Strange twists in reading fate

Can it be simple coincidence, or are higher forces at work? Did I start reading David Starkey's 'Henry' today simply because I wanted something vastly different from 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', or did I inherently know that on this day in 1509, Henry VII died, therefore handing the crown to his younger son who went on to shape history like no other king before him?

I heard David Starkey speak on his new book just before Easter at the Oxford Literary festival, and it's safe to say he's a captivating speaker; quite different from his television persona, in that he goes off at a tangent all the time, but the story he's telling is still there. In this case, it's the story of that first part of Henry's life, when he was simply the 'spare' and therefore brought up accordingly. How much, Starkey asks, did this upbringing contribute to the way he acted later in life?

It's truly Henry VIII season at the moment - Hampton Court, The British Library and many others are having exhibitions to coincide with the 500th anniversary of his accession to the throne, and it's so interesting to read a biography of Henry that (in this part at any rate) doesn't focus on the thing that makes him so famous in this century - his marriages. I'm looking forward to seeing how Henry grew up, in the shadow of his brother and surrounded by the women of the court .... what made Henry was his first fifteen years, and I don't know about the rest of you, but my first fifteen years were pretty mediocre, and if I'd been forced to rule from that age, I doubt I'd have made a good job of it!

I shall report back in later to tell you how he's doing - Henry's report card if you will!

Books are like busses

It's strange - you read nothing worth talking about and sharing for weeks, and then two books come along at once that make you rush out to tell the world. I have had such an experience, and so I am here to tell you about two books that are highly original, and might make you see life from a slightly different perspective.

Firstly there is 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' by Khaled Hosseini who also wrote 'The Kite Runner'. This is isn't something I would've picked up, were it not my April bookclub choice. I've seen 'The Kite Runner' and was in no way inspired to read the book, and when his second novel came along, I wasn't rushing to the bookstore. I'm ever so glad whoever voted for it, as it's totally beautiful.

The book spans the decades between the sixties and 2003 and traces the many shifts in politics and life in Kabul through the eyes of two very different women, Mariam and Laila, who are connected at first only through the fact that they are married to the same man.
It's a powerful story, beautifully and simply told. Life is not dressed up to resemble anything fine or wonderful - people make mistakes, die before their time, wallow in grief and end up in abusive relationships. It was so interesting to read a novel on that side of the fence, especially through the eyes of women. It's a magical book, and it led me on to the second bus (book).

This was 'The Reluctant Fundamentalist' by Mohsin Hamid. It's written in the style of the dialogues philosophers of old once wrote to express their religious beliefs. One voice, telling a story and commenting on the unseen listener's reactions. A man, Pakistani by birth and upbringing, has come to America to go to Princeton. He tells the story of how he rises in the ranks of American society, but once the September 11th attacks happen he begins to become disollusioned with his adopted country. There is a poetic sense to the way he tells his tale, and there is a distinctive flavour to his words. Normally when I read, I only ever hear my voice telling the story, even if there are different dialects, like in 'Wuthering Heights'. This time, there was a definite lilt to the words, and it was almost as if I were sitting in the Lahore cafe with the man, being told the story myself.

Both books are intensely interesting and offer views on subjects that are constantly before our eyes nowadays, but which we have ceased to truly look at because of the constant stream of information. I want to read more, so I might move on to 'The Kite Runner'!

In other news, as you know I have a penchant for marking the anniversary of births and deaths of my favourite authors, and today is one such moment -- twenty years ago Daphne du Maurier, author of some of my favourite novels, died at the age of 82.

Easter

Happy Easter everyone! I hope you've all got lovely things planned - day trips, reading marathons, anything really to make use of these few lovely days we have off. I myself am going to Somerset, and will be tramping the countryside with eleven children, ten adults and three dogs - think of me when you are curled up in an arm chair with that extra thick book you've been saving for this holiday!
Hopefully I will get some reading done too - I know I'll get some buying done, as there's a particularly wonderful second hand bookshop in my grandmother's village. Anyone like to take a bet on how many books I'll buy?

Posting will hopefully resume normal service when I return - the first month of the new job is over, so hopefully I will have more time!

Happy Easter everyone!

Poem of the Week

Sorry not to have been around recently - new jobs = less time and a rather tired Oxford Reader. Also, shockingly, I've barely done any reading. It's taken me the best part of a week to read one Agatha Christie.

