Category Archives: Authors

Top Ten Tuesday | Most Intimidating Books

02 Tuesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Authors, Book Challenges, BookTalk, Meme

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This meme is brought to you by The Broke and the Bookish. Today’s topic is the top ten most intimidating books that we all dread to read for one reason or another. Here is my list of titles:

  1. Ulysses by James Joyce – I will feel like a complete failure/idiot if I cannot get through this book in one sitting. Especially since it is THE most important book in modern literature. EVER. *shudders*
  2. The Waves by Virginia Woolf – Sometimes Woolf can be completely incomprehensible to me. Her writing is like a strange melody with a hidden beat. I have to hunt for the damn thing in all the dense foliage of her prose. ‘The Waves’ completely baffled me and I wound up running to the nearest exit to this weird labyrinth of fiction.
  3. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes – The sheer size of it puts me off. It lives on the shelf next to Milton’s Paradise Lost.
  4. Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger – I really don’t know why people call this a great novel. Never really saw it myself. Intimidating when you can’t see what millions of others can.
  5.  Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon – He is so awesome. ‘The Crying of Lot 49‘ changed my taste in books drastically. It was also one of the hardest damn books I’d ever read. What if I don’t get this one?
  6. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand – The books scares me (sheer size), Ayn Rand scares me (have you seen her?) OMIGOD.
  7. 2666 by Roberto Bolano – I have a love/hate relationship with Bolano. I keep expecting the same kind of pleasure I get when I read Borges but get confused when I don’t. Confused and angry. Not quite the same as intimidated, but…
  8. The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie – So much controversy around this novel. What if I end up hating it? Will it cost me a well-respected author?
  9. House of Leaves by M.Z. Danielewski – I read this once before. I don’t think I’ll read it again anytime soon. I have never been so scared of words and the things they can unravel both within and without. Danielewski is king. I grovel at his feet.
  10. The Dark Tower series by Stephen King – A mammoth seven book series that I have only briefly dipped into. I don’t know if I can last the distance…

That’s my list of intimidating books guys. How about yours? Are there any above that scare the bejesus out of you? Would you add to the list?

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Would You Like to Smell Like Your Favourite Author?

27 Monday May 2013

Posted by in Authors, Excerpts, From Life...

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What were the signature scents of famous authors?

Thanks to a post made at Book Riot, I got to thinking about my two favourite things in life: perfumes and books. I have a prodigiously large collection of both; yet it never occurred to me to find out what type of scents my favourite authors actually wore during their lifetime. Amanda Nelson of the irreverent book blog Dead White Guys came up with some cool concoctions of her own; and it inspired me to have a synesthete moment.

This is a bit of a tough mission, but one that yielded surprising results! Here’s what I have come up with so far…

4. ANAIS NIN

Some authors like Anais Nin have already inspired a perfume, so admired were they in their lifetime. Anais Anais was the first perfume produced by Cacharel in 1978. To me, it evokes the scent-memory of France, my mother and the sweet yet deceptive innocence at the heart of all women. I also adore the fresh green smell and the O’Keefe-inspired artwork that has been used for many decades.

Notes
Top: Bergamot, galbanum, hyacinth, honeysuckle, orange blossom
Middle: Lily, lily of the valley, rose, ylang-ylang, tuberose, carnation
Base: Cedarwood, sandalwood, amber, oakmoss, incense, vetiver

3. OSCAR WILDE

What would a notorious super-dandy and aesthete like Oscar Wilde possibly wear as a perfume? Apparently the now discontinued (yet aptly named) Malmaison of Floris of London. It is described by experts as having a linear smell – that of almost purely red carnations. At first I couldn’t imagine a carnation as being Wilde’s smell, yet there is a certain exotic woodsy, clove-like aroma to carnations that does fit in with Wilde’s character. Red is certainly his colour too! The reintroduction of Malmaison Encore by Floris means people can relive the original fragrance in a more modern version.

