Forgive the unforgivably crass allusion in the title... Anyway, I am (a) still alive and (b) still only on Chapter 3. Progress has been impeded by a (paid) job which overran by about a week, and which is still dragging on, so I never started as early as I needed to have done to finish and think and blog by the end of the month. Added to this, I think it might be wise to do some preparation for my job-interview on Wednesday...
But enough excuses: I am enjoying it, although not quite as much as I thought I would. Perhaps it's because I am tired, but I am finding the prose a little flat in places. It feels like a slightly less rich version of Brideshead at the moment, which may be a function of misconceived assumptions on my part. It has yet to become a distinctive world for me - probably because of the number of similar period books I have read.
But anyway, rest assured, I should be done by the end of the week, and may even then keep up with the rest of you. Achilles and the tortoise, remember...
Monday 29 September 2008
An unquestionably different upbringing
Two days to go before A Buyer's Market opens for business, and it looks like half our number may have fallen at the first, which would be a sadness. Still time to catch up though, particularly given how easy the first volume was to read and how much fun it was. I have a train journey on Wednesday, plus a weekend chez mes parentals, so I expect to have Vol 2 done and dusted before I go to Korea next Tuesday.
In the meantime I've been reading two books. The first is Murakami's latest short stories. Yes, still trying to finish it from holiday. I've been frustrated by this, as I feel I often am by longer collections of short stories - >6 by one author and they suddenly all begin to sound the same... certainly the case here. I also can't make up my mind about whether the stories themselves are mystical and profound modern day fairy stories, or just slightly weird but ultimately vacuous nonsense. I've found it helps by tackling them one at a time on the bus in the morning, rather than trying to read a chunk in one go - by taking my time, I'm enjoying them more.
I'm also reading Nelson Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom, which is a chunky volume and not conducive to commuter reading. Interestingly, by tackling this in parallel with Powell I seem to have dovetailed the appropriate stages of Nelson's upbringing with Jenkins', making for interesting, amateurish and entirely superfluous comparisons... so here we go:
1. The Trust is an obvious starting point, with Nelson having been left certain items by his father (notably a revolver) but having been adopted by the local tribal chief, his father's one-time employer, and thus coming into an inheritance, as well as having early brushes with society. The setting, however, of the Transkei bushveld in NM's case and London in Jenkins' case is a clear difference. In fact NM doesn't even hit the big city (Jo'burg) until Chapter 8, aged 24, and is overwhelmed by it.
2. Both, however, attend the pre-eminent public school in the area (although co-ed in NM's case), and Mr Mandela does describe his higher education college, renowned in the area and indeed across all of South Africa, as being to him "Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard and Yale all rolled into one".
3. Both appear to be equally clueless with members of the fairer sex, yet have a companion who is far more accomplished in this area. I suspect this would apply to most teenage/early 20s boys though.
4. On the subject of companions though, both would appear to be keeping questionable company up to this stage - liable to lead them astray at some point. Nelson's hanging out with communists at the moment though, which are clearly far more dangerous than Messrs Templer and Stringham, though I'm not yet sure what to make of Kenneth Widmerpool.
Sadly however, this interesting synchronisation is unlikely to succeed much further as an experiment in comparative literature. I'll probably bash through the rest of ALWTF in and on the way to/from Korea. Besides, we already know how Nelson turns out anyway... only time will tell whether Jenkins evolves into a black freedom fighter. I suspect he won't.
In the meantime I've been reading two books. The first is Murakami's latest short stories. Yes, still trying to finish it from holiday. I've been frustrated by this, as I feel I often am by longer collections of short stories - >6 by one author and they suddenly all begin to sound the same... certainly the case here. I also can't make up my mind about whether the stories themselves are mystical and profound modern day fairy stories, or just slightly weird but ultimately vacuous nonsense. I've found it helps by tackling them one at a time on the bus in the morning, rather than trying to read a chunk in one go - by taking my time, I'm enjoying them more.
