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This is a post I’ve been intending to write ever since I got back from my Italian holiday, I just never got around to it. I’ll keep things short and snappy, and brutally honest. Here goes:

• The Secret of Lost Things, Sheriday Hay. This is the story of an 18-year-old Tasmanian girl with nothing tying her to her island anymore. She packs her bags and leaves for New York, where she finds a job in one of the most peculiar second-hand bookshops I’ve ever read about. I picked this up for the cover, which suited the title well. It’s a different cover to the first edition, and perhaps less pretty, but it is mysterious alright. The blurb on the back sealed the deal; it exuded a love for books, book shops, stories. It also sounded like the kind of book one might disappear in, curled up in bed, only to emerge from the world of stories hours later, with a cold cup of tea on the bedside table. I really enjoyed this, it was an old-fashioned type of story telling that I miss in a lot of modern writing. The ending let the book down, though. It was too abrupt, too inconclusive, too inconsequential. The entire novel built up to what I expected to be a crescendo, only the crescendo consisted of someone softly playing a nose-flute in the background. The destiny was disappointing, a real shame, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that the journey was an enjoyable one.
• The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, Michael Chabon. Similar to my reading experience with Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, it took a while for the story to grab me. Once it did, though, that was that. I spent hours and hours and a couple of siestas reading this book in a hammock in Italy, quite possibly the least fitting surroundings for a book about the Jewish land of Sitka (Alaska), which is about to be returned to the native inhabitants, creating fear of another diaspora in its inhabitants. The story is built around the premise that the state of Israel did not succeed, after which the Jewish people were awarded Alaska instead. After sixty years, the lease is up. The story is hilarious yet tragic, as we read about Detective Landsman’s efforts to solve the case of a murdered man in the hotel he lives in, partly in an attempt to rekindle things with his ex-wife, who is also his boss. Things are never easy in Landsman’s life, and this is no exception. Completely different to Kavalier and Clay in terms of storyline and even genre, but every bit as enthralling. Recommended!
• On Chesil Beach, Ian McEwan. A novella detailing how two newlyweds end up in a hotel room by the sea, terrified of each other. I found neither of the main characters interesting, and as such, their history didn’t really affect me. It’s a confronting book, in the sense that it puts up a mirror for all that read it, ugliness reflected back at them. The problem is that this ugliness also makes the characters ultimately unlikeable. I know this book got many favourable reviews, but it didn’t do a thing for me. The last few chapters are brilliant, they contain a wisdom that will break your heart. Everything until then, I realise, was background information, but it’s a scene and character setting gone wild. Every anecdote reinforces what you think you know about the characters, there are no surprises. It would have been a brilliant (longish) short story, but it didn’t work as a novella.
• The Forgotten Garden, Kate Morton. Another book I bought due to its obvious appeal to escapism. Another mystery, with attempts to solve it played out in the life of three different women in different times. As much as I loved the storyline, I thought the language use was at times a little clichéd. The atmosphere of the story made up for this, though, and it’s descriptions are so vivid it’s almost like watching a movie. The story takes a while to start rolling, to get to the point where you care enough about the characters, and know almost nothing but just enough to want to work out more. Once it does, I forgot about language use altogether. It’s brilliant, albeit at times a little predictable, but never in an annoying way. You may guess a few twists and turns, but oftentimes, the why and how will surprise. It’s a fairytale for adults, which is fitting since the mystery is part-based on a book of fairytales that Nell, one of the women we follow, is found with as a little girl all on her own after getting off a boat in Maryborough, Australia, early 1900s. I stayed up way past bedtime a few nights in a row to cram some reading in. Recommended!

PS. I know there are other books I’ve read lately, but I can’t think of the titles and they’ve all travelled back to the Netherlands with my sister so a look at my bookcase is of no help. To be continued, I’d say!

Everything is handed in!