NOTES

Top notes: bergamot, black pepper, cardamom
Heart notes: clove, nutmeg, rose, ylang ylang
Base notes : amber, cedarwood, frankincense, heliotrope, tonka bean, vanilla

2. F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

Many famous people including F. Scott Fitzgerald and later Marlene Dietrich wore Lieber Gustav #14. The perfume was created by celebrated nose Albert Kriegler and he states that ‘Perfume #14 was chosen by Fitzgerald because of its depth, and the connection between Berlin and Provence.’ I also find that scents hold geographical memories for me, yet even more interesting is that Lieber Gustav #14 was inspired by a love letter between a young girl and her fiancee… Reminds me of The Great Gatsby!

NOTES

Leather, Black tea, Lavender, Musk and Woody notes.

1. SIDONIE-GABRIELLE COLETTE

Colette is another author who is epitomises sensuality and whose work’s forever obsess with the gratification of the flesh and of the soul. She owned her own beauty salon and being something of a perfumer herself used only the petals of white flowers. However, it has been recorded that she had a particular penchant for Coty’s Jasmin de Corse, which is again very hard to find. A 1925 ad described it as, ‘For the Woman of the Dreamy Elusive Type: Jasmine de Corse, La Jacinthe & Lilas Blanc.’ I can only imagine the closest we can ever get to this perfume with it’s heavy, smoky Jasmine undertones would be Lanvin’s Arpege which was created 20 years after.

So, that’s all I could find on authors and their favourite fragrance’s. Is there any I’ve missed out that should be in the list? Let me know.

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Literary Songs A-Z | D is for ‘Diamonds are Forever’ by Ian Fleming

14 Saturday Apr 2012

Posted by in Authors, Book News, Excerpts, Movies, Music

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Yup, it was bound to happen sometime soon. I couldn’t resist it; there had to be a Shirley Bassey in the line-up and it’s in at the letter ‘D’. ‘Diamonds are Forever’ is the fourth Fleming novel in the 007 series and it just oozes charisma and glamour. Without a doubt it epitomises the very essence of the novels. In fact, if the Bond movie franchise got one thing right again and again, it’s the quality of their opening music and Shirley Bassey is the undisputed queen of that particular success.

However, I feel the last few Bond movies have not lived up to this expectation. The music just wasn’t up to scratch, it being somewhat lacklustre and forgettable (I confess, I can’t even remember the last two Bond songs!). Even worse is the sad fact that there really IS no one good enough to take over from Bassey. Lord knows they have tried, but it just hasn’t worked. Her voice is the auditory hallmark of the 007 films and to be honest the only person who could have come close to stepping into her shoes was the late, great Amy Winehouse. But alas, that was not to be. It’s a shame that Winehouse was so self-destructive and her death is a great loss to the music world. But I believe there is still hope. There is yet some other singer out there with the special vocal chemistry that will make my skin tingle when those opening chords play and the naked ladies grace the screen in their psychedelic glory (all seen through a very suggestive ‘peeping-tom-like’ tunnel!)

I have only read two Fleming books so far: ‘Octopussy and the Living Daylights’ and ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’ and found them to be entertaining in their own way, although I have it on good authority that ‘Casino Royale‘ is by far the best out the bunch. The only difference between the Bond in the novels and the Bond we are accustomed to seeing on screen is that the books don’t take the whole thing so seriously. It’s very tongue-in-cheek and quite clearly just a bit of fun. This was quite surprising after the cool, cunning and calculating Bond that Sean Connery and Roger Moore have built up over the years. I would recommend the Bond novels to anyone looking for a break from their usual genres.  If you’re not sure check out my reviews above.

But I digress; here is the opening title screen to the film. Lyrics are below, enjoy!

Diamonds are forever,
They are all I need to please me,
They can stimulate and tease me,
They won’t leave in the night,
I’ve no fear that they might desert me.

Diamonds are forever,
Hold one up and then caress it,
Touch it, stroke it and undress it,
I can see every part,
Nothing hides in the heart to hurt me.

I don’t need love,
For what good will love do me?
Diamonds never lie to me,
For when love’s gone,
They’ll luster on.

Diamonds are forever,
Sparkling round my little finger.
Unlike men, the diamonds linger;
Men are mere mortals who
Are not worth going to your grave for.