I'm also reading Nelson Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom, which is a chunky volume and not conducive to commuter reading. Interestingly, by tackling this in parallel with Powell I seem to have dovetailed the appropriate stages of Nelson's upbringing with Jenkins', making for interesting, amateurish and entirely superfluous comparisons... so here we go:
1. The Trust is an obvious starting point, with Nelson having been left certain items by his father (notably a revolver) but having been adopted by the local tribal chief, his father's one-time employer, and thus coming into an inheritance, as well as having early brushes with society. The setting, however, of the Transkei bushveld in NM's case and London in Jenkins' case is a clear difference. In fact NM doesn't even hit the big city (Jo'burg) until Chapter 8, aged 24, and is overwhelmed by it.
2. Both, however, attend the pre-eminent public school in the area (although co-ed in NM's case), and Mr Mandela does describe his higher education college, renowned in the area and indeed across all of South Africa, as being to him "Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard and Yale all rolled into one".
3. Both appear to be equally clueless with members of the fairer sex, yet have a companion who is far more accomplished in this area. I suspect this would apply to most teenage/early 20s boys though.
4. On the subject of companions though, both would appear to be keeping questionable company up to this stage - liable to lead them astray at some point. Nelson's hanging out with communists at the moment though, which are clearly far more dangerous than Messrs Templer and Stringham, though I'm not yet sure what to make of Kenneth Widmerpool.
Sadly however, this interesting synchronisation is unlikely to succeed much further as an experiment in comparative literature. I'll probably bash through the rest of ALWTF in and on the way to/from Korea. Besides, we already know how Nelson turns out anyway... only time will tell whether Jenkins evolves into a black freedom fighter. I suspect he won't.
Thursday 18 September 2008
A step behind
I've been a little remiss. I finished this volume over a week and a half ago, at the start of my own marathon holiday reading fest, but have failed to blog until now. As astute readers will recall, I was planning to head to one of the remaining outposts of the Evil Empire, however Richard Branson had other plans and refused to fly me to Havana... it was a bit windy apparently. Left with the choice of postponing or a largely uninspiring list of alternatives I found myself finishing Powell on a flight to the West Indies, before enjoying an unexpectedly pleasant week in Barbados. Etymologically, I'm sure that this would meet with the approval of the Beard Liberation Front (perhaps I have revealed Branson's motive after all).
That holiday reading list in full:
Anthony Powell; A Question of Upbringing
Graham Greene; Our Man in Havana
Michael Frayn; Towards the End of the Morning
John Fowles; The French Lieutenant's Woman
Ernest Hemingway; The Snows of Kilimanjaro
Kingsley Amis; The Old Devils
Pedro Juan Guttierez; Dirty Havana Trilogy
Haruki Murakami; Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
You'll notice an unfortunate Cuban flavour to the selection. Still, I'm not sure what Barbadian offerings I could have chosen from - I am acutely aware that my knowledge of Caribbean/Carribbean-based literature is limited to Cuba and Jamaica (Wide Sargasso Sea, Small Island for the latter). For the most part the books I did read were hugely enjoyable. Clear highlight was the Fowles, which was gloriously pretentious. The only real disappointment was the Hemingway, which was very patchy - I'm beginning to wonder if I have grown out of him... a sadness.
Still, to return to Powell, and bearing in mind I read it 8 books ago, I did enjoy it very much and concur largely with Will and El's thoughts. The oddest experience, for me, was the familiarity with the types of character and plot. Perhaps this is not so strange for the second half of the book, given my past membership of two of Oxford's most traditional colleges, but my school (whose most celebrated alumnus, according to Wikipedia, is rather alarmingly the most recent winner of Channel 4's Big Brother) couldn't have been more different to Powell's Eton. I offer two examples of that vague familiarity that may have struck a chord with other Powellanauts:
1. The portly, unmarried, elderly gentleman who dines alone in the same Italian restaurant every evening.
2. The Don with strongly-held political beliefs (ignoring the fact that Sillery was a liberal) and a penchant for admitting well-connected public school boys, who boasts that his students run the world.
