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Wordly Obsessions

~ … the occasional ramblings of a book addict …

Wordly Obsessions

Category Archives: Authors

Hallowe’en Reads – October Book Haul from MCM Comic Con

28 Sunday Oct 2018

Posted by mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Book Review, comics

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Tags

Batman, Brian Azzarello, comic books, ComicCon, dc comics, Frank Miller, Infinity War, Joker, Klaus Janson, literature, Marvel Universe, Master Race, nanowrimo, The Dark Knight, The Long Halloween


infinity volume 1
Batman the dark knight master race
batman the long H
i-batman-the-killing-joke
batman the long H
Batman the dark knight master race
i-batman-the-killing-joke
infinity volume 1

It seems all the good things are just around the corner: hallowe’en is almost upon us as well as the monthly madness of NaNoWriMo. Yesterday I was also lucky enough to have attended the London MCM ComicCon. I came away with a big book haul that is set to enrich my ever-expanding comic book collection, though my bank balance is considerably depleted!

How to describe comic con? A lot of people ask me if it really is an insane geek-out sesh and I have to say, yes, it most definitely is. Everyone is doing their own thing and it’s the only place where no one will ever give you a second glance if you turn up half-naked covered in green paint screaming ‘HULK SMASH!’ in people’s faces. I personally love it for all the bookish goodness I can take away with me (one guy actually had a bubblegum pick suitcase for his haul. That will probably be me next year…) and it’s a wonderful opportunity to meet the creators, illustrators and some big names in the industry.

This year’s attraction for me was no other than Frank Miller and Brian Azzarello from the DC Universe. I got a very special edition of Dark Knight III Master Race signed by him, Azzarello, Kubert and Janson and I managed to meet and talk to Brian Azzarello himself. He signed the black cover copy of Master Race for me (the complete edition). Klaus Janson was also there and I got a cheeky little signature from him too.

Other highlights of the event was an awesome steampunk stand where I met an absolutely adorable steampunk R2D2 and got my picture taken with no other than Ryuk from Deathnote. A girl’s dream come true!

Here are a few of my favourite snaps from the Con:

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

HALLOWE’EN READS

  • Batman: The Long Hallowe’en – I’ll be kicking off with this aptly named title! I’m on a bit of a DC bender at the moment, specifically Batman. I’m watching Gotham on Netflix and I would REALLY love it if they could make an origins story for Fish Mooney, even though she was only created for the TV show.
  • Batman: The Dark Knight Master Race – I’d almost forgotten how awesome Mr. B actually is. I am a Marvel girl through and through, yet there’s something about him that’s different. He has no special abilities, yet his loss and subsequent darkness is the only thing that fuels him on his journey to making the world a better place. I identify with that. And no matter what anyone says, he’ll always going to be the good guy. I just wish he found someone to make him happy.

What will you be reading for hallowe’en?

 

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Summer Reads #2 – The Sandman Saga by Neil Gaiman

10 Friday Aug 2018

Posted by mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Book Review, Philosophy/ Religion, summer reading, Uncategorized

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Tags

american gods, book review, books, christianity, comic books, coraline, god of dreams, greek mythology, literature, mirrormask, moirai, morpheus, mythology, Neil Gaiman, ramadan, Reading, religion, stardust, the kindly ones, The Sandman, the three fates, Vertigo Jam


the kindly ones

According to Neil Gaiman, if the Moirai (the Three Fates) lived among us, they would be harmless old cat ladies with a penchant for yarn-bombing.

 

This year I managed to complete the Sandman Saga, which was a big one for me, because after reading a lot of Neil Gaiman, I was still undecided on how I felt about him and his writing.

He’s one of these authors who is gifted and has a prolific output of work – the man can turn his hand to anything literary and make a success of it. The Sandman comics have also long been touted as his magnum opus, but I just didn’t have the time to get through it due to work commitments.

But 2018 was the year for it, and I’m sooooo glad I got through this, because it was AMAZING! Neil Gaiman is everything they say he is – an absolute genius.

If like me, you weren’t that particularly impressed with Coraline, Mirrormask, Stardust or found American Gods to be too steep and cryptic in terms of plot and character development, then The Sandman Saga is definitely for you.

