A [Literary] Year in Review

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It's been so long since I last posted here at Scribbles, it seems strange to come back.  In fact I've pulled up Blogger several times since finishing my last exam a couple weeks ago, trying to write some kind of update.  The updates, however, can really be boiled down to a few highlights.

five months of schoolwork

four courses finished

three final exams

two new nieces

and a partridge in a pear tree

On this the last day of 2014 it would be appropriate to say something about the year gone by and the year to come, but the year gone by has been insane and the year to come is anyone's guess, so instead I will follow Elizabeth Rose's lead with a 2014 book-list.  It hasn't been a very "big" year, comparatively speaking; Goodreads says I only read about 20 books, and although that isn't counting a few I read for classes but didn't add to my account, it still leaves me far behind 2013 (37 books) and out of sight of 2012 (56 books).  Nor did I have many "discoveries," at least not in terms of books-likely-to-become-favorites.  Still, the year had its literary moments.

I read a number of large books, so my pages read was not much so very low compared to last year.  I began by finishing The Man in the Iron Mask, though I read most of it in December 2013.  It was my second Dumas, and I didn't find it as well-crafted a story as The Count of Monte Cristo: the characters were not as compelling to me, and the plot was somewhat iffy.  Mostly the plot was D'Artagnan, I think.  "How to Be Awesome and Talk Sass to the King [Without Getting One's Head Chopped Off] - A Guide in 800 Pages." 

The more I look back, the more I think it must have somehow been a French year. I followed up The Man in the Iron Mask with Mary Stewart's Nine Coaches Waiting, a mystery whose charm for me lay more in its masterful, beautiful prose than in its characters or plot; Daphne du Maurier's The Glass-Blowers, a depressing and honest, though fictional, tale of the author's French ancestors; and The Black Count, a biography of the novelist Alexandre Dumas' father.  That's a surprising amount of French-ness for me.  I didn't really mean to: it just happened.  It might explain a lot about 2014, actually...

After having it sit on my shelf for quite a while and be recommended to me by a friend, I finally took up Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (I persist in saying "Nor-ELL" as opposed to "NOR-ul," even though I suspect the English, who don't like to pronounce any syllables if they can help it, would go with the latter).  I was right in my suspicion: it is dark.  I was troubled, less by the magic or any particular scene of violence than by the overall atmosphere: everything felt grey, as though covered in fog.  Without in any way meaning to imply that Susanna Clarke was trying to write like Dickens (Dickensian as the plot structure and huge cast are, it would be demeaning to Clarke's marked skill, and just plain wrong, to accuse her of imitation) - without implying that, the novel felt to me like many of the darker scenes in a Dickens adaptation.  Little Dorrit springs to mind.  It weighed me down and disturbed me viscerally and I don't think I will be rereading it any time soon.  On the other hand, it is the only novel of 2014 I could give five stars to.  It's unique, masterful, clever, subtle, funny, even brilliant.  In fact I think it would be unfair to not give it five stars. 

perhaps you should just try it yourself

To keep myself sane, I read more fluffy books than I probably should have: Georgette Heyer's Regency Buck made a nice companion to Jonathan Strange, and a couple Wodehouse collections lightened the atmosphere while I was reading other, longer, more serious books for school.  I also read Miss Buncle's Book, which was cute, but not quite as winsome as I had hoped: I was turned off by a few of the characters...and I admit, I do get tired of the writer-stereotypes.  Even when they're being perpetuated by another writer.  I'm sorry, Elisabeth!

I got in a few other classics or semi-classics, including Rabble in Arms by Kenneth Roberts (does that recommendation make up for my ambiguous opinion of Miss Buncle's Book, Elisabeth?); The Moonstone by that Victorian melodramatic, Carolyn Keene Wilkie Collins; and the sentimental horror story Frankenstein.  It's really a wonder that the Romantics ever got anything accomplished in the midst of all their traveling and finding themselves and ill-timed swooning.  ...Possibly I'm not taking this seriously enough.

History was my single largest genre in 2014, though that isn't really saying much.  Most were for classes, but I did not sell them back to the bookstore at the end of their respective semesters!  Of those, I think I most enjoyed Divided By Faith (an examination of conflict, toleration, and the religious dynamics of post-Reformation Europe) and The Grand Strategy of Philip II (even if Philip is judging you overtly from the cover.  Seriously.  Take a look.  It's freaky.).  Just last week I finally finished plugging through Robert Massie's Dreadnought: hurray!  Even taking its size into consideration, five months is an absurd amount of time - and those are five months of actually reading it, not merely having it sit on my bedside table pretending to be read.  Don't judge it by that, though.  Massie is a first-class writer.  He reminds me - if I needed the reminder - that history is fascinating and funny, too.

I read my first Virginia Woolf this year (To the Lighthouse, which hasn't yet made it onto Goodreads).  I also had to start a new shelf just for "Other" books so that I would have somewhere to put the graphic novel Watchmen and the crazy literary/experimental/contemporary/post-post-modern Cloud Atlas.  This is what happens when you take a literature course, apparently. 

you have to read strange things

and learn to get something out of them.

books of 2014

4% : 5 stars  //  22% : 2 stars or less  //  22% : history  //  55% : new authors

 what have you folks been reading?

Mrs Meade Strikes Again

 That is not the title of Elisabeth Grace Foley's latest release, because that would be silly.  But to the great delight of non-Kindle-owners like myself, Elisabeth has (at last!) published the first volume of her Mrs. Meade mysteries in physical form.  Having read The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories, I'm eager to pick up this little book. Here's the scoop:

Meet Mrs. Meade, a gentle but shrewd widow lady with keen insight into human nature and a knack for solving mysteries. Problems both quaint and dramatic find her in Sour Springs, a small town in Colorado at the turn of the twentieth century. Here in Volume One are her first three adventures, novelette-length mysteries previously published individually.

In The Silver Shawl, a young woman has disappeared from the boarding-house where she lives—was she kidnapped, or did she have a reason to flee? In The Parting Glass, Mrs. Meade puzzles over the case of a respectable young man accused of drunkenly assaulting a woman. And in The Oldest Flame, Mrs. Meade’s visit with old friends turns to disaster with a house fire that may have been deliberately set. Quick and entertaining forays into mystery and times past, each story is just the perfect length to accompany a cup of tea or coffee for a cozy afternoon.

To celebrate this event, Elisabeth is doing a blog tour - writing guest posts, answering interviews, giving away things, the whole shebang.  She's here today to revive my blog and talk about historical mystery and classic mystery. 

Historical Mystery and Classic Mystery: 

Closer Than You Think 

Mystery today is one of the most adaptable genres, or at least one on which a wide variety of variations are made. Booksellers split the main genre into half a dozen subcategories: hard- boiled, cozy, historical, British, police procedurals, and more. Authors have discovered over the years that the classic mystery plot can be given a fresh twist by trying it out in different scenarios and styles, sometimes with splendid results. I’ve read and enjoyed some of these attempts, but the lure of the classics is always strong. I’m always ready to go back to certain settings—say, an English country house in the 1930s, with a mixed bag of suspects and an enigmatic private sleuth to sift them out. One book along these lines may be better than another, but the formula never gets old.

 In my own writing, historical mystery is my sub-genre of choice. It’s a pretty extensive sub- genre in itself—you can have a historical mystery set anywhere from ancient Rome to Regency England or the trenches of World War I. But in spite of this, and in spite of the fact that it’s one of many sub-genres, I personally feel it shares the closest kinship with the “classic” mystery, the style that many of us know best. Think about it for a minute. Mystery fiction as we know it began with authors such as Wilkie Collins, Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle and their contemporaries in the 19th century, and was refined into an art by G.K. Chesterton, Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers and a multitude of others during mystery’s Golden Age in the early 20th century. A genre often permanently retains some of the characteristics of the era in which it was born or became most popular—certain plot devices, character types or literary styles that particularly resonated with the people of those times linger on through decades of later authors’ efforts. The detective novel was born in the Victorian era and came of age during the Roaring Twenties, the glamorous ’30s and the World Wars. I think to some degree, the culture of those times is woven into the fabric of the genre, and filters through our consciousness when we hear the word “mystery.”