Anyway, hopefully will get back into the swing of things, and in the meantime, here's a poem - dedicated to the wonderful spirit that was and is Natasha Richardson.

They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it.
Death cannot kill what never dies.
Nor can spirits ever be divided, that love and live in the same divine principle, the root and record of their friendship.
If absence be not death, neither is theirs.
Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still.
For they must needs be present, that love and live in that whch is omnipresent.
In this divine glass they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure.
This is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, because immortal.

William Penn, from More Fruits of Solitude

A step back in time

There are times when I think I was born in the wrong era, and most definitely in the wrong class. It's all very well reading about people with big houses, holding wonderful soirees, having my portrait painted by John Singer Sargent or Joshua Reynolds. There are some wonderful houses in literature - Jane Austen has some fantastic examples, as do the Brontes, Henry James, Edwith Wharton and not forgetting some of our more recent authors, Agatha Christie, Evelyn Waugh, Daphne du Maurier and Kazuo Ishiguro - however, none of these compare to those in reality, and sometimes the stories that issue forth from places like Chatsworth are far more intriguing than anything an author could dream up.

Such a place is Cliveden - home of Waldorf and Nancy Astor, and the place where the infamous Profumo affair started. I went to lunch there yesterday (it's now a hotel) and feel that I can only belong in a place like Cliveden.

This is the entrance hall - not your usual setting for hanging your hats - and with Nancy Astor overseeing your every move, in the left hand corner, you wouldn't be cavorting too much.

A view from the upper terrace
This is Nancy Astor's butler - theirs was a volatile relationship, and on one occasion of his giving his notice (a regular occurrence) Nancy replied 'Where are you going to, for I shall follow you there.' Needless to state, he didn't go anywhere.

We sat in the middle window - a wonderful view ...
As can be seen below ....


One day - all this shall be yours*
It is, I think you will agree, beautiful and completely beyond most of our grasps. So it's back to the novels to give us what we want. Which literary mansion would you wish to live in? For my part, I think Dartington Hall, from 'The Remains of the Day' would be perfect!


*What, the curtains? (ten points for telling me where that's from!)

Birthday note

Hello all, just a quick note to say that if you stop by today, I hope you will help me celebrate and have a cup of tea (or something stronger) and a brownie with me. I made plenty last night, and below are a few photos of the making process! Happy eating! Here's to another wonderful year of book reading, and happy birthday to Dovegreyreader, who is three today!

Desiderata

People at work are sending me lovely things in the wake of me leaving, and one (the lovely Alice) obviously thinks I need a bit of calming down. Here is an email she sent me earlier today.

Max Ehrmann's inspirational poem - Desiderata

The common myth is that the Desiderata poem was found in a Baltimore church in 1692 and is centuries old, of unknown origin. Desiderata was in fact written around 1920 (although some say as early as 1906), and certainly copyrighted in 1927, by lawyer Max Ehrmann (1872-1945) based in Terre Haute, Indiana. The Desiderata myth began after Reverend Frederick Kates reproduced the Desiderata poem in a collection of inspirational works for his congregation in 1959 on church notepaper, headed: 'The Old St Paul's Church, Baltimore, AD 1692' (the year the church was founded). Copies of the Desiderata page were circulated among friends, and the myth grew, accelerated particularly when a copy of the erroneously attributed Desiderata was found at the bedside of deceased Democratic politician Aidlai Stevenson in 1965.

Whatever the history of Desiderata, the Ehrmann's prose is inspirational, and offers a simple positive credo for life.

Desiderata - by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann c.1920

It reminds me, in some ways, of that song that did the rounds in early 2000 - 'Everyone's Free to Wear Sunscreen', although I think the above is much truer.

Poem of the Week

In the wet-faced hours of the night

considering love, or the lack of it;
on-the-one-hand-this,
on-the-other-hand-that—

in these steep and solitary hours
come the raw questions.
And sorrow surfaces as tears,
and moonlight finds me, stretched
like some trussed Gulliver, among
the little, scampering, bossy needs of life;
the pinpricks of the new day’s coming cares.

And yet.
The day will dawn. A bird will sing.
A hundred different clichés spring to life.
Even in this January,
light, unstoppable, will show
the old camellia, up against the wall,
a shout of lipstick red.

By Ann Alexander