In my humble opinion, this has to be Gaiman’s biggest achievement. In it he display’s his amazing prowess and knowledge of world mythology; creates a world where all gods, of all races across all times exist in the here and now, some as faint echoes and others as living amongst us, unbeknownst to us. In a way, The Sandman is not just about the adventures of Morpheus the Dream-God (one of the Eternals); it is through his interactions with humans, his losses and gains, his victories and calamities that Gaiman puts together a meta-mythology, a place where all gods are a figment of human imagination and exist as long as we exist.

I love this idea – it’s fresh, new, and something that he goes into in great detail in American Gods where he explores how ancient gods gain new grounds through the diasporas of different peoples’ across the ages, and how genocides are enough to wipe out the existence of others. It is powerful in that it puts the existence of faith into the hands of story-telling. The gods travel and stay tethered to survival through our stories. According to Gaiman, without the tradition of oral story-telling, our gods would come to naught. Being a story-teller, I like this idea, a lot!

Thus I found Sandman to be a bibliophile’s delight, because Morpheus, the god of dreams is the ultimate storyteller. He controls the gateway to the subconscious, he is a merciful god to a certain extent, yet when the world of dreams is in flux (as it is when we are first introduced to him in Preludes and Nocturnes issue #1), it causes chaos in the human world.

The saga begins when a group of Occultists (among them, the infamous Aleister Crowley) gather to summon and entrap Death itself. Their little parlour game goes awry and instead of entrapping Death, they manage to snag Death’s twin brother, Dream. Morpheus, therefore begins his 70 year confinement at the hands of these occultists, which results in terrible consequences for people around the world. Some fall asleep never to wake up again, others die stark raving mad because of their inability to sleep, others are subjected to terrible nightmares that are endless. In short, the world is thrown into flux, but the Lord of Dreams finally finds a way to escape his fate as a ‘genie in the lamp’, and must begin a journey across space and time, and between worlds to claim back the power that was seized in his absence.

This is of course, just the beginning of the saga. So much more happens, and I can’t remember a time when I was so engrossed by mythology as I was with this series. It has made my understanding and appreciation of American Gods much more meaningful as I see now what Gaiman was trying to do.

The Sandman was him playing in the sand pit. He stated himself that the series made him grow as a writer as he became bolder with his world-building, and with those amazing connections he makes between character and the series.

My favourite issues comprise of the stand-alone Ramadan, which has a very 1001 nights flavour to it and the masterful way he put together The Kindly Ones, the penultimate volume to the saga, where he explores the potency of the female in mythology. The Kindly Ones as they are referred to, assume the avatar of the mother, the lover, the female scorned. The way he portrays the Three Fates and the alchemy of feminine ‘madness’ was especially breath-taking.

I’ve made up my mind: Neil Gaiman truly is one of a kind.

I can only hope to meet him in person one day and listen to his pearls of wisdom about writing.

NOTE: Special mention to the illustrator David McKean, whose illustrated the front covers for each volume. His style artfully illustrated the nightmare and the dreamscape of Morpheus’ world. But if you look carefully past the disturbing nature of his images, you will see a balance of symbolism, which like a dowling rod divines the very heart of each volume and issue. A wonderful collaboration.

 

 

 

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HoL Book Club | Part 1 – My Musings, Just in time for World Book Day…

01 Thursday Mar 2018

Posted by mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Book Review, Readalong, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

book challenge, book club, ergodic literature, HoL, house of leaves, hypertext, japan, Jorge Luis Borges, mark z danielewski, readalong


dc815efc411bf5cc1b40d015e1d3b637--house-of-leaves-book-quotes

It is March 1st – which means I get to mark World Book Day from a busy cafe in a shopping mall, after having travelled 40 minutes (there and back) to work only to find out it is a ‘snow day’ and therefore the site is shut.

I am currently drowning the last embers of my rage in my chai latte and top it off with a blueberry muffin, which quite frankly, I think I bloody well deserve after battling with Storm Emma’s offering on my car this morning. But hey-ho, can’t complain. I get to sit across the way from a Scouse handyman who is commiserating about his personal life to his mate and just eavesdrop (because that is what reader/writers do – we are very Parisian in that fashion).

This is the perfect time and place to write another blog post. Go me.

So, WBD is celebrated all day by reading books, talking about books, writing about books, and that is exactly what this is. MZD, the prodigal author of House of Leaves, began his online book club which looks at one section of this massive genre-defying tome at a time, and we all get to basically go nuts over inferring the shit out of it.