That’s true, at least, for those of us who cut our mystery teeth on Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot. Modern-day mysteries just don’t hold the same appeal for me. There’s a certain flair and romance to the old standbys of the footprint and fingerprint, the cigar ash, the handkerchief with a whiff of perfume, the railroad timetable, the half-burned scrap of paper and the revolver in the desk drawer. Cell phones and digital technology just aren’t in it. And there’s the plot angle, too. Before the widespread use of forensic evidence, mystery plots focused in on suspects’ motivations, personalities and relationships—the human interaction element—of necessity. This is an element I’ve always found fascinating. Agatha Christie experimented with more dramatic examples of this back in the Golden Age itself, with situations that deliberately stripped away possible physical evidence and relied almost entirely on the testimony of witnesses (Cards on the Table and Five Little Pigs, for example). She even made an early foray into what we would now call historical mystery, setting Death Comes as the End in ancient Egypt.

At the root of it, I suppose, I write historical mystery because I’m a historical-fiction person any way you slice it. Writing in a modern setting has never really worked for me (and I’ve got a couple of failed story drafts to attest to that). When I had an idea for a mystery series, it was only natural that it should be a historical one. Perhaps it’s because of this relationship between history and mystery that I’ve always felt myself on familiar ground while writing the Mrs. Meade Mysteries. My own characters, their home town and their plots may be different, but I still feel I’m following in the footsteps of the mystery authors I’ve read and loved—or at least cutting a new path through a familiar forest.

Elisabeth Grace Foley is a historical fiction author, avid reader and lifelong history buff. Her first published story, “Disturbing the Peace,” was an honorable mention in the first annual Rope and Wire Western short story competition, and is now collected with six others in her debut short story collection, The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories. Her other works include short fiction set during the American Civil War and the Great Depression. A homeschool graduate, she chose not to attend college in order to pursue self-education and her writing career. Visit her online at www.thesecondsentence.blogspot.com .

 Elisabeth is doing a fun giveaway of one signed book and several Mrs Meade bookmarks (sneak peek!). Enter to win, but don't forget to hurry over to CreateSpace or Amazon to buy your own copy.  Supporting your non-local author: it's a thing.

 a Rafflecopter giveaway

Something in the Hearts of Men

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that is our shield-ring, our last stronghold;

not the barrier fells

and the totter-moss between,

but something in the hearts of men.

- rosemary sutcliff, the shield ring

Mirriam - it is always Mirriam's fault, isn't it? - wrote a post recently called "God Is Not Your Bestie," a good and all-too-brief defense of reverence in our relationship to God.  In my own circles I see very little of the phenomenon that would treat God like a member of one's exclusive high-school clique, and I'm very glad for it.  However, you can't very well live in this day and age without in some way coming into contact with a larger trend, of which I would argue our insipid treatment of the Most High God is but a (very telling) symptom. 

For our "spiritual life" (a silly phrase, as if our "spiritual lives" were not integrally tied to our "physical lives") is not the only area lacking in proper reverence; God is not the only one or thing to which we owe more respect than we give - although He is of course the only One deserving of our all.  Over the last three centuries or so we have elevated the individual and lowered the "great ones of the earth," a leveling process which has in many ways made society more pleasant and equitable, but which has also married lack of respect to great selfishness.  Not to say, of course, that mankind has not always been selfish.  We just happen nowadays to have a philosophy built around it.

This marriage, I would argue, has given birth to the offhandedness of modern Christianity and the want of depth in so many aspects of life.  What have we done, for instance, with the ideal of friendship?  Mirriam talked in her post about how we cheapen God by making Him our "bestie," but let us also talk about how we cheapen friendship with talk of "besties" at all!  I would hardly hold the three (four? D'Artagnan is forever complicating matters) musketeers up as models to be emulated, but at least Dumas was able to present a smashing good picture of loyalty in his D'Artagnan romances.  Sutcliff does much the same thing, though in a quieter way, and captures also some of the beauty of romantic love - which cannot be said of Dumas and can rarely be said of professing Christians.

There are things in life worthy of respect, even of reverence, and we too often miss the mark.  When God has instituted something beautiful as part of the revelation of His own Beauty, we ought to do our darnedest to capture it in as much of its glory and dignity as we are able.  Dumas and Sutcliff got it right.  Should we not rival unbelievers in our appreciation for the high things of the world, in our lives and consequently in our writing as well?

A Literary Drill

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Yes, it's true: I succumb to peer pressure.  On the second day of the new year I feel I ought to be posting something rather splendid and Scarlett O'Hara-like about tomorrow being another day; however, Jenny beat me to the punch in her usual dashing, sensible manner.  Instead, I'm going to follow her footsteps and Mirriam's and, as a kind of follow-up to my last post, babble on a bit about books in fifty-five questions.

1. Your favourite book as a child? Jenny waffled between two of the Chronicles of Narnia, so I feel a little guilty saying that my favorite was either Detectives in Togas or Mother West Wind’s Children, both of which I read far too many times. But it could have been worse, you know. It might have been The Secret of the Twisted Dark Chimney of Tunnels and Traps with Scary Organ Music (aka Nancy Drew).  

2. What are you reading right now?  The Man in the Iron Mask. Woe is me. Also Ethandune and the second half of Gleanings from Paul, which I started a significant while ago.  

3. What books do you have on request at the library? None. I have a certain theoretical appreciation for libraries, but never use them except for research.

4. Bad book habit. Telling others, or myself, that I will read a book and promptly losing interest in said book.

5. What do you currently have checked out from your library? Thankfully nothing. I had a horrible panicky moment in which I thought maybe I’d forgotten to return books to the university library.

6. Do you have an e-reader? No.

7. Do you prefer to read one book at a time, or do you tend to read several at once? I’m generally reading several concurrently, although I try not to double fist. I like to have an upstairs book (or two) and a downstairs book.

8. Have your reading habits changed since starting a blog? I doubt it. Since starting a Goodreads account in 2009—or rather, since beginning to keep up with it in 2010—I think I’ve tried more consciously to vary the type and genre of the books I read. However, the blog itself has had very little impact that I can see.

9. What was your least favourite book this year? I was none too fond of The Comedy of Errors, but it was mercifully short. I would probably have to say Death Comes to Pemberley, which I hoped but did not really expect would be good. It was not horrible—I read to the end—but the author was unable to grasp the spirit of Austen or her characters. You cannot accurately convey the charm of Elizabeth Bennet by commenting repeatedly on her fine eyes.

10. What was your FAVOURITE book this year? Historic Doubts on the Life and Reign of King Richard III. No, not really, though it was a darn fun read. Since Jenny already mentioned The Grand Sophy, and it is beginning to be a cliché, I’ll say Rebecca. I was not expecting to like it half as much as I did, and it was a treat to be plunged into a classic about which I knew nothing. Haven’t had that happen to me since Jane Eyre.

11. How often do you read out of your comfort zone? Shouldn’t number 12 come before number 11? Anyhow, since my comfort zone tends to be a moral spectrum rather than a genre, I admit to not reading outside of it as often as I perhaps should. Of the thirty-six-ish books read this year, I’d say five or six were outside my comfort zone, with the farthest out being Bernard Cornwell’s Stonehenge.

