My Top Reads of the Year

My goal this year was to read a wider range of books from a variety of genres (to include more historical fiction, for example), to include more nonfiction in my reading diet, and to quell my silly compulsion for finishing every book I start even when/if I don't like it/know it's not worth the time. I think I managed to make some improvements in the first two goals. The latter, with one exception, I didn't quite conquer.

Books read: 151
Books by men: 74
Books by women: 72 (an almost equal representation! :)
Books by both and/or translated: 5

Fiction read: 122

Of the Fiction . . .

Novels: 72
Poetry: 26
Plays: 1
Novellas or Short Stories: 9
Children's/YA fiction: 11
Graphic Novels: 1

Nonfiction read: 29 (hmmm . . . I really have to up the number of nonfiction in the coming year. I had intended on reading more this past year. Alas.)

Of the Nonfiction . . .

Essays/lectures/letters: 14
Biography/Memoir: 9
On Literature and/or Poetry: 7

Books in translation: 4
Books that were re-reads: 21

The top 5 prose fiction reads from this past year (regardless of year of publication) that stuck with me/ended up inhabiting my imagination long after I'd turned the last page (excluding classics/canonical like The House of Mirth or near-classics like Watership Down, etc, which are brilliant and aren't classics for nothing). Listed in no particular order (oh, and not including re-reads):

• Home by Marilynne Robinson.
  

• The Winter Vault by Anne Michaels

• The Outlander by Gil Adamson

• The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt

• The Players by Margaret Sweatman

Honourable mentions:

• By The Rivers of Brooklyn by Trudy Morgan-Cole (for exceeding my expectations and providing a solid story that had no pretensions to anything other than good storytelling! A feat not to be undervalued in the current CanLit environment)

• The Beekeeper's Apprentice by Laurie R. King (also for exceeding my expectations . . . this time regarding genre fiction).

Top 5 Poetry books read this year. In no particular order (excluding re-reads and the canonical):

• All Our Wonder Unavenged by Don Domanski (by far! In fact, probably the best example of contemporary poetry I've read. Period. . . . And that's saying something, really. After all, there are some great books of poetry out there).

• Asking Questions Indoors and Out by Anne Compton (best I've read of the ones published this year . . . better than her previous two collections and that's saying something as well).

• One by Serge Patrice Thibodeau (translated by Jo-Anne Elder)

• Palilalia by Jeffery Donaldson

• Shades of Green by Brent MacLaine

• Breaker by Sue Sinclair (again, I loved her previous books of poetry, but thought this was her best so far. Brilliant, brilliant collection!)
  

Top 5 nonfiction books of the year (not including re-reads):

• The Marram Grass: Poetry & Otherness by Anne Simpson

• What Is Stephen Harper Reading? by Yann Martel

• The Gift of Thanks by Margaret Visser

• The Vertigo Years by Philipp Blom

• Brothers: The Hidden History of the Kennedy Years by David Talbot

Reading goals for the coming year:

More nonfiction!! I'm also planning on making more of a dent in my Atlantic Canadian reading goals in the coming year . . . and expanding on that variety-is-the-spice-of-life approach to exploring different genres.

I wish each and every one of you a fun, safe evening of celebrations, and a brilliant, book-filled new year.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

The interesting thing about dystopian fiction is how realistic it can be, in essentials. How human it all is at the base of it. Which is why it can often be so horrifying: the human potential for taking a point too far, or taking the wrong point anywhere.

What I like about Shades of Grey is Fforde's use of colour variations as the means of his fictional society's control. It is a hierarchy of colour (the jacket blurb calls it a "Colortocracy"). I find this fascinating, as perceived colour is so individual and yet, in this novel, it is used as a means of societal delineation, and, of course, control. Individuality as a means of conformity.

Eddie Russett, our narrator (our eyes, as it were), is the means by which we access this increasingly menacing world. He is on the cusp of adulthood and his colour test is imminent. The colour test is something each individual must take in this carefully controlled society. The test involves a series of questions about the quanitities and qualities of colour each person can see (each person sees a predominance of shades; Reds see mostly red -- Eddie is a red -- Greens see mostly green, and so on, Purple being the most prestigious and Grey the least prestigious) and the results of the test will place the test-taker in a role from which he cannot escape for the rest of his life. Unless he wants to take the train to Reboot. And no one wants to be a Rebootee. The undercurrent of fear, of something untoward, begins immediately and builds as Eddie and his father, a swatchman (a healer/doctor who uses colour swatches for the healing/doctoring), come across a deceased Purple who is in actuality an unmarked Grey. And Eddie (as well as the reader) is hooked.

