Long Weekends

This is the tail end of my second long weekend in a row, two four day weekends one after the other, wonderful.
However, before you get too jealous let me tell you what these weekends have consisted of. Last weekend, which began on Wednesday evening with a lovely meal at a Japanese restaurant to celebrate our third wedding anniversary, went on to involve me learning how to point the brickwork. There's not much to do, just half the house!
I'm doing okay at the moment at ground level but am not looking forward to going up a ladder. But it has to be done; I've been overdosing on Grand Designs on TV recently and began to feel guilty when I saw one wife nailing tiles onto a roof, and thought that while J was replacing floors I could be doing something more constructive than just breaking up kitten fights. So I am now a brickie.
Then this weekend, August Bank Holiday which we have extended to include today, there has been more pointing, more disentangling kittens from the curtains and, to top it off nicely, I am now recovering from the lorryload of insulation boards that we've just had to carry in. Don't you envy my life?
All this has not left much time for anything else, but I have managed some reading and have actually finished a book for the first time in weeks! Colin Wilson's The Occult, which has led to a number of other books on the subject that I want to read, a couple of which I've ordered: a book by Eliphas Levi (who, incidentally, Aleister Crowley claimed to be a reincarnation of) and The Mystical Qabalah by Dion Fortune which arrived on Saturday. I had always avoided her books because I think her name makes her sound like a Sunday supplement astrologer but Wilson said that this book is the best on the subject. Qabalah (or however you want to spell it) is something that has interested me since I read Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum.
At the moment, however, even writing this brief blog post is causing me pain because it is tearing me away from my current read, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke. Elaine commented a while back that once I started I wouldn't be able to put it down and she was absolutely right. It is a wonderful world Clarke has created, with such a clever mix of historical fact and fiction that I am finding it hard to believe that magic did not really exist in the eighteenth century. The book is just over a thousand pages long but I can't help feeling that it will be far too short. It is nice to be able to feel this about a modern book.
So now, as the kittens have come down from the curtains and just fallen asleep, I am going to sneak back to it and squeeze a last few minutes of reading from this long weekend.

Andy Catlett: Early Travels by Wendell Berry

This book is a delight, warm and comforting, but it is also a thoughtful consideration of how life has changed since the middle of the twentieth century.
It concerns Andy, a nine year old boy in 1943, and a major landmark in his life: he is making a bus journey on his own. It is the period between Christmas and New Year and he is journeying a few miles to stay with his grandparents; first his paternal grandparents who live on a farm for two nights, and then he will stay with his other grandparents in Port William, before being collected by his parents for New Year. It is narrated by Andy as an old man at the beginning of the twenty-first century; he looks back fondly at this turning point in his life and the few days that he spent with his grandparents and other friends, most of whom have since died. He thinks back to the people he knew then, their kindness and love for him, and considers their lives from the perspective of the twentieth century; he took the way they lived for granted when young, but now recognises the hardship that they often went through.
This is not a book for thrill seekers, nothing of moment really happens, but everything is important to Andy in the way that days like these are for children. A major event for Andy is that while waiting for the bus after his father has left him Miss Angela, the waitress in the bus station café, buys him a cup of coffee. It is his first taste of the drink and something that makes him feel exceptionally grown up. The tale of his coffee drinking even becomes town gossip.

'The episode gave me a sort of fame, and of course my father heard of it. Two or three weeks later I happened to encounter him on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. He was standing with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, talking to his friend Charlie Hardy.
I gave them a wave and said, "Hi."
"That's Miss Angela's buddy, ain't it?" said Mr Hardy.
My father snorted. "That's him." He reached into his pants pocket, drew out a nickel, and handed it to me. "Here. Go buy yourself a cup of coffee."'

One of the major differences that Andy considers is the change in relationship between races since he was a child. As an old man he recognises the injustices in the 1940s in the way black and white families interacted that, as a child, he had just accepted. He also notes the different pace of life, one which was already beginning to change; his Grandfather Catlett who collects him from the bus stop in a horse and cart was already part of a way of life that was dying out.
The contrast between these grandparents and his other, younger, maternal grandparents who live in a modern house in town, with a car and other comforts, shows a new attitude to life, even though they work equally hard. Andy considers the differences between the periods and sees that much has been lost but it is not a rose-tinted view; he recognises that there were things that were wrong with the past age, hardships and injustice.
He also, from his later perspective, realises how protected from the world he was then. He describes his Uncle Virgil's wife, Hannah, who is living at his maternal grandparents and how nice she was to him, but from this later perspective he recognises the sadness of the hope she had that was not destined to be fulfilled. Her husband, away fighting, was killed soon afterwards. The Second World War is a slight shadow throughout the book; it does not have much direct impact on Andy himself as a small child, but people were missing from the town because they were away fighting, and he talks of the ones that didn't come back and the impact that this loss had on the town.
Port William life is shown through Andy's young eyes, and I revisited many of the characters that I met when I read Jayber Crow last year, but saw them in a different light as Andy decribes how these grown-ups seemed to him as a child.
The story is told in Berry's slow and absorbing style, with a beautiful use of language; the town and the period really live through this book. It was a perfect read.