12. What is your reading comfort zone? I’m not sure I have a well-defined comfort zone so much as a well-defined discomfort zone. I try to stick my nose into various genres (alright, so I’m bad at science); however, I tend to lose heart when the protagonist has no redeeming qualities, when the romance has been done rubbishly, and when the plot takes place underwater. Honestly, I have yet to get through 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

13. Can you read in the car? Unequivocally no. I found it hard work reading in an airplane, even when doped up on Dramamine.

14. Where is your favourite place to read? I like reading in my armchair, especially when Buster is on my lap and not being too invasive. Bed, however, is the best place.

15. What is your policy on book-lending? Lending books never ends well. They’re inevitably lost or damaged. Conversations with me usually go –

Moi: “Hey, have you read this? YOU HAVE NOT READ THIS. Read. The book.”
Them: “Okay, okay. Can I borrow it?”
Moi: “What, are you crazy? I’ll buy you a copy.”

16. Do you ever dog-ear in books? No.

17. Do you ever write in the margins of your books? I underline more than I write in margins, but I’ll do both in non-fiction works.

18. What about text books? That depends on whether or not I intend to sell them back at the end of the semester.

19. What is your favourite language to read in? Don’t I wish I had a choice!

20. What makes you love a book? Well that’s a huge question. I think characters come first: I can enjoy a book, even admire it, if the characters are all miserable, but I can’t really love it. Otherwise, I think it varies. Sometimes it is whimsy; sometimes it’s humor; sometimes it’s gut-wrenching endings. I do love intricacy and subtle foreshadowing, and little details that link scenes or books in a series and that you might miss the first time through.

21. What would inspire you to recommend a book? If it has made me laugh uproariously, or if it has staggered me and made me lose sleep, I’ll jaw about it to anyone who will listen and then try to dig up someone who would actually appreciate it. Fortunately I’ve got two sisters, and between them I can generally find someone to hop on the bandwagon.

22. What is your favourite genre? Robert Louis Stevenson. Wait, that’s not a genre? Phooie. I don’t think I have a favorite genre, really: I read a lot of classics because for some reason I think it’s fun to listen to Dumas rattle on about Morpheus and sleep-inducing poppies, but classics span quite a range. I try to read pretty widely, returning with regularity to histories, historical-fictions, and fantasies (usually children’s, ‘cuz I’z fouryearsold).

23. What is a genre you rarely read but wish that you did? Science. I will return to you, Arthur Custance! I promise!

24. Favourite biography? I greatly enjoyed The Forgotten Spurgeon, which is only partly a biography. Robert K. Massie’s Nicholas and Alexandra, as my introduction to reading-history-for-fun, holds a special place still. However, I tend to read more histories than outright biographies, and if I were allowed to fudge a little I’d say Thomas Costain’s Pageant of England as a semi-biography of the Plantagenets.

25. Have you ever read a self-help book? No. I don't think so.

26. Favourite cookbook? One with shiny photos of yummy food.

 27. What is the most inspirational book you have read this year? Knowing God by J.I. Packer.

28. Favourite reading snack? I tend not to eat snacks while I read. I inevitably get something on the pages.

29. Name a case in which hype ruined your reading experience. I am not entirely sure what this question means. Is it asking when the last time was that I read a book due to hype and was disappointed? Or is it asking when the last time was that I wanted to read a book and my excitement was killed by everyone’s blathering on about it? I know of no instance for either scenario. The most hyped book I read recently was Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and my opinion on that had nothing whatsoever to do with the feelings of the General Populace.

30. How often do you agree with critics about a book? The only critical reviews I tend to read are the ones that get pasted on the back of the book, and which always seem to have been carefully edited to sound positive. And then I don’t generally go comparing my opinion with theirs. (Because my opinion is obviously THE BEST.)

 31. How do you feel about giving negative reviews? If the book is by an author still living, I dislike giving negative reviews for fear they’ll see it and be mortally offended and hate my guts. If the book is by an author now dead, it’s often considered a classic and I try not to register my opinion (because in this case nobody cares). It’s all one and the same, really. You can still tell which books I don’t like because I fail to post reviews on Goodreads.

32. If you could read a foreign language, which would you choose? Latin, I think. It would be useful when read those obnoxious theologies where the author feels it necessary to throw out archaic proverbs without translating.

33. What was the most intimidating book you've ever read? Nicholas and Alexandra was intimidating at the time. Probably shouldn’t have been. But it was.

34. What is the most intimidating book you're too nervous to begin? Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. Because it is big, and possibly quite dark, and probably outside my comfort zone—and also because I fear I might like it too much. Because I’m odd like that.

35. Who is your favourite poet? Poetry is another thing I ought to read more of and don’t. However, I am very fond of Tennyson.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though 

we are not now that strength which in old days 

moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are: 

one equal temper of heroic hearts 

made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

36. On average, how many books do you have checked out of the library at any given time? Probably a dozen when the time rolls round to begin writing papers.

37. How often do you return books to the library unread? Never…?

38. Who are your favourite fictional characters? Buckle up, ladies and gents! Alan Breck Stewart (Kidnapped & David Balfour); Uncas (The Last of the Mohicans); Hawkeye (ditto); Howl (Howl’s Moving Castle); Sherlock Holmes (…); Muggles (The Gammage Cup); Sir Percy Blakeney (The Scarlet Pimpernel)…

39. Who is your favourite fictional villain? “Eugenia Wraxton,” said no one ever. Actually, looking over my list, I find most of my favorite novels have antagonistic forces rather than a single villain. Lord Feverstone (The Space Trilogy) is a good one; Inspector Javert (Les Miserables) is also well worth mentioning.

40. What are the books you are most likely to take on vacation? Howl’s Moving Castle. Probably a Stevenson. Also probably The Conquering Family, because it’s the only one in the series I have yet to read, and whatever I may be reading at the time.

41. What is the longest you have gone without reading? “You’re sick of reading? That’s like being sick of BREATHING.”

42. Name a book that you could not or would not finish. Patrick: Son of Ireland by Stephen R. Lawhead.

43. What distracts you easily when you're reading? Buster.

44. What is your favourite film adaptation of a novel? “North & South.” I enjoyed it far more than the book, which is a rare treat: I think Gaskell would have been pleased with the director’s ability to flesh out a novel she felt herself was too rushed.

45. What is the most disappointing film adaptation? The new “Chronicles of Narnia.” I know the old BBC films are, well, old, but in their puppet-style they were far more faithful to the spirit of the books.

46. What is the most money you have spent in a bookstore at one go? I am famously cheap and have a terrible time in bookstores. I buy my books online, and only drop $15 when it’s something like Preble’s Boys.

47. How often do you skim a book before reading it? If it’s a book about which I know nothing, I occasionally flip through. If there’s an unpleasant scene, you always land on it.

48. What would cause you to stop reading a book halfway through? I have this terrible sense of obligation to finish the books I pick up. I rarely put them down unread, unless the lack of morals makes me lose connection with the characters.

49. Do you like to keep your books organized? Too organized. They are perfect at the moment, and I hate the idea of rearranging them so as to fit in the books that are currently languishing about my room.

50. Do you prefer to keep books or give them away once you're done with them? I keep just about everything. If they’re really terrible, I throw them away; if they’re cheap blah books, I shuffle them off somewhere; and if I don’t know what to think of them, I keep them and stare perplexedly at them every time we cross paths.

51. Are there any books you've been avoiding? Jonathan Strange… George Washington… Wuthering Heights… Man, I’m avoiding a lot of books.

52. Name a book that made you angry. The Scarlet Letter, perhaps. It’s been a while since I read it, but I seem to remember being mildly peeved.