I don’t need love,
For what good will love do me?
Diamonds never lie to me,
For when love’s gone,
They’ll luster on.
Diamonds are forever, forever, forever.
Diamonds are forever, forever, forever.
Forever and ever.

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John Steinbeck – A Letter For Beginners

12 Thursday May 2011

Posted by in Authors, Excerpts, Writing

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John Ernst Steinbeck (February 27, 1902 – December 20, 1968)

I don’t want to write too much and spoil the perfection of the following letter that is addressed to aspiring writers. If anyone has looked for a mentor to guide them along this lonely road of letters, then I give them John Steinbeck’s inspirational texts. Here’s a man who trod the path, understood what writing was ‘really’ about, and managed to convey it in ways that us beginners could  understand.

So, this is for all those who cannot ‘see’ their way clearly and are confused as to where their road is taking them, and to those in particular who think ‘reading’ is experience enough to write a good book. Steinbeck highlights the necessity of an inner enlightenment for all wannabe writers, one that borders on the Buddhistic:

“Dear Writer:

 Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyes and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.

The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from the writer to the reader, and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all – so long as it was effective. As a subhead to this rule, it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of our story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three- or six- or ten-thousand words.

So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that, we were set on the desolate, lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades given my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterward upheld my teacher’s side, not mine. The low grades on my college stories were echoed in the rejection slips, in the hundreds of rejection slips.

It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done. Why could I not then do it myself? Well, I couldn’t, and maybe it’s because no two stories dare be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don’t know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.

If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.

It is not so very hard to judge a story after it is written, but, after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.

I remember one last piece of advice given me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic ’20s, and I was going out into that world to try to be a writer.

I was told, “It’s going to take a long time, and you haven’t got any money. Maybe it would be better if you could go to Europe.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor.”

It wasn’t too long afterward that the depression came. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame anymore. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely my teacher was right about one thing. It took a long time – a very long time. And it is still going on, and it has never got easier.

      She told me it wouldn’t.

                                                                          John Steinbeck, 1963

Writer’s Journal | Notes About a Small Island, The Novel as Seedling (1)

12 Thursday May 2011

Posted by in Art, Authors, Quotes, Writing

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 … How the story fell upon my mind, and refused to leave…
… And grew into a thorny briar patch…
… Demanding to be told…

Years ago I had an idea for a novel. It struck me one day when I was doing something quite normal. Maybe I was washing the dishes, maybe I was taking a walk, but it was during one of those moments when your body is in autodrive and your mind elsewhere.

The story began with: ‘Why hasn’t anyone written about this before?’ At first, the question was small, a pin-prick in the brain. But later I realised it was in fact an old, dull ache born from an event of systematic racial intolerance that subsided and was later left to stew slowly in a stagnant mire of political and personal gain. It’s a well known fact that people get used to things they shouldn’t, things like pain, hunger and even death. Of course, this had nothing to do with those things, but harboured within it the traces of such suffering and was seeking justice to its burnt pride. It offered me its tangled skein of problems and asked me to listen to the voices therein.  

Writing a story is hard enough, but giving a story the justice it deserves 
requires phenomenal talent. All I had at my possession was an above average passion for books and an appreciation for the written word. So it was here I began my search, between dusty pages and forgotten tomes, for remnants of the question. I racked my brains, trying to come up with a book, a film, a play, anything that was a half-decent attempt to portray this neglected area of history. I was to my dismay, met by silence and denial.

Art had next to nothing in its vast repertory that was a study of the country, its people or their history. Any accounts were abridged version of events written predominantly by outsiders. I poured over military documents, political correspondence, ‘eyewitness’ accounts, but all were sterile, too neutered to be  a faithful representation of events. The question pulsed its’ red light, ‘Something is missing, something is wrong’. Yes, I could see it now. Something was missing. It was the absence of the hand-over-the-heart, the honesty, the coming-clean. It was the absence of the voices in the skein, those who could still recount the past on the rough-hewn syllables of their mother-tongue.   

This silence, this absence was denial and it issued from a particular political ilk that championed democracy and fairness, but was (as the indelible ink of history would have it) the very demon that fanned the embers of racism. 