My observations so far of the group talk on the House of Leaves FB Book Club Page  is as follows:

  • Every person has a different edition (full colour, black and white mostly) which means people are now sharing pictures of the inner sleeve that others do not have. There is a lot of camaraderie going on! And I have unearthed some pretty neat connections I never had the chance of learning about 10 years ago, because of the limitations on internet chat rooms and forums (remember those? Yeah, still miss ’em).
  • It is all one MASSIVE GEEK PARTY! I mean, there is one lady who literally got paranoid over a splodge of blue ink on the title page (if you know the book, blue is a significant colour. All references to the HOUSE are in blue.) It was reading into stuff, gone mad. I have come to the conclusion that there is such a thing as too much interpretation, and that can ruin a beautiful thing like HoL. Turns out, MZD even gets exasperated at how deeply and seriously some people may lose themselves in HoL.
  • The conversations are attracting not only the academically minded, but also complete newbies who are entering the horrific alchemy of the novel and realising that YES, this book CAN give you nightmares. A word of warning to those beginning it: make sure you read it during the day, not in your house, and you have someone around to have a light-hearted conversation afterwards. DO NOT READ AT NIGHT. You have been warned. I have personally experienced the horrors of that.
  • It can be a bit confusing, but that is the nature of the novel and the way ideas unspool from it. When you have a piece of work that has been constructed like a daisy-chain from other pieces of literature and literature that doesn’t even exist, but is given the illusion it is a credible piece of evidence, then people begin to echo that in their own surmisings. It is completely a meta-experience. We are the book, the book is us. Simple as.

What ‘Genre’ is House of Leaves?

This is my second read through of HoL, which means I’ll be approaching it from a completely different perspective. When I first read it, I didn’t really get what I was experiencing. Yes, it was a very unique experience as the book is laid out differently from other texts. It is a story about a labyrinth, that grows in a house in Ash Tree Lane, and the text is labyrinthine to mimic that.

A labyrinth, as everyone knows, is designed to throw you off, make you lose your bearings, your sense of ‘self’, induce a sense of panic etc until you ‘work’ to find out the exit. This is what I mean by the ‘structure’ of the book mimicking the content of the book:

House_Of_Leaves_Motto_1462

The text will not obey the laws of literature as we know it. Text will flow backwards, go sideways, be cut off, slide down the page, even be ‘caged’ in a box, which here is symbolising how one of the characters feels as he crawls through one of the ever shifting spaces in the labyrinth.

As for what ergodic means:

“The ergodic work of art is one that in a material sense includes the rules for its own use, a work that has certain requirements built in that automatically distinguishes between successful and unsuccessful users.”

It also needs to be something that requires the reader to interact with the text, (which the book club members are doing, they are digging up meanings, joining up the dots, making new connections and using the ‘interface’ that MZD created.) This book does not come with a manual on how to read it – you need to figure out what is needed to crack it:

“In ergodic literature, nontrivial effort is required to allow the reader to traverse the text. If ergodic literature is to make sense as a concept, there must also be nonergodic literature, where the effort to traverse the text is trivial, with no extranoematic responsibilities placed on the reader except (for example) eye movement and the periodic or arbitrary turning of pages.”

So basically moving your eyes from right to left is not going to get you anywhere with HoL.

Apart from this, HoL is grossly intertextual – to the point where we can say that it doesn’t stay anchored to any one ideology, theme or genre. It passes fluently and fluidly from one to the next at will. In fact, you have control over what those connections are. The suggestions are there, only you have to make the links (if you wish).

So, let’s introduce ourselves to the notion of HYPERTEXT:

Hypertext fiction is characterized by networked nodes of text making up a fictional story. There are often several options in each node that directs where the reader can go next. Unlike traditional fiction, the reader is not constrained by reading the fiction from start to end, depending on the choices they make. In this sense, it is similar to an encyclopaedia, with the reader reading a node and then choosing a link to follow.

HoL, despite proclaiming itself to be a ‘novel’ is actually more of a manual of sorts, an academic paper, that gets lost in the throes of its own urban mythology. It desperately tries to anchor itself in reality. We have at least 3 narrators for starters: Zampano (a blind man who to me resembles Jorges Luis Borges more than anything (more on this for next week!), Johnny Truant (a young drug-addled failing tattoo artist who picks up the mantle of Zampano after he dies, whose voice is a footnote in the margins of the book) and Navidson (a man who may or may not have existed, who moved into a haunted house, that grew a labyrinth one day that was physically impossible according to some shaky home videos). In fact, here is one person’s very useful diagram of how many ‘narrative layers’ one experiences when reading this book:

layersin HoL

 

Can you say ‘unreliable narrator’? Um, yep. So paranoia when reading this novel is inevitable. The hypertext aspect of the book comes into play as you go deeper into the story. You will find yourself breaking off, going away and delving into the story of the Minotaur for a few days, coming back, then realising that the page you are reading has a secret code embedded in it. Off you go again, figuring out what it means, you will go back several pages, pontificate on a word, a letter, a line. Repeat ad nauseam.