53. A book you didn't expect to like, but did? To Kill a Mockingbird. American classics are not usually up my alley.

54. How about a book you expected to like, but didn't? The Black Arrow. I love Stevenson, but that novel was a bit of a letdown: I read it this year and am already vague on the plot. Besides, he portrays Richard III (Duke of Gloucester, actually) as a sadist. You’re putting a real strain on our relationship, Stevenson!

55. Favourite guilt-free pleasure reading? Daddy-Long-Legs. I suppose that’s not really fair: I do feel a little guilty, seeing as I’ve read it half a dozen times already. Still, I think it’s my favorite pleasure read.

The Books of 2013

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The dreamy comfort of the books and tea and sofa-ness in this photo has essentially not been my life for the past five months.  Early this year I purposed not to move through books at such a whirlwind pace, feeling that, while I did manage to read quite a bit during 2012, the list was oddly unsatisfying.  It was all very nice to have found five five-star books in a  year, but by December 2012 I felt out of breath and annoyed, and decided I would go into 2013 with a little more vision and purpose and All That.

Well, I don't suppose I really needed to purpose any such thing: college pretty much took care of the problem.  Oh, I toddled along well enough up until July - but after that the newness of the first semester at college swooped down on me and my fun-reading suffered accordingly.  However, I read what I read and that is better than nothing.

Goodreads says I've read thirty-seven books this year, but that doesn't count a few I was dragged through for the sake of a good grade.  Don't get me started on Writing Women's Worlds, for instance, which begins with terrible alliteration and goes on down from there.  However, I did find The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down a tolerable venture into the world of biomedical culture.  It is, in essence, the story of a Hmong refugee family, their epileptic daughter, and the clash between their culture and that of the California medical community - not a light bouncy sort of read, but somewhat like a medical thriller all the same.  (I sold it back to the bookstore all the same.)

History, as I mentioned in an earlier post, has had me racing between eras and nations and topics and not properly finishing much of anything.  Four chapters in Nicole Howard's The Book, a brief overview of book-making technology; five or so in The Ottoman Age of Exploration, an interesting look at the Ottomans' Indian Ocean venture of the 16th Century (if somewhat burdened by the author's propensity for qualifying all his remarks); bits and pieces of The St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, a collection of primary sources; and C.V. Wedgwood's A Coffin for King Charles/A King Condemned/The Trial and Execution of King Charles I - the only one I have actually been able to FINISH, and a pretty fair sketch of events (for a Royalist).  Possibly something else, too, but my head is so full of studying-for-the-exam that I can no longer think straight enough to be sure.

I have been able to relax with a few histories not directly related to the early modern period.  My first book of the year was Ben Macintyre's Operation Mincemeat, the fuller, more accurate history of the espionage venture from the film "The Man Who Never Was" - which is splendid because of its creepiness and because it has Stephen Boyd as an Irish agent.  Barbara Tuchman's The First Salute was another far-flung, not very well reasoned foray on my part; I remember little of its main point, and looking at my review, I find I wasn't actually sure of its main point when I finished reading it.  Oh well, Tuchman and all...

After that I confess I indulged my interest in Richard III for a while, picking up The Wars of the Roses, The Last Plantagenets, Historic Doubts on the Life and Reign of King Richard III (fun stuff, that), and, less historically, The Daughter of Time.  The latter was a kind of history lesson wrapped up in a pseudo-mystery, very influential in both genres and, I thought, not very enjoyable as a book.  The writing style was too insistent, the author too bent on bludgeoning.  I like Richard as much as the next sentimental gal, but goodness! no need to tie yourself in knots over it!

I was more successful with a few other mysteries.  I finally sat down and read The Woman in White: rather melodramatic, but oddly enjoyable in its melodrama.  I especially liked the rotation of narrators and the way it is set up like a court case, with each witness delivering his or her testimony in turn.  And then, similar only in being a classic mystery and full of Gothic flavor, there was Rebecca.  Disturbing, emotional, dark and incomplete - and fantastic.  Oh, I guessed the Big Plot Twist, but I don't mind that - it wasn't the point.  Rebecca was brilliant in its breathless, intimate, closed stream-of-consciousness style (and in having a completely nameless protagonist).  It turns mystery tropes on their heads and made me lose sleep.  I cannot for the life of me understand why writers are attempting to reinvent it or "pay homage" to it, for it isn't the sort of book that can very well be improved.

Death Comes to Pemberley was somewhat less rewarding, but that's partially my fault: I should have known better than to relax my strict views on classic adaptations.  However, I knew that P.D. James is an acknowledged mystery writer with a great deal of experience - not some young twerp with an over-inflated ego.  So I gave it a shot.  And, well, it was nothing to write to Longbourn about.  The thing about books that borrow characters is that no one will ever write those characters as well as the original author.

Over in the realm of classics, I feel I made some worthwhile progress.  I ventured into the world of Mr. Bertram Wooster and his man Jeeves, finally read To Kill a Mockingbird (and liked it), finished off the Bounty trilogy with Pitcairn's Island, and crawled through The Arabian Nights.  I don't think that was meant to be read in one chunk.  I did a little more work with Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Taming of the Shrew (!), The Comedy of Errors, and Henry VIII Which Was Long And Tedious.  I read The Black Arrow, which, alas, is not my favorite Stevenson, and which could really be classed with my Richard III binge.  Also, I finally read David Copperfield!  Hurrah hurrah!  Steerforth is no Carton, but I'll admit to getting a little sniffily over that part.

Encouraged in no uncertain terms by Mirriam, Jenny and I picked up The Grand Sophy over the summer and were soon in stitches.  I recently read Heyer's Why Shoot a Butler?, too, but I suspect I'm going to be fonder of her romances than of her mysteries.  We'll see after They Found Him Dead.  I'd like to get one of Heyer's historical novels and give it a whirl - sample some of each, as it were.

I didn't find many five-star books this year, but one I did "discover" was J.I. Packer's Knowing God.  Yes, I know, I should have read it before, and I intend to read it again.  Packer combines a no-nonsense air - typical, I think, of British practical theologians - with compassion for those struggling with realities of sin and justification and assurance.  His emphasis on the role of adoption in the life of the believer helped give me a new perspective on it, and renewed appreciation for the work of the Holy Spirit.  Rather harder to read but even more provocative was Lesslie Newbigin's Signs Amid the Rubble, a collection of lectures on the Kingdom of God and God's purposes playing out in human history.  What was it I said?  "I said something rather brilliant this morning before tea."

Sometimes I wondered if he wasn't pushing the edges of orthodoxy, and certainly I wouldn't recommend this book for a new believer; but taken as a whole, and not in fragments, I found him thoroughly solid. Besides, it is good to read writers who jar you and push at your foundations and pull you outside of your box and comfort zone. Newbigin was such a man, and his "Signs Amid the Rubble" is a book worth returning to. 

what made it into your "read" pile this year?

The Old College Try

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I know I've been doing an absolutely despicable job at this whole blogging thing.  I don't think it's all college: I could probably eke out time to write if I applied enough willpower to it, and actually had things to write about.  But you see, I haven't been writing much, so there isn't anything to say about that; I don't want to turn the blog over to "the college experience"; and I'm always afraid I'm going to bore people if I simply post updates.  But the latter is what this post, at least, is going to be.  As for future posts - you tell me!  What would you like to read about?  I can't promise I'll be able to comply, but it's good to have ideas and parameters.

In the meantime, since today and tomorrow are my Fall Break, I figured I should put in an appearance in between paragraphs of a response paper on the Saint Bartholomew's Day Massacre.

university

I know some of you are more interested in this college business than others.  I also realized the other day that I have never actually said why I'm going to college at all.  Those of you who know my sister, Jenny, know that she opted out: my family doesn't put an overwhelming emphasis on college.  College is a means to an end.  If you have certain goals in mind, it is necessary to jump through the academic hoops; if you have other goals in mind, college is more of a hindrance than a help (and an expensive hindrance, at that!). 