For months I thought about this, and an anger welled up inside me. There were so many stories to tell, so many versions; the culmination of which would be the chorus to break this unreasonable silence. These stories weren’t in any 
historical books or anthologies, instead they existed as fables of old did: on the dying breath of story-telling. No one ever thought of recording it in print. My family is one of the rare ones that still talk about that time, talk about it in its ugly glory. Through them I saw what the question really wanted: the grassroots of the problem. It wanted the events as it happened, the series of cause and effect as it unfolded under the relentless glare of the mediterranean sun. It wanted the chorus of voices, each unique yet the same in their own ways to merge with the elements of a small island on that day on June 1974, and sing their deafening cicada song to a world who would rather forget them. 

Men and women now in their eighties had faced the ugly, mindless wrath of war. Some had seen things that had pushed them to murder, madness and suicide. Others did things for country and religion that they carry around with them today like a guilty sin. People went missing, whole villages were razed to the ground. There were the tortured with some still alive to tell the tale. There was an artillery bullet through the hipbone of a five-year old girl, four years in hospital clamped together by metal because of metal and a lifetime (a half-life) confined to wheel-chairs.

Yet after three decades people are trying to build a future for themselves, free from the horror and shame of their near-past. But the skyscrapers and the luxury villas, the five-star hotels and expensive shopping malls are not bringing any comfort. Money is a temporary panacea. It does not fill the strange void, the gaping alienation of a nation. The bones of the dead, the eternally silenced, push at the foundations of these new-fangled buildings. At night, the dreams of the new, forgetful generation are troubled from the tremors of their ancestors shuddering in unmarked graves. It is like the hum of a coming earthquake, a deep guttural unearthly hum. It’s a rule: no one can build a future by burying the past. The truth will out. And it is the charge of a writer to tell the truth, the way it needs to be told.

All the above, in all its straight and flowery language fell upon my mind in a matter of minutes, yet took months to spool out into its full-length. Thought moves fast, and one thought follows another at lightning speed until you have a many-headed hydra; reason upon reason to tell a story, to strengthen the validity of it in the world.

As I said, this idea for a novel happened years ago, and I still wrestle with it. I write almost daily, but there is so much to write. It began with a people and a particular moment in their quiet yet complex history, but has extended to the rocks and the seas and the wind. I used to listen to people recounting the history of their personal lives during that time, but now I find everything in the hum of the earth, and all the silent souls it bears inside it.

Book Review | ‘Peter Pan’ by J.M. Barrie

09 Monday May 2011

Posted by in Audiobooks, Authors, Book Review, Excerpts

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Peter PanPeter Pan by J.M. Barrie

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

“When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.”

I’m surprised I didn’t get round to picking this up when I was younger. It’s a lovely book, perfect for children and full of all the little quirks and funny thoughts that kids have at that age. I had a lot of fun comparing the Disney version with the original and discovering that there was quite a bit more to the story than I thought.

“There is a saying in the Neverland that, every time you breathe, a grown-up dies.”

The language is typical of its time; a few words like ‘mea culpa’ and the likes might baffle todays younger audience (and even the older ones I might venture to add) so have that dictionary at hand to quench the thirst of inquiring minds. But on the other hand it’s nice to have the occasional hard phrase in there. I don’t like it when authors dumb down the text for children. If they don’t come across these words in books then when will they ever learn them? It’s also a reflection of how Barrie always revered and respected the intelligence of his audience.

The story itself is a lot more than just a fantasy adventure. If we look beyond the rambunctious Peter, the naughty Tinkerbell and the awe-inspiring Neverland, there are some very important lessons to be had. A few years ago I happened to watch a documentary all about Barrie’s life and work and was particularly fascinated by the incredibly morbid subtext of ‘Peter Pan’. Academics have it that the novel was based on Barrie’s own experience of child-loss within his family. Before he was born his mother had given birth to a boy who died not long after. With his birth, he had not only inherited the dead child’s name, but also grew up hearing about it. If living in the shadow of a brother you never knew wasn’t bad enough, Barrie was also to experience the further loss of a younger sibling that would leave an everlasting impression on his psyche.

“There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred.”