Moreover, the legend of Widmerpool's coat, and his subsequent reputation that outlives all memory of the precise nature of said coat, parallels any number of anecdotes and probably unfair social brandings that litter every stage of my time in formal education. The kind of harmless inconsequential occurence that just seems to stick. Much joy! I also considered writing down a list of the large number of literary references, but thought this would look like a very weird thing to be doing in Economy Class. I'll refer to my recently ordered guide instead.
Well, I'm looking forward to the next volume very much. One other thought before I sign off, we have discussed Powellathon socials. I am assuming a similar lack of choreographic ability amongst the other Powellanauts, thus ruling out an actual Dance to the Music of Time, but as a rough schedule:
December: A Pub Trip to the Music of Time (Casual dress)
April: A Cocktail Party to the Music of Time (Smart casual)
July: Dinner to the Music of Time (Black Tie)
October: A Ball to the Music of Time (White Tie)
Thoughts?
That holiday reading list in full:
Anthony Powell; A Question of Upbringing
Graham Greene; Our Man in Havana
Michael Frayn; Towards the End of the Morning
John Fowles; The French Lieutenant's Woman
Ernest Hemingway; The Snows of Kilimanjaro
Kingsley Amis; The Old Devils
Pedro Juan Guttierez; Dirty Havana Trilogy
Haruki Murakami; Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
You'll notice an unfortunate Cuban flavour to the selection. Still, I'm not sure what Barbadian offerings I could have chosen from - I am acutely aware that my knowledge of Caribbean/Carribbean-based literature is limited to Cuba and Jamaica (Wide Sargasso Sea, Small Island for the latter). For the most part the books I did read were hugely enjoyable. Clear highlight was the Fowles, which was gloriously pretentious. The only real disappointment was the Hemingway, which was very patchy - I'm beginning to wonder if I have grown out of him... a sadness.
Still, to return to Powell, and bearing in mind I read it 8 books ago, I did enjoy it very much and concur largely with Will and El's thoughts. The oddest experience, for me, was the familiarity with the types of character and plot. Perhaps this is not so strange for the second half of the book, given my past membership of two of Oxford's most traditional colleges, but my school (whose most celebrated alumnus, according to Wikipedia, is rather alarmingly the most recent winner of Channel 4's Big Brother) couldn't have been more different to Powell's Eton. I offer two examples of that vague familiarity that may have struck a chord with other Powellanauts:
1. The portly, unmarried, elderly gentleman who dines alone in the same Italian restaurant every evening.
2. The Don with strongly-held political beliefs (ignoring the fact that Sillery was a liberal) and a penchant for admitting well-connected public school boys, who boasts that his students run the world.
Moreover, the legend of Widmerpool's coat, and his subsequent reputation that outlives all memory of the precise nature of said coat, parallels any number of anecdotes and probably unfair social brandings that litter every stage of my time in formal education. The kind of harmless inconsequential occurence that just seems to stick. Much joy! I also considered writing down a list of the large number of literary references, but thought this would look like a very weird thing to be doing in Economy Class. I'll refer to my recently ordered guide instead.
Well, I'm looking forward to the next volume very much. One other thought before I sign off, we have discussed Powellathon socials. I am assuming a similar lack of choreographic ability amongst the other Powellanauts, thus ruling out an actual Dance to the Music of Time, but as a rough schedule:
December: A Pub Trip to the Music of Time (Casual dress)
April: A Cocktail Party to the Music of Time (Smart casual)
July: Dinner to the Music of Time (Black Tie)
October: A Ball to the Music of Time (White Tie)
Thoughts?
Sunday 14 September 2008
A Jam Crisis
Not something, fortunately, which I have direct experience of, but a worrying proposition nevertheless.
I have returned from the forty degree heat of Sicily almost read out, a blissful and (for me) rather unusual state.