For myself, I'd like a good foundation in history and especially in historical research.  I don't know at this point whether I will turn that toward nonfiction some day, but whether I do or not, the processes are things I feel I need to learn as I progress with my writing.  Of course there are less enjoyable aspects of college to endure, but fortunately I tend toward an academic, nuts-and-bolts sort of mind that can, I think, crank along despite that.  It's overwhelming when I stop and think that I've got four years of this, so I try not to think about it. I've got through the first part of the first semester, at any rate!

reading

"I never let my schooling interfere with my education."  Unfortunately I've got to say that it has a little: my pleasure reading has dropped off sadly.  The last book I finished was The Hounds of the Morrigan, which, although a rather fat fantasy, probably oughtn't to have taken me an entire month (in a perfect world).  But oh well: it was a relaxing, fairly mindless read, most remarkable for its original, often highly absurd cast.  Any author who can make a troop of earwigs or a family of spiders sound cute should get points, I say.

There has been quite a range of required reading in my classes, and some particularly interesting ones in the history course.  Unfortunately the dictates of time and the syllabus make it necessary to move on to the next book before finishing the last one; so, for instance, I've read four-and-a-half chapters out of six in a history of book-making technology, about five chapters in The Ottoman Age of Exploration, and most of The Saint Bartholomew's Day Massacre.  The movement is necessary, but does rather give me mental whiplash and makes my reading in general seem fractured.  I don't like not finishing books.  Even if I don't like the book, I like finishing the book.

For lighter reading, I've been picking out Sherlock Holmes short stories and applying myself with greatest earnestness to Knights of the Sea, an account of the battle between the HMS Boxer and the USS Enterprise (hey! that's my ship!) during the War of 1812.  It is interesting, although I wish the author wouldn't define words in the footnotes.  I understand some people don't know what, say, "broadside" means, but I do feel a glossary works better; it feels less as though the author is imparting some great knowledge to a less educated audience.  But again, it's the "lucky little Enterprise"!  I feel a certain pride when I glance through the pages and see all the fights it won, or when I see a portrait and think, "Ah ha!  I know you!"

writing

Well, not writing exactly, but literary efforts in general.  I have been sending out a few queries here and there for Tempus Regina - even gotten a few rejections, hurrah hurrah.  (Also got a rejection on query for The White Sail's Shaking that I submitted five months ago.  Um...thanks?)  As I was telling someone recently, it is a little bit difficult to convey all the disparate elements in a cohesive, if not necessarily sane, way.  So often time-travel is used simply as a ploy, and somehow I have to show that no, wait, I really do know what I'm doing!

At the moment, I am working more on lowering wordcount.  It helps to have several different files, each of a separate draft, so that I know whatever I take out is still there: I can, if need be, add it in again.  In essence, it allows me to feel that the parts I've cut really are there in the overarching story; they just haven't been revealed to the reader.  Like colleges cutting costs (I'm sorry - everything does come back to college in the end, doesn't it?), I'm trying to avoid "sticker shock" by pitching a too-large novel.  Somehow agents don't seem impressed when I protest that for goodness sake, it's not as if it's War and Peace!

the miscellaneous

I want you all to know that I got that word right on only the second try.  That's pretty good for me.  I think to my dying day I will be unable to spell it properly the first time.  That and "mischievous" (took me about three tries).

Fall is just about here, I think.  We're planning on apple-picking today, which is one sure sign; and I got a pumpkin latte from Starbuck's last week, and that's another.  Even on the warmer days, I break out the long sleeves in a kind of defiant protest.  I will enjoy autumn weather, confound it, even if the autumn weather isn't here to enjoy!

My family and I are working slowly toward getting our passports together for a trip to Glasgow over Thanksgiving next month.  Two out of three have arrived, and we are hopeful that, Lord willing, come late-November we'll be standing on Scottish soil and preparing to do some trekking (via car and train: my father raised his eyebrows in true Mr. Bennet fashion at the suggestion of cycling). I am absolutely terrified of the idea of flying, but am very excited at the idea of getting over to Scotland and maybe getting to scoot all the way down to York.  Perhaps see Bosworth Field. Good nerdy stuff like that.

"BRRRRITISH...BICYCLES!"

Bits and Pieces

pinterest: wordcrafter

College began last week.  There was the usual (at least I presume it's usual: it's all new to me) bustle and flurry and headache trying to get classes sorted out, dropping and adding and arranging.  At first I had no early classes, but the way things have since worked out, I now have one at 8:30.  Oh well, it's not so very bad.  There are assignments due already, which does seem just a little cruel, but as I slide now into the second week I feel I have a better handle on my schedule.

(But that may be denial.)

Inspiration for blog posts remains low.  Have I talked myself out?  It's quite possible; but then, it is also possible that I am merely in that annoying in between stage of not properly writing a novel, and so can't seem to dredge up Things to Write About.  I may have mentioned before, but my brain has three gears: editing; brain-storming; and writing.  They don't seem to mix. 

However, even without anything really serious to talk about, there are little things to share.  Today the mad dash of school and anxiety has slowed and the brain is not quite so feverish.  With homework for tomorrow finished, I have enough of a breathing space to sit down and write something to give you a glimpse of what is going on behind the scenes of Scribbles. 

kitten-sitting

I am sitting in the bonus room of my home, watching Jenny's two kittens mill about the place and begin to get their bearings - we're keeping the little stinkers for the next three months, while Jenny is off in Scotland, and are trying to ease them gently into the routine of the place.  I'm afraid they might have heart-attacks when they do finally come face to face with our own three cats, who look like creatures from Where the Wild Things Are compared to Minnow and Aquila.  

At the moment they are being kept in isolation, and they seem to be adjusting.   Minnow is "playing the cello"; Aquila heard the vacuum cleaner running downstairs and has slunk under the bed.  It's quiet for the moment, since every time I turn on Loreena McKennitt the kittens go bug-eyed and run around as if we're being invaded by purple elephants in pink tutus.  I don't see what they can possibly have against "Caravanserai."

reading

I think I've got about a hundred books to read for classes this semester, though fortunately not all at once.  (You do, however, have to buy them all at once.  I can just hear the booksellers going "ka-ching! ka-ching!" as classes start.)  Textbooks and supplemental reading, and one very interesting little thing for history class about the development of the book itself as technology.  

In between those, I have managed to squeeze in some pleasure reading.  I picked up Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca - yes, the one it seems everybody has already read - last week and have been greedily devouring it.  Except that I got to the Big Reveal last night before bed, and had a bit of trouble getting to sleep.  I saw the twist coming, either because I am clever or because I had already read about it in someone's review.  For those of you who have read it, though, don't give any spoilers because I'm not done yet.

For lighter reading, I'm rambling along through The Hounds of the Morrigan - because sometimes a good fat fantasy is just the sort of thing one needs.  It's a bit crazy and absurd, and I haven't gotten to the overarching point yet, but the characters of Pidge and Brigit are good enough for me.  Brigit reminds me of Luna Lovegood, she's so utterly random.

"You know what it's like when you're waiting for something."
"Yes.  It's like being kept in a bag and hung up on a nail."
Pidge thought he knew what Brigit meant but he wasn't sure.

writing

Other than the assignments which are already flooding in, I've not been doing a terrific amount of writing: a little here and there in my writing notebook, a short companion piece to Tempus Regina.  The next project is being cranky, but I can't very well complain, since there would hardly be time for me to give it the attention it needed even if it weren't.  Though I don't like not writing, in this case it is probably a good thing that I have to be patient.  In the meantime, I scribble a little and work on other things.