The notion of ‘never growing up’ was inspired by the death of these children, as the worst thing any family who has suffered a similar loss is the notion that they will never get to see their children grow up. ‘Neverland’ therefore is the aptly named heaven for such lost souls. A child’s paradise full of adventure and all sorts of fun things. But as Barrie is adamant to underline, it is ‘Never’ land after all, and a place no child should really end up going to.

“To live will be a great adventure.”

Therefore I had a few mixed feelings before I started this one, but to my relief found no overly morbid indicators as to the origins of the tale. Instead, the motif of ‘mother’ is worked over and over again, as if the sanctity of the home for the good of children and also some hints as to how parents (especially father’s) should never take their children for granted or worse, consider them a burden. There are, in short, lessons for all to be had, if you know where to look.

Definitely a read for bedtime, as children will love looking forward to the next chapter every night.

Note: My version was an audiobook accessed via Librivox.

View all my reviews

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Literary Blog Hop | J. L. Borges and the Quintessential Latin America

03 Thursday Feb 2011

Posted by in Authors, Meme

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Don\

Welcome to the ‘Literary Blog Hop’, a meme hosted by The Blue Bookcase for book bloggers who focus on reviewing literary fiction. This weeks’ hop comes with the question:
 
What setting (time or place) from a book or story would you most like to visit? Eudora Welty said that, “Being shown how to locate, to place, any account is what does most toward making us believe it…,” so in what location would you most like to hang out?
 
First of all, I’d like to thank Robyn for this weeks brilliant question. With some books I’ve often wished I could just dive into the setting and live there forever. The ones that made me feel this way are mostly set in or are by South American authors. Maybe it’s something to do with the way these writers write, but Latin America certainly does have a unique charm that blends the essence of two continents rather than one; the totemic mysteries of its indigenous tribes and the etiquette of colonial Europe. And it is on these two opposing axis’ that most Latin American literature is often played out. My first proper foray into it was seven years ago, when I came across ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’ by Jorge Luis Borges. At the time I was studying the finer points of short story writing and among the collection we had to read, this one stood out as a masterpiece. It sent shivers through me, and put me on the path to discovery, even though the others in the class weren’t particularly moved by the mind-boggling possibilities of what Borges conveyed.
Even though the story wasn’t about Latin America, I had my first ever taste of ‘magical realism’, been introduced to the concept of ‘hypertext fiction’ and one of Borges’ more permanent ‘personal myths’; the book as labyrinth. In fact, Borges seldom wrote about Latin America. So strong and clear was his grasp of ‘fiction’; the quality of its parts both isolated and as a whole that his stories sit on the very precipice of reality and are just as challenging today as they were 80 years ago. It was this feeling of walking around inside his Daliesque world when I realised I had probably stumbled upon Latin America at its most quintessential. Ultimately, Borges brought around the idea that a country, its people, its violent histories, its death as a nameless land and rebirth as the ‘New World’ is somehow genetically encoded in all who have come to live there. The writer merely heats this monstrous history in the crucible of his mind, reduces it down to its essence and pours it into a vessel of fiction.
Since then I have become enamoured with Argentine authors. With Borges I discovered a rare path into the avant-garde, Ultraist Literary movement of the 1900’s that I thought had ended with Anais Nin and Djuna Barnes. With Gabriel Garcia-Marquez and Isabel Allende, I discovered the complexities of family lore and political turmoil and how this lay at the heart of all South American culture. Later, Roberto Bolano taught me about the kaleidoscopic ‘voices’ of the past that echo throughout the land and the way colonialism had all but destroyed the indigenous spirit of this great continent. Last year, Ernesto Guevara, another Argentine writer (and freedom fighter) showed me how all modern Latin Americans doom themselves to capitalism (the new colonialism) if they do not embrace and reconcile with that very spirit they once tried to cage and tame.
There is such a mixture of ideas, customs and cultures, that to understand Latin America, one would best remember that it does not actually belong to ‘a set’ of people, but like the elusive Jaguar, moves in the shadows of history and the wilderness of a past that refuses to die. One where the quetzalcoatl and many other gods who were considered extinct still live on, attached to Christianity and by burying themselves deeply in everyday folklore and myth.

