Yes, that's the adjective. Though I'm not entirely sure Ms. Weldon would approve.
I just finished Weldon's THE PRESIDENT's CHILD. Which was quite good, though towards the latter half I found myself just skipping along for the plot. Once you got the tone of the book in the first half, you pretty much got the whole point. But there was a lot to admire. Number one on the list was how swift and deft her characterizations are: Weldon pulls both Isabel and her mother together in the first chapter by telling the story of the mother's favorite horse kicking Isabel in the mouth (twice), thus deforming Isabel's face for life. The fact that Isabel's otherwise beautiful face is crumpled around the chin turns up again and again, refinining and defining her relationships with others (especially men) and her sense of herself.
Why sparky? Because of the tone: I've never read anything so quick and light and deft, jumping from event to event, conversation to conversation, without wasting a word. And at first you think it's funny, because it's so light and skippy. But no, not exactly: it turns out that what you're actually reading is a tragedy about relationships between men and women, and how even though we pretend men and women are equal, and even enact equality in our own lives by sharing housekeeping and child-rearing, our best efforts are doomed. Our longings and needs; our desires for home, power, love, and sex; these things cannot be made equal, Weldon seems to be saying, and some imbalance drives toward death and dissolution when we fail to recognize that. I haven't read Weldon's new novel, SHE MAY NOT LEAVE, but I think it returns to that same theme.
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
Thursday, 22 February 2007
The Light Hand of God
One of the things I love about Neil Gaiman’s Stardust (there are more things than just the one, but this’ll do for now) is the lightness and ease with which he introduces his characters’ magical powers. Especially Tristram’s. When Tristram crosses over into Faerie, he gradually realizes that he has a complete mental map of the entire realm. He never knew he had this power; it manifests itself in his ability to give directions whenever someone asks him for help. Gaiman develops this skill without any explanation; without any weight; as readers, he allows us to marvel and laugh at Tristram’s ability. We aren’t ever exposited at.
Tristram just does it—he just opens his mouth and out come directions. Gaiman’s the same way: he just does it. He just writes it, and trusts that we’ll get it. But we forget how hard that is. It’s so much easier to tell too much; to not cut out the unnecessary words; to underestimate the intelligence of the reader, either deliberately or, much more likely, unawares.
Tristram just does it—he just opens his mouth and out come directions. Gaiman’s the same way: he just does it. He just writes it, and trusts that we’ll get it. But we forget how hard that is. It’s so much easier to tell too much; to not cut out the unnecessary words; to underestimate the intelligence of the reader, either deliberately or, much more likely, unawares.
Tuesday, 20 February 2007
Telling yourself stories
When I was in high school (and into college, I think), I used to tell myself a story. In my head, in my journal, whatever. It was called "Betsy goes to meet the dragon" and it was kind of based on THE HERO AND THE CROWN by Robin McKinley (which you should read). Betsy was always going to meet the dragon, but she never got there. She walked down a barren valley, a valley of fear or a valley of death--anyway, it was barren--and it was the way to get to the dragon. She had to fight the dragon, but first she had to get through the valley. And I told myself this story because it was a way to translate difficult, stupid things in life (um, SATs? I was so naive about what was difficult) into something that meant something. cause if you're going to fight a dragon, what you're doing is meaningful. SATs on their own? Not so meaningful.
I do sometimes wonder why I never let myself get to the dragon.
Did anyone else do this? George Orwell did, apparently. His version was a little different, though: "...for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc. This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through my non-literary years." (George Orwell, "Why I Write," 1946. There's a nifty new Penguin edition.)
(Secretly, I still do it, though I don't tell the "Betsy goes to meet the dragon" story anymore, and it's more like I compare what's going on in my life to a favorite scene or character in a book, straight up.)
I do sometimes wonder why I never let myself get to the dragon.
Did anyone else do this? George Orwell did, apparently. His version was a little different, though: "...for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc. This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through my non-literary years." (George Orwell, "Why I Write," 1946. There's a nifty new Penguin edition.)
(Secretly, I still do it, though I don't tell the "Betsy goes to meet the dragon" story anymore, and it's more like I compare what's going on in my life to a favorite scene or character in a book, straight up.)
Fat Tuesday Pancakes
Yup, you guessed it: another recipe. Tonight's invention, in honor of Shrove Tuesday, was pancakes with warm ginger-pear compote. This one's pretty simple:
The Compote:
Two pears
2 Tbsp butter
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup water (though if you have some pear or apple brandy, use that instead).