Powell in that context was like a strong cup of tea and a biscuit, and managed to make me feel an odd kind of homesickness. This whole first book felt a bit like grown-up Enid Blyton. In a good way, I hasten to add, but hot on the heels of V by Thomas Pynchon it felt a little lightweight.
I'm sure that's hugely unfair though. It's unfettered by Pynchon's inability to approach any narrative event head on for a start, and some memorable characters who have the ring of truth about them.
I wonder about the narrator's apparent colourlessness (is that even a word?) though, and whether it will start to grate; or if he were as much of a Character as his school chums perhaps that would grate even more. Certainly he evokes well the sort of hesitant uncertainty that plagued my teenage years.
Hell, even my not-so-teenage years.
Hmm. And he does seem awfully naive for a lad of seventeen.
Anyways, as English as jam and crumpets, and just as enjoyable. Some thoughts:
- Was it designed to be written in yearly chunks? Would explain the first two publication dates and why this one feels so introductory
- Had a look at the next book (yes, yes, I know, very naughty) and was immediately struck by the difference in tone. I think a monthly timetable very wel suited. Just a shame we're starting Spring in Autumn but can't be helped
- There's a slightly terrifying handbook to the series. Anyone come across it yet?
That's all for now, pip pip
I have returned from the forty degree heat of Sicily almost read out, a blissful and (for me) rather unusual state.
Powell in that context was like a strong cup of tea and a biscuit, and managed to make me feel an odd kind of homesickness. This whole first book felt a bit like grown-up Enid Blyton. In a good way, I hasten to add, but hot on the heels of V by Thomas Pynchon it felt a little lightweight.
I'm sure that's hugely unfair though. It's unfettered by Pynchon's inability to approach any narrative event head on for a start, and some memorable characters who have the ring of truth about them.
I wonder about the narrator's apparent colourlessness (is that even a word?) though, and whether it will start to grate; or if he were as much of a Character as his school chums perhaps that would grate even more. Certainly he evokes well the sort of hesitant uncertainty that plagued my teenage years.
Hell, even my not-so-teenage years.
Hmm. And he does seem awfully naive for a lad of seventeen.
Anyways, as English as jam and crumpets, and just as enjoyable. Some thoughts:
- Was it designed to be written in yearly chunks? Would explain the first two publication dates and why this one feels so introductory
- Had a look at the next book (yes, yes, I know, very naughty) and was immediately struck by the difference in tone. I think a monthly timetable very wel suited. Just a shame we're starting Spring in Autumn but can't be helped
- There's a slightly terrifying handbook to the series. Anyone come across it yet?
That's all for now, pip pip
Wednesday 3 September 2008
First dance
It's impossible to find a good one liner about first dances - well, from a minute of Google anyway. Nonetheless, I completed my first volume yesterday.
It's quite a curious book, in many ways. If I had read it as a standalone work, I think I would be mystified and not a little irritated. Quite frankly, having read it as part of a 12 part series, it's not entirely clear what the point is either. The sensation, though not the plot or setting, is reminiscent of the first volume of Durrell's Anignon Quintet, though infinitely less barking.
That said, I enjoyed it greatly, and evokes very well that strange inter-war era in Britian where entrenched privilege went hand in hand both with a need for service or a career, but a kind of haphazard approach to preparation for it. From the protagonists perspective, the nineteenth century, possible the Edwardian era is still the dominant template. Uncle Giles' abiding interest in the Trust is reminiscent of no other author so much as Trollope. And I love Trollope.
It's quite a curious book, in many ways. If I had read it as a standalone work, I think I would be mystified and not a little irritated. Quite frankly, having read it as part of a 12 part series, it's not entirely clear what the point is either. The sensation, though not the plot or setting, is reminiscent of the first volume of Durrell's Anignon Quintet, though infinitely less barking.