World Book Night 5th March 2011 | What Book Would You Give?

31 Monday Jan 2011

Posted by in Authors, Book News

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“To be given a book is like being given a ship: you become a Christopher Columbus and there’s no saying what you’ll find across the ocean. I’m delighted that Life of Pi is part of World Book Night. May all who receive the book reach safe harbour.”
–Yann Martel

I recently found out about this wonderful event from my local library and felt a need to share with everyone. Spread the word people! ‘World Book Night’ will be premiering on 5th March 2011 all over the UK and Ireland. This gives us book lovers another opportunity to spread the reading virus further afield. The concept is simple: choose from one of the 25 books shortlisted, apply to be one of the people giving away that book, and become a ‘founder member’ of the club. 

Unfortunately applications have closed now, but those who are still interested can take part by watching this nationwide celebration of the written word via the BBC, where I gather there will be all night readings and other programmes. For more information about authors participating and the shortlist, visit www.worldbooknight.org.  You can also support the event via Twitter and Facebook.

“World Book Night represents the most ambitious and far-reaching celebration of adult books and reading ever attempted in the UK and Ireland.

On Saturday, 5 March 2011, two days after World Book Day, with the full support of the Publishers Association, the Booksellers Association, the Independent Publishers Guild, the Reading Agency with libraries, World Book Day, the BBC and RTE, one million books will be given away by an army of passionate readers to members of the public across the UK and Ireland.

The book give-away will comprise 40,000 copies of each of the 25 carefully selected titles, to be given away by 20,000 ‘givers’, who will each distribute 48 copies of their chosen title to whomever they choose on World Book Night. The remaining books will be distributed by World Book Night itself in places that might otherwise be difficult to reach, such as prisons and hospitals.”

Burn’s Night | Yae Cannae Forget Aboot It!

25 Tuesday Jan 2011

Posted by in Authors, Book News

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Burns Night

Don’t you just love Google for reminding you of great events like this? My first reaction to their graphic when I logged on this morning was ‘Oooo, BURNS NIGHT!’ I had clean forgotten about it, but I always try to celebrate it in my own way. For those who don’t know what it’s about this special event is held in honour of Robert Burns, the great Scottish poet of the Romantic era, who was born on January 25th. The aim of Burn’s Night is to celebrate his life and works of which the custom is to hold a ‘Burn’s Supper’. Now I didn’t know about this, but apparently it’s quite an elaborate get together, and just by the look of things I would love to attend one in the future.


Born: January 25th 1759 (Alloway, Ayreshire, Scotland)
Died: July 21st 1796 aged 37 (Dumfries, Scotland)

Top 5 Interesting Facts about Robert Burns

1. Had several honorary names including ‘Rabbie Burns’, ‘Scotland’s favourite son’, ‘the Ploughman Poet’, ‘Robden of Solway Firth’, ‘the Bard of Ayrshire’ and ‘The Bard’.

2. Was regarded as the pioneer of the Romantic movement and wrote many poems in the Scottish dialect.

3. Was also a gifted lyricist, his most famous song being ‘Auld Lang’s Ayne’ which is sung at Hogmanay (last day of the year).

4. Robert Burns was initiated into masonic Lodge St David Tarbolton on 4 July 1781, when he was 22. Traditionally, Burn’s Night was hosted by Freemasons, but that has changed over the years.

5. First published his poems on 14th April 1786 as a means of paying for his passage to the West Indies where he was offered work.

In the past I celebrated Burns Night by reading a few of my favourite poems by candlelight (in honour of the name, ‘Burns’), but this year I’m excited to be blogging about it instead. So here’s a classic poem that also inspired today’s google doodle:

A Red, Red Rose

“O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.”

This is widely printed as a poem, but it is actually a song that Burn’s claimed to have heard from a country girl. For me, this poem is almost at a par with Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodil’s’, which has the same lyrical quality. For the complete works of Robert Burns you can visit the BBC website who have dedicated a comprehensive page to him. You can even listen to his poems being read out by well-known figures such as HRH The Prince of Wales.

So, what are your favourite Burns’ poems and how do you celebrate it? Or do you have a different Romantic poet that is a firm favourite?