1 Tbsp fresh ginger, finely chopped.
Cut the pears into 1/2 inch chunks. Mix together butter, sugar, water and ginger in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until the sugar dissolves and you get a syrupy mixture. Toss in the pears. Cook over medium heat until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon and the pears are soft, but not so soft they mush out all over the place.
The Pancakes:
Make some pancakes.
The Assembly:
Put the pears on top of the pancakes. A dollop of whipped cream or creme fraiche is also a very nice addition at this point.
Yay pancakes!
The Compote:
Two pears
2 Tbsp butter
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup water (though if you have some pear or apple brandy, use that instead).
1 Tbsp fresh ginger, finely chopped.
Cut the pears into 1/2 inch chunks. Mix together butter, sugar, water and ginger in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until the sugar dissolves and you get a syrupy mixture. Toss in the pears. Cook over medium heat until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon and the pears are soft, but not so soft they mush out all over the place.
The Pancakes:
Make some pancakes.
The Assembly:
Put the pears on top of the pancakes. A dollop of whipped cream or creme fraiche is also a very nice addition at this point.
Yay pancakes!
Sunday, 4 February 2007
I like...Cookies.
Okay, so like Betsy Willard, I am married to a man named Willard. Unlike Betsy Willard, I actually like to cook. And bake. Preferably with a gin and tonic by my side. (I know: girl+books+baking=homey cliches. Whatever. I like cookies.)
And speaking of--here's a recipe for these ones, invented to stave off boredom and tea-time hunger:
1/2 cup butter, room temperature
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder (dutch process, if you can)
Cream butter and sugar. Stir in the egg. Toss in all the dry ingredients. Stir some more. Form cookies by the spoonful (your choice, tea or table). Roll in more sugar (i like the brown demerara sugar with the big crystals). Flatten with the bottom of a glass. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 8-10 minutes.
Note that all measurements are rather approximate--we have not the measuring cups and spoons in our nifty pre-fab, pre-furnished short term apartment. Never believe those baking types when they tell you the measurements have to be absolutely precise...
And speaking of--here's a recipe for these ones, invented to stave off boredom and tea-time hunger:
1/2 cup butter, room temperature
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder (dutch process, if you can)
Cream butter and sugar. Stir in the egg. Toss in all the dry ingredients. Stir some more. Form cookies by the spoonful (your choice, tea or table). Roll in more sugar (i like the brown demerara sugar with the big crystals). Flatten with the bottom of a glass. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 8-10 minutes.
Note that all measurements are rather approximate--we have not the measuring cups and spoons in our nifty pre-fab, pre-furnished short term apartment. Never believe those baking types when they tell you the measurements have to be absolutely precise...
The Beginning
Okay. Here's the deal. I'm not particularly funny. I'm not particularly profound. At least not when I try too hard. But I do like to read. A lot of books. And I want to find people who want to talk about them.
Up this week: Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen/Isak Dinesen. Her prose is lovely, full of light.
Like this: "I had time after time watched the progression across the plain of the giraffe, in their queer, inimitable, vegetative gradeculness, as if it were not a herd of animals but a fmaily of rare, long-stemmed, speckled gigantic flowers slowly advancing."
Or this: "All the deerhounds were great hunters and had more nose than the greyhounds, but they hunted by sight and it was a highly wonderful thing to see two of them working together. I took them with me when I was out riding in the Game Reserve, which I was not allowed to do, and there they would spread the herds of zebra and wildebeest over the plain, as if it were all the stars of heaven running wild over the sky."
And I think we will not fulfill the rule of three today.
But what do you think? Is it possible to enjoy language like this without embroiling oneself in a white man's colonialist nightmare?
Up this week: Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen/Isak Dinesen. Her prose is lovely, full of light.
Like this: "I had time after time watched the progression across the plain of the giraffe, in their queer, inimitable, vegetative gradeculness, as if it were not a herd of animals but a fmaily of rare, long-stemmed, speckled gigantic flowers slowly advancing."
Or this: "All the deerhounds were great hunters and had more nose than the greyhounds, but they hunted by sight and it was a highly wonderful thing to see two of them working together. I took them with me when I was out riding in the Game Reserve, which I was not allowed to do, and there they would spread the herds of zebra and wildebeest over the plain, as if it were all the stars of heaven running wild over the sky."
And I think we will not fulfill the rule of three today.
But what do you think? Is it possible to enjoy language like this without embroiling oneself in a white man's colonialist nightmare?
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