The Beast Himself

There are some figures that are fascinating even though you know you should not be fascinated by them. If this wasn't the case, there wouldn't be such demand for books on serial killers, which personally I find quite horrific. However, I have my own weaknesses, and recently have given in to one of them.
With my taste in the paranormal and the occult, it is of course an occult figure about whom I am simultaneously wary of and curious about: Aleister Crowley.
His is a name I have always been aware of, although I really have no idea how or why. Until relatively recently I had great trouble distinguishing between him and Dennis Wheatley. When I think of all the times during my twenties that I hovered fascinated over Dennis Wheatley books in second hand bookshops but then left them because of this misapprehension that Wheatley was the occult practitioner, I could kick myself. Now that I know how great Wheatley's books are, I never come across them.
And of course reading Wheatley, specifically The Devil Rides Out, has only increased my fascination with Crowley because the villain, Mocata, was based on him. Wheatley knew Crowley and got on with him by all accounts, despite the dire warnings about the dangers of involvement with practitioners of black magic that he put at the front of his books.
Add to this Crowley's appearance as a character in the recent Alone in the Dark video game (albeit with an American accent) and my curiosity has now reached too high a pitch and I have given in. I am determined to move Crowley out of the shady recesses of my imagination and actually find out who he was, what he did, and see whether my instinctive feelings about him are justified or just some hangover from an impressionable childhood.
I also want to know what Crowley's writings are like; I have been writing a couple of short stories recently (which, as with everything I write, turned themselves into a Wheatly-esque thriller) that centre around a Crowley-like occult figure and I decided some research was in order. That was the excuse anyway, and a pretty fine one it is too!
So off to the bookshop I went, only to find that Waterstones has removed its Occult section and replaced it with 'Mind, Body and Spirit', which equates to angels, astrology and - just so I don't get too despondent- books on ghost hunting, hooray. While looking fruitlessly for all the Crowley books that I know were there only a few months ago, I picked up a copy of The Ghost Hunter's Casebook by Bowen Pearse, revisiting the paranormal investigations of Andrew Green. As J said quite rightly, most people probably find a section labelled 'Occult' off-putting or intimidating. Personally I found having one labelled 'MBS' quite dismal, but that's just me.
But back to the Crowley hunt and it was home to the internet and the marvellous Abebooks; three volumes were ordered and quickly dropped through the letter box.
First, a novel, as Wheatley was not the only one to create a character based on Crowley: The Magician by W Somerset Maugham. I am very happy about this; after reading Cakes and Ale last year I wanted to read more Maugham so I get to combine this with my Crowley obsession and it feels a little more literary and a little less prurient.
Secondly, some of Crowley's own writing, The Book of the Law. A lovely small red book with the title in gold leaf and inside, after the printed text, is a facsimile of Crowley's original manuscript. This book was 'dictated' to him by a spirit, he claimed. I am fascinated by things like this, despite being sceptical.
Thirdly, the book I am really excited about, Do What Thou Wilt: a life of Aleister Crowley by Lawrence Sutin. The picture on the front is not prepossessing, and it is hard to see how Crowley could have held such a fascination for so many people, but I hope this book will make that clearer.
I was too impatient though and began reading The Occult by Colin Wilson while I waited for the books to arrive. This monumental book covers all aspects of the occult in a fascinating and very readable style and describes the lives of a number of important occult figures such as Paracelsus, John Dee and, of course, Crowley. I am currently only a few pages away from a chapter called The Beast Himself, and I can hardly wait.
My only concern is that the story of Crowley is going to turn out to be a rather ordinary one of a charismatic but unstable drug-addict, with more self-belief than ability. There is something quite attractive about those shadowy figures of fear that we all carry in our heads, and a part of me wants Crowley to live up to it.

