, not just for the words therein.
It’s always a delight to discover how a fellow reader started, and carried on their journey. Details of their collection, and their escalation is both an encouragement – as if any were needed – and pure literary porn. This reader ate up Baxter’s enthusiastic retelling of his adventures, which range between comic and cringe with alarming regularity.
One of the best things about A Pound of Paper is the forays into, and finding beauty within, the obscure, even the badly written. There is an element of snobbery here, one could argue, but it doesn’t spoil anything, and I for one enjoy the jaunt into the arcane passageways of literature that I would have otherwise missed. Continue reading “A Pound of Paper – John Baxter”
After the good news of last post, Crissy’s anniversary gift to me was to let me run rampant in a bookshop. This excitement was slightly sullied as half of the shop was blocked off due to cleaning so I couldn’t get to the science section, amongst others. The history section was disappointingly lacking too.
Rallying, I did manage to pick up three books, and went to a coffee shop, pleasingly empty, to review my new purchases. Supping a hot Mocha, and trying not to gag at the stupidly powerful smelling cheese meal the woman half the café away was eating, it was with great pleasure that I slowly peeled back the plastic bag to review the new reads.
Having read The Great Gatsby all the way back in sixth form, and being reminded of the pleasure I had from that book by the Leonardo DiCaprio movie. I fancied reading more by F. Scott Fitzgerald so Now The Beautiful and Damned can take its place on the unread shelf next to Tender is the Night, which I also picked up a while back for the same reason. Continue reading “Books, Again”
In case I didn’t already know that I had a keeper – and I do, just to be clear – every so often Crissy will gift me a book she has picked up before coming home from work. I am impressed at her taste in book choices, from the known classics like Don Quixote, to the lesser so, in Ironweed, which I am currently enjoying at the moment.
On another note, I don’t know if anybody else has been having this problem but my recent two post review of A Suitable Boy (which went up earlier this week) was randomly given the posting date from the week before so I am unsure if notifications about it went out, or if it even appeared on the WP radar. Lack of visits would suggest that it hasn’t shown up on the reader, or reached many regular readers.
The only way I can find to correct the date is by, somewhat bizarrely editing the ‘publish immediately’ date. That still shows as today’s date but for some reason registers as the 17th January when published. Shameless plug for my own posts complete, have a pleasant day.
I’m finally back from a wonderful Christmas and New Year in England, and after fighting through the obligatory jet lag, as well as other demands, I finally find time to catch you up on things.
The most important being the books I managed to haul back over with me, which is a veritable, eclectic feast of words, split nicely between books to reread and new tomes to explore…
Continue reading “Bringing Book the Good Times”