Sadly, I made it to the school office just as it had closed for lunch (why do they close at 12:45 for lunch? Isn’t that after lunch?), so I had some time to kill. I ended up taking photos of a small, walled garden I’d been visiting occasionally during the year. I hadn’t been back since spring kicked in, though, and as charming as I thought it was before, this time I was sure I’d walked into fairyland. The garden is just an explosion of spring colours, and because it’s laid out cleverly, nothing overwhelms the rest of the garden. As strange or unlikely as it may sound, everything stood out, and I couldn’t make up my mind about where to look. Whoever designed that garden knew what he was doing. It was glorious. Taking some photos and enjoying the sunny (22 degrees!) weather there was just the way to celebrate that it is all over. Finally.

I added to the celebrations by buying three books, too. Waterstone’s 3 for 2 sales are just too damn appealing. Blackwater had the same deal on much of the same titles, but they have a smaller selection, and I always get stuck with two books I really want to read, having great difficulty finding a third. So instead of buying books during the hour I had to wait for the school office to open, I took photos, and on my way home, I stopped at Waterstone’s for a little treat.

I now have Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach, Nick Hornby’s Slam and Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union waiting for me. Chabon’s one is the third book I picked up. I took forever reading his Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, but it was worth it. It’s dense, so I kept putting it aside after a few chapters, but once I got into it, it turned out to be one of the most beautifully heartbreaking stories I’ve ever read, without being too soppy or too unrealistic, which is hard, given the subject matter. It manages to be real and painful, but funny, too (much like Nick Hornby’s books). Mags recommended it to me, and she has great taste in novels, evidently, because Jasper Fforde’s The Eyre Affair, which she forced me to read (thank you thank you thank you), turned out to be brilliant too. Anyway, I have great hopes for The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, but it will have something to live up to.

If the weather keeps up, I imagine I’ll be doing a lot of reading in the sun. Mmm. Holidays.

Years ago, I watched a little show called Gilmore girls and not-so-secretly wished to be Rory Gilmore. I had the reading habit down, at least. And so, inspired by Rory’s booklist, I attempted to read Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. I say attempted because it is one of the few books I have started but not finished, because it bored me to tears. Another couple of years later, it was on the reading list for my Literature 101 course, and being a studious freshman that would make Rory Gilmore proud, I purchased the book, in English this time, and tried again. And failed again. I simply cannot read that book. It does not agree with me one bit. I see what Flaubert is trying to do, I recognise that he is part of the canon, but his attention to detail exasperates me. I don’t need a full page on the topic of the hats of the guests at a party Emma Bovary attends, thank you. I’ve since seen Claude Chabrol’s film version (as part of another university course) and enjoyed it immensely, so I must conclude it really is Flaubert’s writing style that puts me off. My first attempt at Rory Gilmore’s Reading List did not bode well.

In the episode Rory’s Dance, she is seen carrying around a book, The Portable Dorothy Parker to be precise, something, she explains, she is rather in the habit of doing. Now, I myself am particularly prone to having a book on me at all times, but I couldn’t for the life of me find any Dorothy Parker. I finally found some at a Dymock’s store in Sydney in 2006 and snapped it up quick smart. Who wouldn’t, to obtain a work by the elusive humourist who told her assistant “Tell him I’m too fucking busy and vice versa!” when her editor was at the door.

I raided the local Waterstone’s for all things Dorothy Parker yesterday, and found not only the long-awaited Portable Dorothy Parker, but another Collected volume too. Hurray! I find it fascinating that someone from the 1920s could be so audacious and witty that almost 90 years on, it’s still catchy; which is only part of the reason I plan to focus on her a bit for my dissertation. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I relish her writing as much as I do - if you’re going to be writing fifteen thousand words of dissertational hell, you might as well snort with laughter occasionally.

After I got home, I immediately started reading. So far, I am particularly charmed by a short story called The Waltz, which I’m thinking of using for my dissertation on the cognitive stylistic properties of humour. The story covers the thoughts of a girl who’s been asked to dance with a man she abhors. While she remains absolutely pleasantly polite on the exterior, she is slagging him off internally. When her dance partner kicks her in the shins, she thinks:

“Maybe he didn’t do it maliciously. Maybe it’s just his way of showing his high spirits. I suppose I ought to be glad that one of us is having such a good time. I suppose I ought to think myself lucky if he brings me back alive. Maybe it’s captious to demand of a practically strange man that he leave your shins as he found them” (Dorothy Parker, ‘The Waltz’ in The Portable Dorothy Parker, London: Penguin, 2006, p. 49).