The outcome itself feels inevitable (this is a dystopian novel, after all, and one knows that something sinister and untoward is taking place), but the means by which Fforde presents it is unique and compelling. This is a detailed world he's invented. The Previous (us, evidently) and their way of life has largely disappeared. Abandoned cities, scattered art (Vermeers and Rembrandts hang in citizens' houses), leftover Ovaltine and fading adverts are just about all that's left of them/us. In place of the Previous is a system of workers and rulers who are chosen for their specific colour capabilities, and who are given a list of rules they must live by, however absurd, however difficult.

Eddie Russett is a Red, and destined for greatness, if his possible marriage to Constance Oxblood comes to fruition, that is. First, however, he is sent on a census-taking task (counting chairs) meant to teach him humility. It certainly becomes an eye-opening experience for him. And us.

Eddie, as narrator, was initially less compelling than Thursday Next -- and less compelling is a hitch when it's a first-person narration -- but he does grow on one as the story moves forward. And as his awareness increases so, too, does his appeal . . . until I found myself completely wrapped up in the concerns and tribulations of young Russett. Jane Grey, however, the unsuitable girl he inevitably falls for, is brilliant from the get-go as his foil in intelligence, awareness, and passion. Just a great cast of characters from the Apocryphal Man to the Colorman. Fforde takes typical plot conventions and moves them around, changes them up, recasts them. Just a really great read!

Currently ....

Currently listening to: Chopin's Prelude Op. 28 No. 15

Currently anticipating: finishing the last piece of the fabulous Christmas cake (seen at right, before it was cleaned up properly after my messy icing performance) while indulging in some New Year's Eve-Day Wodehouse reading (Pigs Have Wings).

Currently excited by: Jasper Fforde's new novel Shades of Grey! I've just finished it and it's absolutely wonderful (enjoyed it even more than The Eyre Affair). Longer review to come!

And I've just finished a really great book of poetry as well, Shane Neilson's Meniscus. Dark subject matter, but brilliant imagery, taking the beginning from his The Beaten-Down Elegies and moving on from there. Fascinating and well worth a read.

The Beginning of Year End

Looking over the past year's ups and downs, planning how one wants the next year to go (ideally and realistically) seems to go with the season. Since I came across this meme a couple of years ago, I've kind of looked forward to assessing my progress (or not) as an individual (beset, as are we all, by those pesky slings and arrows of outrageous fortune). So here, as usual, is my wrap-up-the-year meme --

1. What did you do in 2009 that you’d never done before?

At first, I wasn't sure I'd done anything new in 2009 and then it occurred to me . . . I actually finished my poetry manuscript! And, considering I'd not done that before, that counts. I also tried (some more successfully than others) a handful of our family's old recipes from my mother's recipe box (coming across one of her old journals in the process, as well as little notes and copied out verses).

2. What countries did you visit?

None, physically. Although, in imagination (while reading) I visited India, England, Russia, the U.S., France, Germany, Greece . . . etc. So, not too bad, in the end.

3. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?

A home of our own would be such a wonderful change. Or a maid would be quite nice as well. :)

4. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Finishing the manuscript. But the Christmas cake was almost as difficult to accomplish and nearly as satisfying. :)

5. What was your biggest failure?

The nut cake. Although the gumdrop cake turned out beautifully. It's a similar recipe . . . so the former should be fixable.

But really, and as always, I spend far too much time worrying. That (and possibly my lack of patience when it comes to Mr. Inkslinger :) is probably my biggest failure every year.

6. What was the best thing you bought?

Books. Books. Books.

7. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

There are countless small actions and words that each of my friends (in the blogging community as well as in my non-blog life) contributes to daily life that merits an ongoing celebration. And, in a way, that's what friendship is supposed to be, isn't it? An ongoing celebration.

8. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

There is not enough space on the Internet to list them all, unfortunately, so I'll generalize. Almost every politician I can think of. The media.

9. Where did most of your money go?

Same answer as last year:
Student loans (and the subsequent trials related thereto) soak up a lot of time and cash (and had I known it was going to be like this I would have expected/demanded a great deal more of my university experience).