Midnight’s Children Readalong | Part 3 Discussions

17 Monday Jan 2011

Posted by in Authors, Book Challenges, Readalong

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Reading ‘Midnight’s Children’ has been quite an experience, and I’m both glad and sad that it’s over. This is the final set of questions that wraps up this modern literary classic and I would like to thank JoV at Bibliojunkie for hosting this readalong, the insightful questions she posed and for all the people who joined in.

I can say that best part of this has been answering the questions. It’s forced me to take a really good look at what I’m actually reading. Interpretation is what gives a book its flavour. Discovering that you have your own spin on something also sheds light on what kind of reader you are (and subsequently, what kind of WRITER you might be if you put your mind to it). So I took the opportunity to look at some of Rushdie’s more elaborate motifs/ use of language as a way to develop myself as a writer. This was why it probably took me so long to finish the thing! 

Below are some of the discussion questions (pages 350 – 500) and my responses to them. Click here for part 1 and here for part 2 of the discussions.

Question 1: What is the role of the 1001 children?

At first glance this question had me a bit stumped. I think the number 1001′ comes with its own special meaning; the most obvious being the ‘1001 Nights’, the legendary Arabic story-within-a-story that winds and rewinds around itself to create a continuous narrative. Therefore the children could be just this; people who signify stories, and who come to culminate and echo inside Saleem’s mind, or the ‘Midnight Conference’ as it’s known. At first, Saleem converses with his fellow brethren within the fictional realm of the psyche. The children are really nothing more than voices who are telling their own stories. It is only later, when that secret agora is permanently destroyed that Saleem actually meets some of the midnight children in reality.

Each child has his/ her dark gift bestowed by the powers of midnight and each is like a prophet in their own right, a little living god/ goddess. Rushdie uses a lot of religious symbolism, often juxtaposing Islam (Monotheism) and Hinduism (Polytheism). At the beginning we are introduced to Aadam Sinai, whose faith in Islam is suddenly tarnished when he accidentally hits his nose on the ground during prayers. This foreshadows the breaking of the country into two pieces (Pakistan and India). People of different faith who have managed to live together for centuries suddenly feel an urge to separate. This nationwide feeling or obligation to choose sides grows like a cancer in the population. The most affected by this are probably the mothers, whose as of yet unborn babies are suffused with this unbearable sense of divide and the ‘yoke of destiny’, as Saleem puts it.

In a sense, the country undergoes a caesarean section of sorts. There is a cutting and a taking out. A certain set of people are forced to leave their homes and make a life elsewhere. While birth is the creation of life, it can also be an expulsion of it. What was in the womb, or ‘mother India’ is expelled, and the moment of expulsion when ‘both hands meet’ is the creation and expulsion of the children. It is in effect the cancer made manifest. The ‘1001 children’ also personify the common hatred of the two communities. In effect they are quite literally born out of the synchronised birth/ death of a nation. These magical imps are each a vessel of foreboding and prophecy. Saleem’s often inadvertant hand in political scheme of things (pepperpots) indicates this. The rounding up and systematic castration of the midnight’s children also shows that anyone who understands the real reason of the breaking up of India, knows that the children are a gross representation of the many-headed gods/ beliefs/ ideologies that made the break possible in the first place.

Question 2: Why did the author give so many characters two names?

At the heart of the story we have a country who is hacked in two and given a different identity. The hopes and misgivings that such a divide causes is questioned by the thought that midnight might bring the two nations a fresh/ different set of values. When this is so, Rushdie probably went one step further and mirrored this in his characters. The notion of midnight is one of change or magical transformation. The idea that things morph during this particular moment into something else is also thwarted, as many people expected the land to undergo some sort of magical transformation and become better, more fertile and lucky for its inhabitants. The only transformation that midnight had was on the people themselves. This also goes for what became Pakistan, or ‘land of the clean’ as it was so hopefully named.

There is also the fact that a person is born with a given name. That name may have set values or expectations that come with it. Saleem is constantly called ‘little-piece-of-the-moon’ by his mother and is faced with the  tremendous expectations of his family. But as a person grows and begins to ‘become’ the person they are, they may change names to suit their evolving identity.