 

The Summer Not-List

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I like lists.  I like the orderliness of them and the fun of crossing the items off.  They make one feel accomplished.  ("...that I might not be so uneducated in comparison to Jane Fairfax.")

However, when it comes to book lists, I am a little like Emma Woodhouse.  I can have every intention of reading all the ones I've written down, but somehow as soon as I bind myself to do it I have absolutely no interest in following through.  They are suddenly dull and uninteresting, or just not suited to my mood.  Since this has happened a number of times, I tend not to make them anymore; I don't even use the "to-read" function of Goodreads, which I think for most people is just a glorified way of taking a book under advisement so as to forget it faster. 

On the other hand, I don't like footling about.  I like structure and planning, because otherwise when I finish one book I can't decide what sort I want to read next, and so I pick up something I think will suit.  And then I am self-obliged to finish it, even if I get a quarter of the way in and realize it isn't what I wanted to read and why on earth did I pick it up when there are a score of others I actually do want to read?  I suppose that is a hazard that comes with an excessive amount of books (is there such a thing?) in one house: you can't see the forest of literature for the bookish trees. 

Last month, then, I decided I would go ahead and make a list.  Not a list of books I am going to read in a set amount of months, or anything like that: just the ones I most want or need to read, to keep me (hopefully) from being distracted by others.  It seems to have gone well enough so far.  We'll see if it keeps up.

a few of the unconquered tomes

Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte

Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens

 Washington - Ron Chernow

Dragonwitch - Anne Elisabeth Stengl

The Conquering Family - Thomas Costain

Under Enemy Colours - S. Thomas Russell

The Mark of the Horselord - Rosemary Sutcliff

The King of Attolia - Megan Whalen Turner

God in the Dock - C.S. Lewis

The Winter Prince - Elizabeth Wein

the conquered ones

The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins

Right Ho, Jeeves - P.G. Wodehouse

The Last Plantagenets - Thomas Costain

Wodehouse hardly constitutes a grueling read, but I was careful to speckle the list with lighter works as well as ones with which you could knock a man senseless, such as Washington, or which take some trudging, like Arthur Custance's series.

the ongoing sieges

The Seed of Abraham - Albertus Pieters

Echoes of the Ancient Skies - E.C. Krupp

The Black Arrow - R.L. Stevenson

Plenilune - Jennifer Freitag

The annoying thing about reading a book that isn't yet published is, you can't boast about it on Goodreads.  What is the good of reading at all if you can't boast on Goodreads, I'd like to know?

A Monstrous Little Voice

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This month marks the end of an Epoch.  Or of my high school career, at least, which is as near to an Epoch as an extremely ordinary life ever gets.  On June 1 I did one last round of tidying up - a bit of accounting review and such like - and closed the book, literally and figuratively, on that period of school.  My senior year is squarely behind me and I am looking down the road to a busy summer and, afterward, entrance into college.  Among other, more remarkable implications, this means that for as long as I like, I don't have to pick up another work of Shakespeare.

For those of you who follow me on Goodreads, you already know that I've been jumping from Shakespeare to Shakespeare ever since August.  He was my literature course this year.  Having already done the usual British and American literature, and probably some others that I can't remember now, we were a little at a loss when it came down to my senior year.  The choices were Eastern literature and Shakespeare, and I'm glad we decided to go with the Bard.  Nine straight months of him has been a strain; I can't imagine what nine straight months of Confucius would do to me.

The school year has, I think, been fairly evenly divided between tragedies and comedies (with a few histories thrown in, and sonnets at the end):

comedies

As You Like It, which demanded too much suspension of disbelief;

Much Ado About Nothing, a favorite;

Twelfth Night, another good, lighthearted romp;

A Midsummer Night's Dream, enjoyable but a little brief;

The Taming of the Shrew, possibly the top of the list;

The Comedy of Errors, definitely at the bottom.

tragedies & histories

Antony and Cleopatra, which was almost laughable in its drama;

Julius Caesar, which was also over the top;

King Lear, depressing, but I appreciated it;

Richard III, full of propaganda, but it's got some great speeches;

The Winter's Tale, which doesn't actually fit anywhere because it's so weird;

Henry VIII, which was episodic and rather stilted.

Apparently I leaned more toward comedy, since many of Shakespeare's more famous tragedies, including Macbeth and Hamlet, I had already read.

I didn't enjoy everything: The Comedy of Errors, for instance, or Henry VIII.  Like all writers, Shakespeare was not amazing one hundred percent of the time (although I get the feeling that scholars would like to make him so).  He had plays that were disjointed, puns that stretched humor, and in the main his plots were lifted from ancient or contemporary writers - fortunately plagiarism wasn't a big deal unless the famous person was the one being plagiarized.  Characters are not always given, in a mere five acts, sufficient time for what we might call development.  And, well, there are just some plays that ride the coattails of others' successes. 

However, Shakespeare had to develop some coattails before lesser works could begin riding on them.  A few less-than-stellar writings cannot negate the genius displayed in the true masterpieces - the Much Ado About Nothings, the Richard IIIs, even the King Lears.  For Shakespeare had wit.  He had a deft pen, a way with words, a skill at creating something beautiful out of the English language.  This is particularly apparent in his Sonnets, which, I confess, I did not read straight through; but I had to go write one after I had read about 40, and let me tell you, a man who can write 154 of them is nothing to sneeze at.  

It is also comes to bear, though, on his plays, tragic and comic.  There's a reason Shakespeare is so widely quoted (often incorrectly, I'll grant, but still quoted).  In plays like A Midsummer Night's Dream he infuses the dialogue with a lyrical quality, while in the highflown speeches of Richard III he conveys desperation and, of course, villainy.  The hopeless babblings in King Lear encompass the bleakness of the story, and the writer does banter like nobody's business in Much Ado About Nothing.  Shakespeare was always Shakespeare; having read about eleven of his plays more or less in a row, I picked up Henry VIII and, not knowing that it is thought to have been co-written with Shakespeare's successor, felt that the style was "off."  But Shakespeare was also dexterous enough to craft a story out of comedy, out of tragedy, out of a tertium quid. 

Shakespeare is not altogether popular, and many shy away from him.  Either the Elizabethan speech is thought too hard, or it feels weird to read a play, or they "don't get him."  I was somewhat on the fence; I had read some of his works, even enjoyed them, but with no particular appreciation or relish until I started off on this jaunt.  I'm no scholar now and I admit I'm ready to take a break, but I have enjoyed scratching the surface and, through essays and reviews, observing the genius. 

I've also discovered that there really is no excuse for not delving into Shakespeare, at least a little.  Certainly it is best when performed, and performed well, but the beauty of the dialogue is not lost when read; and as for the style, while not every section makes perfect sense, context and practice do wonders for conveying Shakespeare's meaning.  It takes a bit of work, sometimes a bit of cheating and looking at Dover footnotes, but the more you read, the clearer it becomes.

As I said before, some scholars go overboard: all Shakespeare's works are good, and every element has Particular Meaning, and he was really talking about gender-equality-free-speech-nature-reason-the-mind-true-love-every-other-liberal-keyword-out-there.  Maybe he was.  Maybe he wasn't.  But the short and the long of it is that the centuries after Shakespeare owe him a great debt for his wit and for the beauty of his writing, and writers especially would do ill to discount him.

at the very least, a study of shakespeare adds some splendid quotes to your repertoire.