10. What song will always remind you of 2009?

It Doesn't Have To Be Beautiful by Slow Club

11. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer?

a). about the same as last year b). thinner . . . even with holiday cooking . . . so far! c). poorer (see answer to number 9)

12. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Laughing. Visiting with friends. Relaxing.

13. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Worrying. Fretting. Borrowing trouble. You know, the usual.

14. What was your favourite TV program?

I didn't really try out any new tv programs besides The Tudors which, though diverting for a number of reasons, would not make it onto my list of favourites. Does Lost In Austen count as a tv program? I suppose it must. Well then! Lost In Austen! Without a doubt.

15. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Not really. One likes to keep hate down to a minimum.

16. What was the best book you read?

See upcoming top ten post.

17. What did you want and get?

Tough one. It wasn't more patience, that's for sure. :)

18. What did you want and not get?

I'm still hoping . . . you never know.

19. Best Musical Discovery?

I suppose it would have to be Slow Club.

20. What was your favorite film of this year?

District 9, by far. An important film, really. But a few other stand-outs, for me: Julie & Julia (the food! the love! and Meryl Streep's performance is so wonderful!), Star Trek (for fun and nostalgia), Inglourious Basterds (for appreciation of how the film works on so many levels simultaneously, not to mention the knowledge of film history on display, and, well, what it says about revenge, culpability -- Tarantino makes the audience culpable, after all -- and justice), and In the Loop (horrifyingly accurate while hilariously entertaining). An odd collection, I suppose, but there it is.

And I have yet to see Sherlock Holmes . . . so I don't yet know whether that will make it onto the list. I have great respect for Guy Ritchie and Robert Downey Jr. But you never know.

21. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I got my license renewed and then went to see a film with my husband and my sister.

22. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Finally procuring a home of our own. And finishing one of my prose-works-in-progress might be nice one of these days. Focus!! Less house cleaning, more writing!

23. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?

Distracted.

24. What kept you sane?

Still nothing. :P

25. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Well, the closest I can get to an answer to this question would be Stanley Tucci as Paul Child in Julie & Julia. Again, mostly because that character reminded me, in some ways, of Mr. Inkslinger.

26. What political issue stirred you the most?

See answer to question #8 and we'll leave it at that.

27. Who did you miss?

Still my mum. Still every day.

28. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.

Stay very still, keep breathing, and wait. The panic will subside! :)

In the midst of my own personal Sherlockmania (thanks to Laurie King's Mary Russell series and catching the Basil Rathbone version of Holmes in a movie on TCM) it occurred to me that I might want to do some more reading of Doyle's creation . . . and maybe even take in a viewing of Guy Ritchie's version (Mr. Inkslinger and I are anticipating an evening of cinematic Holmes later this week). What a convenient time to be hit with the Sherlock bug, I suppose. Although oversaturation might be the inevitable result.

Having finished King's The Moor (not formulaic is King, each novel follows its own way and this one is no exception. The mystery is interesting, but even more interesting are the characters, their interaction with each other, the ideas), I'm now taking a short break to avoid the aforementioned possibility of Sherlock overkill by plunging into an advanced review copy of Jasper Fforde's Shades of Grey (yay Penguin Book Club!). It is captivating so far . . . excellent holiday reading (not too strenuous, but not vacuous). I'm also planning on indulging in some leftover Christmas cake (moist chocolate and molasses cake with cherry filling . . . a fruitcakish concoction of my own devising . . . not to everyone's taste, though early reviews have been good :).

Merry Christmas!!

While the stockings may not be hung yet, the house is filled with twinkling lights and visions of sugar plums (or, at least, gumdrop cake). Every year my aunt would request gumdrop cake from my mother who was reticent to try her hand at the finicky business of reproducing one of my grandmother's famed recipes. Once in awhile she'd give it a try, but it would come out a little dry (like my nut cake) or too bland (like some of my cookie failures). Most times, though, she would run out of time to give it a go.

This year, I decided to give it a try as a surprise for my aunt who is coming for Christmas dinner. The cake seems to have turned out well . . . but only time (and my aunt's taste buds) will tell.