Surely that deserves an appreciative snicker.

Also on my rather random reading list:

• Shakespeare by Bill Bryson
• The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
• Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (re-read for dissertation purposes)
• The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde
• The Good German by Joseph Kanon
• The Rattle Bag, edited by Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes (an anthology of poetry by the wonderful Heaney, also probably to be used for one of my essays)
• Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
• The Collected Dorothy Parker by, you guessed right, Dorothy Parker
• a whole range of stylistics books and articles while I try to shape my thoughts into 3000, 5000 and 15000 words for upcoming coursework

PS. Title referring to the few lines preceding the above quote, “[…] but when it comes to kicking, I am Outraged Womanhood.”

PPS. I don’t know why WordPress makes that bullet point list’s allignment so shabby, but it hurts the perfectionist in me, too.

As per Sunday’s post, the weather has changed radically. We were experiencing quite a comfortable autumn, with a tonne of colourful autumn leaves to take photos of. A few weeks ago, I came across a guy who was blowing leaves off the grass near one of the university buildings with one of those giant hoover-like things. At the time, I thought it was a shame, because the rusty leaves gave so much character to the place, and also, now what will the squirrels use as a blanket?

It is now wet and soggy, however, and had the leaves still covered the grass, it would have died, suffocated by the brown grime monster. In a way, the change of weather is beneficial. It’s much easier to force yourself to do research on the top floor of a university library when the alternative does not include sitting in the outside, watching squirrels tumble by.

Today, I had to bring two different versions of a text, any text, to one of my classes. I grabbed a number of versions of Jane Austen’s Sanditon off the library shelves. The novel was never “finished” in the classical sense of the word, because she died before it was published. It’s interesting that both Persuasion and Northanger Abbey are considered fully fledged Jane Austen novels, though, because like Sanditon, both were published posthumously. When Jane Austen died, a manuscript of Sanditon with revisions, written in the first three months of 1817, the year of her death, remained. It was passed on to a niece of hers, and later, through ancestors, ended up at the library of King’s College, Cambridge.

And I currently have a facsimile sitting on a bookshelf. I was completely overwhelmed when I realised I was looking at Jane Austen’s handwriting, her revisions, her abbreviations, 190 years after she wrote it all down. It’s absolutely fascinating. Both professors teaching the class snapped up the little book as soon as I talked about it (we had to quickly present our different editions in front of the group). I’m still scared at the thought of all the assessments coming up, but for this particular course, I feel a bit better knowing I’ve found something truly fascinating to write about.

Also, I have to get my own copy of that facsimile. Damn, that’s some cool stuff.

I’ve been feeling uncreative and unchallenged for a while now. My job, as fun as it is, consists of number crunching only. Although it requires an analytical, problem-solving frame of mind, I’m using logic, not creativity, to think of solutions. I am challenged by time, not by problems.

However, I made the decision to go after an interesting yet doable job this summer. After three years of pushing myself at university, I wanted a summer job that wouldn’t put me to or rob me of sleep. The job I have fills that description perfectly.

I’ve decided that I need to stay active outside of work as well. With my family away on holiday, it is all too easy to spend night after night in front of the television, mindlessly taking in American detective shows. After shelving my books, lining them up like soldiers on a battlefield, I picked a little known Jane Austen to kickstart my creatively fruitful summer.

I bought this pocket version in a little white church just outside Harden in rural New South Wales. We were on our way back from a flight show weekend when we drove past it. Emma, who collects and sells second-hand books herself, and I, a well-documented bookaholic, just had to have look. It had been a very hot weekend, but inside the church the air was cool and booky. There were tall, dark bookcases with actual ladders. Getting up on those ladders to browse the rows and rows of novels made me feel like Disney’s Beauty. The boys were eager to get back on the road, but I couldn’t leave before buying some Bill Bryson and Jane Austen.