Ventriloquy and Belief

pinterest: tempus regina

I finished a book the other day.  (Surprise!)  The Daughter of Time was one of those books that crept up on my consciousness for several months before I got around to actually buying it, and from buying it to reading it.  I don't think I had heard about it before this year, but I understand it is a pretty popular and famous work: a landmark book in the mystery genre, in fact. It is, I think, either the last or the second-to-last book in her Inspector Alan Grant series, the most celebrated, and takes place entirely within the walls of a hospital room.  (Which, by the by, gets quite old.)

The main character is a Scotland Yard Inspector, laid up for several weeks after an injury incurred on the job.  To keep him engaged while he's lying on his back staring at the ceiling, a friend brings him a collection of portraits from historical cold cases - everyone from Mary, Queen of Scots to Louis XVII, the boy-king.  Only one of them, however, catches Grant's eye: a painting of Richard III.  Intrigued by the story of how the wicked uncle murdered his innocent nephews, Grant begins to conduct a police investigation from his hospital bed.  An acquaintance assists by conducting all the research, and the story progresses methodically through back-and-forth conversation between the two men.

Unsurprisingly, this also gets old.  It would be bound to get old in any story that takes place within the same four walls with - let me think - one main character and only about five other people who regularly drift through to talk.  But I realized not far into the book that part of the oldness had to do less with those factors and more with the story not actually being a story.  It is a vindication of Richard III, plain and very simple.  Now, I happen to take an interest in Richard and could follow Tey's arguments with relative equanimity; but even agreeing, I was extraordinarily peeved by the authoress' tactic.  Because it becomes apparent as soon as Richard III's portrait shows up that what you, reader, are getting is Tey's opinion en toto, as articulated by Character 1 and Character 2 with occasional prompting from Random Other Peoples.  It isn't a novel, it's just, well, historical preachiness.

The Daughter of Time is an extreme case, and I would go so far as to wager that Tey intended for it to be.  The trouble, however - the trouble of an invasive author, if I could put it that way - is one that crops up and should crop up before every writer.  We've all heard books described as "too preachy."  It's usually applied to Christian fiction, and it is all too easy to stick our noses in the air and determine that people only say that because there is no longer a belief in objective truth.  Which is very probably the case, but does nothing to alleviate the issue as far as good writing is concerned.

We all have, or ought to have, core beliefs.  If we think we don't, it is only that we don't know what those core beliefs are; and at that point we had either better not write, or better keep our writing private, for the world doesn't need anymore hem-hah-ing and prevaricating.  So I'll start with the statement that we all have beliefs, and that on some level, we desire our writing to reflect that.  We hardly want readers thinking we condone abortion, or adultery, or marriage between believers and unbelievers, when we think just the opposite.  And oftentimes we not only don't want readers getting the wrong impression, but we also have an overdeveloped desire for them to get the right one.  As in, I-must-cram-the-Gospel-Jesus-and-the-Bible-in-if-I-want-to-honor-God-SOHELPME.

It is not a wholly unreasonable wish, and I am not here to tell writers exactly what balance to strike.  But if we desire to write a good story (which, I believe, is just as God-honoring and perhaps even more so than working in the Gospel inappropriately), we must be more attune to the characters themselves and not so quick to override their individual personalities.  We must let them be who they are.  Sayers mentioned this several times in regard to her famous character Lord Peter Wimsey, whom her Christian readers badgered her to "save" - and she ignored them, because it was not part of the character.  In a lesser sense, this is also true whenever a character of ours begins talking, especially about anything theological or philosophical.  Obviously we don't want to be seen as wrong ourselves, or propagate wrong-thinking, so we are more likely to switch into the mode of writing exactly what we believe to be truth in as clear a way as possible.  We do a little ventriloquy act through our characters, and an astute reader can tell.

Too often we think that in our writing we've got to try to evangelize not just the characters, but the readers - even though it is biblically clear that God ordained that work to be done through His Word preached, not through fiction.  Our business is to craft a good story, to let the characters think and say what they would think and say "if free-moving and placed within the literary field."  If that means that they think and say something wrong, well, then they shall.  It is my opinion that our core beliefs will show through the story in some manner; it just shouldn't be through ventriloquy.

“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.”

g. k. chesterton

Off the Shelf

It has become something of a tradition - if you can make a tradition in just two years - for me to update the photos of my bookshelves around this time.  Not a great deal has changed as far as the big white bookcase goes, since it has all but run out of room width-wise and is even getting cramped height-wise, which makes stacking books a bit of a chore.  However, I've made some alterations to the entertainment unit, introduced a research basket where most of my reference material goes, and bought some new books that managed to squeeze in where I was quite certain there wasn't any room left, so it seemed worthwhile to show off the new look.

The second shelf here is just about the same, although I think I shuffled some Shakespeare around a bit and got a copy of The Tempest.  The tannish-greenish book on top of Jane Austen is an adorable Scribner's, 1925, South Seas edition of David Balfour; it smells of old bookshops, and as far as physical books and not the stories side the covers go, is one of my favorites.  Jenny snitched my copy of The Black Arrow some months ago and I haven't taken the time to get it back yet, but it ought to be lying lengthwise under David Balfour.

I have added more to the top shelf - it was one of the few that still had room.  There's a nice fat copy of Les Miserables being chummy with The Count of Monte Cristo.  There's Nicholas Nickleby (the chap in maroon standing next to Treasure Island, also in maroon but significantly skinnier) and hardbacks of Don Quixote and Quo Vadis?.  The rather ugly lime green clothbound on the right is The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper; the ugliness has put me off from reading it.  Over toward the left is a copy of Frenchman's Creek by Daphne du Maurier that I also have yet to read.  And Kidnapped, which out to be spanning the gap between Treasure Island and The Count, is off the shelf.  Again.  I'm pretty sure it was off the shelf last year when I took 2012's photos.  It's a popular one.

Same old, same old around here.  David Copperfield, who ought to be propping up Mary Barton, is currently serving as my downstairs reading.  The second shelf down is the same as always, though I did pick up a copy of Starflower and Moonblood.  I was given another copy of The Hobbit for my birthday, too: it's a little leather one under On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, difficult to spot in this photo.  I also shuffled Mary Stewart over to the entertainment unit to make room for the growing Tales of Goldstone Wood.  Anne Elisabeth Stengl has no compassion on my shelves.

 

Nothing much to see on the first shelf here, save for that pale blue book towards the far end, which is a rather out-of-place looking Mr. Midshipman Hornblower - move along!  The bottom shelf filled out rapidly when I finished with my research material for the Sea Fever books, and got several new books into the bargain.  The yellowy one far on the right is A Hanging Offense, which was so-so; the one next to it on the left, dwarfed by the chunky The Line upon a Wind, is The Fatal Cruise of the Argus - I've not read that one through yet.

Coming down the shelf to the left, I crammed in all my particularly useful books: Edward Preble, dull but incredibly helpful; Dawn Like Thunder, also marvelous; Stephen Decatur and The Barbary Wars, which were rather meh; and then a few on naval warfare that had been lying flat in last year's shot.  The green hardback to the right of The Barbary Wars - I don't know if you can see it - is a pretty copy of Rudyard Kipling's The Seven Seas, a collection of poetry. 

 

Mostly mysteries down here on the lower shelf of the entertainment unit, with a very big, very heavy, very highlighted (and not by me) Pelican Shakespeare to boot.  I picked up some Agatha Christie novels and was given The Secret Adversary, the first Tommy & Tuppence, for my birthday.  Sherlock Holmes is getting a little tipsy over on the right.  Lying flat on top are The Red House Mystery, an enjoyable murder mystery by that wonderful fellow called A.A. Milne; another Holmes; and a Wodehouse.  I have two Jeeves novels, but I just finished reading the other and he hasn't gone home yet.