A new year and new arrivals

January already, you say? No, I haven't gone mad, I know it's not the New Year, but it is the second year of this blog: happy birthday blog-me, I am one year old today! My blogging's had its ups and downs and is hardly going to set the world on fire, for one thing I'm too lazy to put the work into blogging that others do. I greatly admire those who do things like host carnivals and challenges, blog almost every day and still find time to visit and comment on loads of people's sites, as well as reading a huge number of books and having incredibly busy lives; there don't seem to be enough hours in the day for me to fit this in with work and a full WoW schedule - hmm, maybe that's the problem! It's been a lot of fun, though, and I've met some great people through doing it, as well as discovering some books and authors I would never otherwise have read. The thing that has amazed me most about the book blog community is how nice everyone is even when there are disagreements, which there will naturally be. After all, reading is a very personal thing; what to one person will be the best book ever will seem a great pile of drivel to another, it's only natural. Something I really didn't expect from blogging was that it would affect my reading. I don't mean the books I read, the fact that I have picked up recommendations from other people was only to be expected, but the way I read. Pre-blog I would read one book at a time to the end, that was the rule. Occasionally if it was a particularly long book I might take a rest in the middle and read a short book for a break but that was it. Since starting the blog I find I have two or three books on the go at the same time that I pick up as the mood takes me. It's as though there isn't time enough for just one book, I need to have more than that in my head at once. At the moment I have taken this to extremes as I seem to be incapable of finishing a book and flit off to another at about the half way mark - currently on the go are a book on poetical metre by Timothy Steele, Princess Lieven's letters, Paradise Lost, The Occult by Colin Wilson, and the Mammoth Book of Horror Comics which I bought on a whim last weekend and immediately became the current favourite. I will finish all of these, I have been enjoying them so much, but time is hard to find. And here is the main reason why: The loss of our lovely cat left a cat-shaped hole in our home and so the new arrivals to herald in the new blog year are these kittens: Stewie (ginger) and Leela (tabby). They are both tiny, full of mischief and exhausting, as they are constantly looking for new ways to potentially injure themselves, but they are very sweet and seem to have settled in well.

The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer

My second trip into Heyer-world, and it certainly won't be my last. This was such fun. Although set in Regency times as the last one I read, it was a very different story. The first Heyer I read had an evil character who had to be uncovered and defeated, and mystery and adventure to be resolved by the hero, who then had to win the heroine. This story has a different angle and centres around the heroine, the 'dear little soul' Sophy, as her father puts it when he is persuading his sister to look after her while he's away. The 'little soul' arrives to stay with the Rivenhalls, her relatives, along with horses, dogs and a monkey for her nieces and nephews. She is 5'9" in her stockinged feet (as the heroine in the last book I read - I assume this was Heyer's height?) and storms into their lives, enlivening the family and infuriating Charles, the eldest son. Despite his father still being alive, Charles is head of the family; his father had run up terrible debts through gaming and women, and Charles used an inheritance to put the family on its feet again and is constantly struggling to keep things under control. Protecting and worrying about his family makes him sterner than he would otherwise be. He and Sophy clash at once: she drives his horses without permission after he arrogantly says a woman would not be able to handle them (which causes him fury but also admiration), arranges a huge party at his house but then refuses to let him pay for it, and generally clashes against him at every point. He is about to marry Miss Wraxton, an uptight woman from a good family with a holier than thou attitude, who evidently doesn't particularly love him and is disliked by all. Hmm - can you guess where this is going? It doesn't matter that the plot is obvious, as it's great fun getting there and Sophy is a wonderful character - to read, at least. I have a feeling she would be exhausting in person. The book contains lots of convincing historical detail about eighteenth century life; for instance, Sophy runs into Princess Lieven in the park one day, whose letters I am part-way through, but is warned from being too friendly with her by Charles' prim fiancee. This book is great for one of those days when you want to lose yourself in a read; I couldn't put it down. It is amusing, exciting, well written, and romantic without moving into slush territory. A wonderful read.

Elizabeth and her German Garden by Elizabeth von Arnim

'What a happy woman I am living in a garden, with books, babies, birds, and flowers, and plenty of leisure to enjoy them! Yet my town acquaintances look upon it as imprisonment, and burying, and I don't know what besides, and would rend the air with their shrieks if condemned to such a life. Sometimes I feel as if I were blest above all my fellows in being able to find my happiness so easily.'

I really enjoyed this, which I have in a 1990 Virago Modern Classic with the proper green cover, rather than the new edition with the, to my mind, rather unsuitable picture of the back of a semi-clad woman; I doubt I would have bought that edition, it gives completely the wrong impression of what the book is about! However, even so, it wasn't quite what I expected.
I thought it would be reminiscent of Vita Sackville-West's garden writing, which I love, full of information about gardening and plants. Von Arnim's book isn't like that at all; it is an appreciation of the garden throughout a year and what it gives to Elizabeth who is, she openly admits, a novice gardener. It contains depictions of her life both in the garden and when she is forced, usually by houseguests, to be out of it. It is very funny in places and a large part of the book describes a visit from two very different women, her German friend Irais and Minora, an English girl whom she invited to stay over Christmas so she would not be on her own.
There are some wonderful scenes in the book, such as the description of the gardener who takes to gardening with a gun, causing Elizabeth wisely to stop reading to him from gardening books as he worked, the scene of her three year old attempting to herd some stray cows, or the quite excruciating description of Minora's tipsy attempt to flirt and dance with Elizabeth's husband, known in the book as the Man of Wrath. Luckily he does not live up to his name, but merely leaves the room in silence.
Elizabeth's attempts at gardening are of an experimetal nature; she is trying things out and finding what works, something which I can sympathise with, but mainly the garden is somewhere to be at peace away from the responsibility of the house - to take a book and her three 'babies' (who range from three to five) and sit. Most of all I enjoyed these gentle descriptions of a love of home. This is a book I could read and read again, and probably will.