I paid $7 AU for Lady Susan/The Watsons/Sanditon by Jane Austen. As much as I love Jane Austen, I must admit that I’d never heard of these works of hers before, which in itself was a reason to grab the copy and keep it close as I was browsing the other shelves. I love that it’s a 1970s Penguin pocket that was originally sold for just $1.35 AU. It smells old and looks read, which is how I prefer my books. I’m loving it so far. And I had a good time knocking up the banner for today’s post too.

Isn’t it a pity that I will now have to channel all that creative energy into doing the dishes?

Last Friday, my job agency had some sort of a party on. I wasn’t planning to go, but my sister had been and they gave you a fluffy beach towel as a present. I’m cheap, so I thought, why not drop in and get a towel too. I had to ask a few things anyway, because something went wrong with my first week’s pay and it hasn’t quite been cleared up yet. It was a good enough excuse.

Of course, I was offered a cocktail as soon as I stepped inside, so it was quite fun after all. I didn’t want to stick around too long because my dad was waiting in the car outside, so I had to get rid of it quite soon. I figured it would be rude not to drink it.

Since then, I’ve lazed around a bit. I’m starting to look for little Dutch souvenirs to bring to Australia with me. I have a visa (an ETA, which is pretty much the same thing), and the tickets should be arriving in a few weeks time. I’m really looking forward to it. I think I’ll need this happy goal to give me a purpose this upcoming week: work is going to be a madhouse. I have a giant project due the 31st and no idea how I’m going to manage it all.

In other news, I’ve also bought the new Harry Potter book. I’m torn between wanting to finish it yesterday and never wanting to get to the last page. I’ve remained surprisingly spoiler-free so far. I really made an effort to make sure I could start the book without any expectations about where it would take me. I have my theories, of course, as does everyone else, but I don’t want to read anyone else’s opinions until I have finished the book and formed my own.

I was working in a bookshop when Harry Potter and the Halfblood Prince came out. I wholly intended not to buy the English version, but to wait for the Dutch translation, since I owned all the previous books in Dutch. After a lame “joke” on a forum and random bits of information I couldn’t help but hear in the shop, I decided to buy and finish the book as soon as possible. I didn’t want to wait any longer and have all the magic disappear before I got to chapter three.

I’m not going to spoil it for anyone. I’ve read a little over two-thirds now. I might discuss the book at a later date, but I promise I will mark it [SPOILER] to ensure you can enjoy the book the same way I am.

We had a slightly different journalism class today. We are currently working on developing a radio programme that will go live in three weeks time. However, Rick Nieman, the anchorman of the Netherlands’ second largest evening news bulletin, was presenting his book at the bookshop I used to work at. He knew there would be a large number of university students there and since he studied at Roosevelt University in Chicago, he was willing to answer questions in English as well. He invited the audience to put forward questions, so that the book presentation would rather be a discussion of what news is (as per the title of his book).

I learnt that I need to be more aggressive in my question asking: it took me a while to get through. That’s fine as a member of the audience at a book presentation, but it would have been much worse had I been a journalist already. My question was answered eventually, though. I asked what he thought of psychologists’ remarks that titling family murders by one of the parents “family dramas” could lower the threshold for other people in a similar confused state of mind. To what extend did he think journalists have a responsibility in that area? And what about the video message of the Virginia Tech shooter? Not only could it encourage further sick individuals, broadcasting it worldwide is exactly what the kid was going for. I won’t summarise Rick Nieman’s answer, because it was quite long and I don’t want to leave things out and twist his words, but it was an interesting discussion.

He’d also brought his wife, Sacha de Boer, who is a news anchor(wo)man as well. She works for the country’s most popular evening news bulletin, effectively one-upping her husband. The book that was being presented is about what goes on behind the scenes at different news programmes, and being a news reader herself, she had plenty to contribute. It was a really interesting discussion between the pair of them and the audience, although I wish a certain ex-news reader from the local TV station could have enjoyed listening to her own voice a little less. At the end of the one hour discussion, I decided to purchase his book and have it signed. I’ve almost finished it by now. It’s a good but quick read, and an honest report of what happens behind the scenes of the primary source of new information for a lot of people. I recommend it.

I forgot to bring my camera, but an old workmate promised to forward a few photos. I’ll update this post when that happens.