 

Top shelf!  This has obviously filled out since last year.  Of The Thief series, I only had the first one this time last year; I picked up The Queen of Attolia and The King of Attolia (lovely hardback, too) in the interim, but have not yet read the latter.  There's Howl, looking very creased from getting passed around the family so many times.  I Capture the Castle and Peter Pan are being green together.  There are a couple more Peter Pan books that I've not yet read, a few Costain novels (Ride with Me and High Towers) that I really only picked up because of their looks, and a fat N.C. Wyeth-illustrated The Scottish Chiefs.  The little book on top is one I just got a few weeks ago, The Winter Prince by Elizabeth Wein.  

In the back - you can just see them - are some of my Christian books (which sounds ridiculous, but I'm not sure what else to call them).  Anna gave me Mornings with Tozer.  There's Charity and Its Fruits, and The Death of Death in the Death of Christ, and the pale blue one on the right is God with Us.  The Mind of the Maker is playing coy on the left and barely made an appearance.

Here is the aforementioned research basket, which is actually getting alarmingly full.  The big red book is an atlas of the ancient world.  The fake, Celtic-knot book came with tea in it and is now used for collecting rejection letters (yay!).  It leans rather forlornly against a Smithsonian bird book; two books on ancient astronomy that I just added two days ago (Echoes of the Ancient Skies and In Search of Ancient Astronomies, by E.C. Krupp); and three Country Diary books, full of watercolors and nature notes by a Birmingham lady in the early 20th Century.

And this is my too-large stack of books that are either being read or that just haven't made their way back home.  On the right stack are an old copy of Wordcrafter; two writing notebooks and a general notebook; Gleanings from Paul (there to make me finish reading it); and the currently-being-read Signs Amid the Rubble.  Which is splendid.  I confess the first two lectures were a little taxing and it was difficult to tell where he was going, but by the time I came to the third, I was having to restrain myself from underlining every other passage.  Excellent book - do read!

On the left there is Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey, which I just began last night; The Inimitable Jeeves, finished the other night but still kicking about; and Kidnapped, which really should go back to its spot now.  The absolutely massive book is a book on Cromwell - I'm not sure why it's still there.  Below that is an Arthur Custance work, and then Red Moon and Black Mountain, and then another notebook.  I should clear up this mess, but I get so used to seeing all the books there that I just never do!

what are your shelves looking like this spring?

A Cross Section

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I have quite a few books.  Not as many as some people, and not as many as I would like, but I've got books.  Most of them line a six-shelf white bookcase just inside my room and to the right, either standing on end like they're meant to or lying across the tops of books-that-are-roughly-the-same-height.  A number occupy a brown entertainment unit, sitting two layers deep and being, all around, rather difficult to access.  Whenever I'm feeling blue or idle, I drift through my room, look over the covers on each shelf and occasionally pull one off just to flip through.  They are friends, and they make me feel at home.

I was just thinking about this fondness, not just for books, but for my books, the other day as I pulled Kidnapped off the shelf and ran my thumb through the pages.  I think most readers can understand this feeling of love for their own books, and special love for particular works; and as I was trying to get my sluggish mind to determine what I would write about today, I thought, "Why not these books?"  I wrote a post on some of my favorites back in 2011, and though naturally the list has changed since then as I read more, I didn't feel like redoing it.  Instead I decided to pick one book (semi-randomly) from some of the shelves and give it attention.

Kidnapped (R.L. Stevenson): This is not at all random and is actually cheating a little, since the book is off the shelf being reread, but one can't help that.  In the grand scheme of things Kidnapped is a very new favorite: I finished reading it for the first time exactly a year ago, in March 2012.  It is a story of adventure - adventure on the sea, adventure through the highlands of Scotland - as most of Stevenson's works are.  The main character, a hard-headed Lowlander named David Balfour, sets out to gain his rightful inheritance and becomes embroiled in the political tensions of the Highlands - and particularly in the affairs of the outlaw Jacobite Alan Breck Stewart.  My love for the story was not at all slow in coming: I fell in love with Stevenson's ironic humor and sparkling characters at first sight. David is a stalwart, upright chap with a dry, biting kind of wit.  Alan Breck is wholly lovable, an absolute gem, and a swift favorite.  And I don't have many favorites.

My edition of Kidnapped is a paperback Modern Library Classic - nothing magnificent, but it is one of those that seems tied to the story itself.  I am extremely fond, not just of the tale, but of the book.  I take it down frequently to flip through (and sniff: I'm an incorrigible book sniffer).

Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte): I haven't read this book in quite a while, except one time fairly recently when I took it down to reread the part where you Find Out Who Is Locked Up.  When I did read it for the first time, several years ago, I didn't know anything about it.  I didn't even know about the plot point for which it is famous.  I was right there with Jane as she learned Mr. Rochester's secret; I recall I read that section in the evening, and it gave me such a shock I dove out of bed in search of someone to tell.  I'm pretty sure everyone else knew it, so it was probably just me babbling incoherently while they nodded in vague sympathy and thought, "Wow, she's ignorant!"

My copy of Jane Eyre is a hardback Courage Classics edition; originally it had a dust jacket, but I took it off in an effort to render the book slightly less hideous.  Seriously, Jane and Mr. Rochester looked like apes.

The Scarlet Pimpernel (Baroness Orczy): I think most of you Scribbles readers are Scarlet Pimpernel fans, so this one needs little explanation.  This book was another that I read years ago and had no knowledge of at the time - I somehow managed to be extremely ignorant when it came to classics.  The back of the edition I have gave it away, as synopses often do, and in revenge I whipped out a black Sharpie and blotted out that paragraph forever.  Now whoever gets the copy (an Aerie paperback with a huge orange "2 for $1 WAL-MART!" mark on the front, detracting a great deal from the picture of the two men dueling) will not have it given away.  Just in case they're as blissfully unaware of the Scarlet Pimpernel's identity as I was.

The Lord of the Rings (J.R.R. Tolkien): Jenny was the first one to read these to me - before or after we watched the films, I don't remember.  I think it was before.  We got through the first two books and about halfway through the third, but I seem to remember finishing it on my own; I also recall she skipped the Council of Elrond, and when I went back to it a few years later, I was shocked to find how much I had missed.  I haven't gone back to them in some time; after the movies came out I was a huge fan, but that wore off and while I still appreciate the books, the series isn't my absolute favorite.

I am pretty fond of the copies I own, however, since I scored a deal on a set of unread Del Rey paperbacks at a secondhand bookstore.  They're so perfect and fit on the shelf so well, it actually seems a shame to take them off and read them.

The Tall Ships (John Jennings): This book has an interesting story behind it.  I forget why it came up in conversation, but my father remembered that there was a novel he had read years before dealing with the Jeffersonian Embargo, and could not for the life of him remember its author or the whole of its title.  He only knew it had something to do with "tall ship."  We had a deal to do finding it, but we did manage to track it down and to get a nice Doubleday hardback.  While there are some elements of the story that I took issue with, it was interesting to discover a novel set in the Age of Sail that focused more on the characters and their growth than on any individual event (coughHornblowercough).  Jennings' style is much closer to that of The White Sail's Shaking and The Running Tide than either Forester's or O'Brian's.

Alchemy (E.J. Holmyard): I picked up this book for research and though I have only read the first chapter so far, that first chapter was enough to pique my interest.  I don't know that I will necessarily read it straight through - that depends on how engaging it is - but it is a fascinating topic.  (And it actually makes some amount of sense under Aristotelian philosophy!)  Being a writer is such fun: you have an excuse to research the most outlandish things.  This copy is, alas, merely a bright red Dover paperback with several USED stickers on the back and spine.  To have an old hardback would be lovely, but ho hum!

so there's a cross section of my shelves.  what about yours?