That said, I enjoyed it greatly, and evokes very well that strange inter-war era in Britian where entrenched privilege went hand in hand both with a need for service or a career, but a kind of haphazard approach to preparation for it. From the protagonists perspective, the nineteenth century, possible the Edwardian era is still the dominant template. Uncle Giles' abiding interest in the Trust is reminiscent of no other author so much as Trollope. And I love Trollope.
Monday 1 September 2008
Entering the fray
I seem to have adopted military allusions for my posts on this one. Given the subject matter, that's probably inappropriate. I've had a good reading month in August, with my list here. The standout was David Lodge, which was great value, and less than 250 pages - perhaps not ideal preparation.
Anyway, I also had a Eurostar jouney this morning, most of which I spent asleep, but did allow me to get cracking, and it's going to be great. It's also jolly easy to read. I knocked off 100 pages or so before I got to work and am thoroughly looking forward to more.
Anyway, I also had a Eurostar jouney this morning, most of which I spent asleep, but did allow me to get cracking, and it's going to be great. It's also jolly easy to read. I knocked off 100 pages or so before I got to work and am thoroughly looking forward to more.
Hurricanes and Hurricane Lamps
Has anyone started yet?
I read the first sentence this morning, as a token nod to the official start date, but it may not be until the end of the week before I start in earnest. I had a productive weekend's reading in preparation. I finished Dune which I had been reading last week - partly because it features on a list of significant 20th Century novels that I have been working through, and partly on Mr Garrood's recommendation - still, wasn't that impressed I have to say. I haven't read any Sci-Fi since my teenage years and I remember why now - cardboard cut-out characters, linear plots and contrived situations, all wrapped it in a handy mythology which allows the author to get away with pretty much any kind of nonsense that he wants to. I took particular exception to the irritating asides, where one "hears" what a character is thinking... per-lease... don't insult my intelligence Mr Herbert.
On the other hand, I re-read Julian Barnes' superb collection of Guardian columns, The Pedant in the Kitchen, having given it to Will's wife for her birthday last week. It's lost none of it's sarcastic, anti-faddist charm, despite being easily dated to the early 2000s post-River Cafe/Jamie cookery book boom. For fans of Barnes, it is clear that he is every bit the cantankerous old sod that many of his most-lovable protagonists are. Plus, it is short.
Before hitting The Dance later this week, I am reading Stephen Smith's book on Cuba, The Land of Miracles (a semi-ironic title), which is so far excellent. I want to polish it off before my trip to the Gustav-swept isle next Sunday. Powell is top of a list of about 8 books being taken to Havana if not finished before, which also includes the appropriate Greene and Hemingway. I shall blog on my return.
I read the first sentence this morning, as a token nod to the official start date, but it may not be until the end of the week before I start in earnest. I had a productive weekend's reading in preparation. I finished Dune which I had been reading last week - partly because it features on a list of significant 20th Century novels that I have been working through, and partly on Mr Garrood's recommendation - still, wasn't that impressed I have to say. I haven't read any Sci-Fi since my teenage years and I remember why now - cardboard cut-out characters, linear plots and contrived situations, all wrapped it in a handy mythology which allows the author to get away with pretty much any kind of nonsense that he wants to. I took particular exception to the irritating asides, where one "hears" what a character is thinking... per-lease... don't insult my intelligence Mr Herbert.
On the other hand, I re-read Julian Barnes' superb collection of Guardian columns, The Pedant in the Kitchen, having given it to Will's wife for her birthday last week. It's lost none of it's sarcastic, anti-faddist charm, despite being easily dated to the early 2000s post-River Cafe/Jamie cookery book boom. For fans of Barnes, it is clear that he is every bit the cantankerous old sod that many of his most-lovable protagonists are. Plus, it is short.
Before hitting The Dance later this week, I am reading Stephen Smith's book on Cuba, The Land of Miracles (a semi-ironic title), which is so far excellent. I want to polish it off before my trip to the Gustav-swept isle next Sunday. Powell is top of a list of about 8 books being taken to Havana if not finished before, which also includes the appropriate Greene and Hemingway. I shall blog on my return.
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