I managed to get out of bed and go to school as usual today. I won’t lie - I still get a little teary-eyed at times, but generally, I’m coping pretty well. I don’t want to be sad when I have so much to be happy about. And, as Shakespeare says in The Merchant of Venice, ” (…) these foolish drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit (…).” I kept telling Liam I would throw that quote at him if he got sad. Only I forgot the exact quote. And no, I did not give it some “Farewell, good Liamcelot,” I am not THAT big a booknerd.

Liam has just got home, had a lovely shower, and got to hand out the zero souvenirs that made it to Sydney at the same time as him. His luggage was left behind in Hong Kong! Not to worry, however, because this will only increase the suspense. The suitcase will be delivered to his door tomorrow, apparently. And man, did we find some awesome souvenirs. I am really excited to hear how Liam’s family like their presents.

Isn’t it strange how the one week you need homework to keep your mind occupied, there is hardly any? After I work out the difference between a Petrarchian and a Shakespearian sonnet, I will be free as a bird. I have plenty of other things to keep me busy: McLeod’s DVDs, the pile of books I couldn’t bring back with me from Australia that Liam returned to me. I’ll get stuck into some Dorothy Parker, or perhaps a bit of Bill Bryson. I might go really crazy and read some rare Jane Austen! In addition, there is a new Cage podcast to listen to. And if I get really bored, I’ll try to get rid of the epic amount of lint hiding in the nooks and crannies of my room. Leonie lives in a lint factory.

I have finally manged to finish the book that has been linked under “currently reading” on the right hand side for at least four months. It’s amazing that I managed not to finish a book I like so much for so long. Nick Hornby’s “A Long Way Down” is an excellent read. I liked it even more than “How to be Good,” which was fantastic already.

The book is funny, but not in a laughing-out-loud hahaha sort of way. Its genius lies in the fact that when you look up “irony” in the dictionary, it has a photo of Nick Hornby. The back of the book does too, full page, and in colour. It didn’t really need that… I cannot recommend this novel enough, though. It’s a great read. Hornby really manages to get inside the brain of four completely different people who feel like killing themselves on New Year’s Eve. Do they? There wouldn’t be a novel then, would there? How does it end? Pick up a copy an get reading, kids.

I haven’t thought of a new book to read yet, mostly because half the books I bought and haven’t had a chance to read are still in Australia. However, that might change soon. That’s all I’m going to say about it :P

This afternoon, a little boy with incredibly curly hair rang the doorbell about sixteen times. When I answered it, my neighbour’s son, roughly two feet tall, asked if I would help him put his new skates on, and could I teach him how to do it? Why not, thought I, and I asked him to give me a couple of minutes to finish my tea. Mum told me to skull it (pretty much), because “a minute” is a very short time for little boys. Sure enough, 30 seconds later, the doorbell rang again (this time only once, cause I tickled him and told him I got the message after one ring). I got the box with the new skates out of the back of his mum’s car, and proceeded to put them on, supervised by a 9 and a 12-year-old.

I also found out that I won’t be one of those mums who feel incredible guilt at every kid-related thing they get wrong. I put the skates on WITH THE BALL OF PAPER STILL IN THERE. He remarked that “it did hurt a little bit.” Oh. Heh. He’ll live.

He was very excited about the prospect of moving with the speed of light. It turned out that standing up was a big enough challenge for day one. As I stood behind him, grabbing him when he was about to fall over, he confided in me, “I think shoes are easier.”

Today was another day of sunniness. I finished the novel reading in a sunny spot on the carpet. It seems I wasn’t the only one snoozing in a patch of sunlight today… Mum and I walked to town for a number of little errands. On the way back, I suggested we walk past my grandmother’s old farm. The farm is more or less in the middle of town, with a big patch of grass. No one is currently living there, because the last tenants destroyed the place while my grandmother was too nice to say anything about it. They barely paid rent, too. Nothing says “thank you” like ruining a farm that has been in the family for over five generations. In the grass was a chubby black and white cat, eyes only barely open, snoozing away. I bet he’s glad it’s Spring too.