This aspect of hypertext is experienced more literally with MZD’s Only Revolutions, where you literally flip from the front to the back to the front of the book constantly to experience that same moment in time, from two different perspectives. It is a physical process and creates a feeling of symbiosis between the two lovers who are, interestingly, alive at two different points in history, and are travelling towards each other from opposite ends of the USA. It is the great American road novel, turned ergodic and hypertextualised (apt, since MZD’s fans had a hand in creating the novel itself).

But I digress… (as is natural for a novel like this). Let’s look at those all important words “This is not for you”.

this-is-not-for-you

Why does this greet the reader before the story begins? Some say it is a warning from Johnny Truant, who let’s face it, wishes he never went to Zampano’s apartment that day with his friend Lude. It is reminiscent of Milton’s “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” which greets those at the entrance to hell. I would like to agree that it is this an nothing more, as the house is a hell to anyone who enters it and especially goes down the 5 1/2 minute hallway to the great unknown.

However others have stated that the work itself consists of personal notes, scribblings, Zampano’s obsessive writings which are reminiscent of diary entries. The man was a graphomanic and died in a place much like this:

graphomania

So maybe we are NOT meant to read his things, because they are a diary of his mad thoughts. The reader is solely himself (ironic, as the man was blind – another link to Borges!)

Others have suggested that since ‘echo’ plays a big part in the core theme of the book, then maybe we should apply to myth directly, in that if this is Echo’s voice, only the last two words would chime back to us ‘for you, for you’. An interesting theory (and one of my favourites!)

Lastly, one member of the book club made a very valuable contribution about how he had once met Danielewski at a signing, and he said the following ‘I wrote this for you so you could swim in it, not for you to drown in it’. Very revealing, as yes, it is for us and for the reader. Nice to know MZD worries about us and our obsession with his creation.

So remember guys – have fun, don’t drown. From one Pisces to another, just swim with the current*.

*Just an observation but it is WBD, 1st March. That means 4 days to go for MZD’s birthday, and 6 days for mine. Check out the publisher of my edition of the book:

doubleday _edit

*sly grin* Okay, I’ll stop now… I’ll stop. Those of you who got it, have got it. Thank you. I’ll just ‘swim’ and try not to drown. 

 

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Top Ten Tuesday | Most Intimidating Books

02 Tuesday Jul 2013

Posted by mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Book Challenges, BookTalk, Meme

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Ayn Rand, books, Dark Tower, don quixote by miguel de cervantes, james joyce, JD Salinger, literature, Miguel de Cervantes, roberto bolano, salman rushdie, satanic verses by salman rushdie, stephen king, Thomas Pynchon, Top Ten Tuesday, ulysses by james joyce, virginia woolf


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 mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Excerpts, From Life...

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Anais Nin, Cacharel, Colette, f. scott fitzgerald, Great Gatsby, Jasmine, Marlene Dietrich, Note (perfumery), oscar wilde, Perfume


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 mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Book News, Excerpts, Movies, Music

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Casino Royale, diamonds are forever, ian fleming, James Bond in film, Roger Moore, Sean Connery, Shirley Bassey, Spy Who Loved Me


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 mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Excerpts, Writing

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

John Steinbeck, quotes, writing


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

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

12 Thursday May 2011

Posted by mywordlyobsessions in Art, Authors, Quotes, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

cyprus conflict, notes about a small island, novel, once upon a time in cyprus, poltical, short story, writers journal, writing


 … 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.

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

09 Monday May 2011

Posted by mywordlyobsessions in Audiobooks, Authors, Book Review, Excerpts

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

adventure, audiobook, book review, childrens fiction, fantasy, jm barrie, librivox, Tinker Bell


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 mywordlyobsessions in Authors, Meme

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

Borges, Eudora Welty, Jorge Luis Borges, Latin America, meme, United States


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.

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