Christmas is about these all too fleeting moments with loved ones who will not always be present. And it's a time to remember. {For adults, that is. Children seem to just love stuffing their faces with goodies and making a mess unwrapping things (the latter also seems to apply to cats).}

I'll be remembering my mother and her sweet smile, infectious laugh, and flour-dusted hands as she tackled the apple pie or her beaming face as she presented the Christmas Trifle. I'll be remembering the way she'd stay up late decorating the tree, wrapping and arranging presents, filling the handmade socks.

One year she made me a doll house, complete with pool and pool house in a makeshift doll backyard. Carefully constructing all the furniture, curtains, and light fixtures. I loved that doll house, but it was the thought of all the hours, imagination, and love my mum put into it that made it more than a plaything. If adults are allowed Christmas wishes, mine is to learn to be even half the fun, giving, and loving woman my mother was.

And another one down . . .

In between last-minute holiday shopping and fill-in-the-gaps baking, much Mary Russell reading has been taking place. Having just finished A Letter of Mary, I immediately borrowed The Moor from my sis. My affection for Russell as a character increases (so far . . . though she is terribly hard on Holmes, is she not?). The only moment over which I've had pause was when (in A Monstrous Regiment of Women) Holmes says to the just-kissed Russell that he's been wanting to do that since he first saw her. I'm not sure I find it believable that a character like Holmes -- and especially as he was in his fifties -- would have that initial physical response to her. That he would grow to love her over time (her mind being far beyond her chronological sojourn on the planet), the idea that two minds could meet across a disparity of more than thirty years of experience (the mind doesn't know from hours, days, and months, really), is believable, however. The relationship as a whole is frequently endearing, even, at times, rather familiar. Just that one point sticks in the craw, as it were, in terms of character consistency.

Aside from that one qualm, though, the novels continue to fascinate. I love the beginning of The Moor, atmospheric, with an out of temper Russell (rightly so!), and Holmes at his inscrutable best.

Since it's the holiday season, baking has been high on the priority list. Yearly usuals include drop doughnuts, eggnog cake, sugar cookies, and some kind of pie (alas, as regards the latter, I have yet to successfully conquer the elusive pie crust*). This year, I've been experimenting with my grandmother's nut cake recipe, recently procured from my kind aunt, and transformed it into an eggnog almond cinnamon cake (I didn't have any nutmeg and had to go with cinnamon -- nutmeg for next time!). It was almost successful . . . it's a little dry and tasted much better fresh out of the oven (right) than it did the next morning.

But valuable seasoning and butter lessons were learned and it's back to the baking trenches.

One of the things I love about cooking from old recipes is that they're usually handwritten (in this case, my mother wrote it out) and include obscure (sometimes frustratingly so) directions and advice. And that's just the recipe itself. All those memories of fathers, mothers and daughters (in our house . . . alas, no sons and brothers) gathered around counters and stoves, measuring and laughing over the flour and sugar. Every time I take out an old, flour-dusted recipe from my mother's recipe box, the people and memories behind the recipe come with it. And that's worth more than any store bought cake.

*The professional baker in the family, my papa (which is what we called my paternal grandfather), was a perfectionist when it came to pie crusts and was, admittedly, able to create perfect examples himself. My mother was less handy with the dough and usually came up with very thick, heavy crusts which we (loyally) loved anyway. Thus, my sister and I tend to buy our pies from local bakeries. Which is less fun, but safer until one or the both of us conquers (or at least comes near to conquering) Papa's pie perfection.

What is great about Laurie King's Mary Russell novels of suspense (love that phrase) is their well-rounded readability. Lovers of good story are satisfied, as are those who like strong, character-driven narratives, and the intellectual side of life is stimulated all while a rip-roaring mystery is solved -- who was it said that people gravitate towards mysteries and recipes because in them (and perhaps only in them) does life make sense and work out to a reasonable conclusion? Perhaps it was two different people, one talking about recipes and the other about good, solid mystery novels. At any rate, I'm completely won over to the early 20th century world of Russell and Holmes, detectives and married couple (the latter being both a delightful oddity as well as strangely inevitable).


A Monstrous Regiment of Women was a delightful read. The way King balances the development of Holmes and Russell's relationship with the maturing of Russell's intellect and sets it all against the various details of a mystery involving feminist theologians and drug addicts is just brilliant (Mary Russell, while preparing for an academic presentation at Oxford, becomes embroiled in a series of murders related to the feminist-generated New Temple of God in London . . . she has to deal with kidnappers, drug fiends, and a very worried Holmes). I read voraciously every chance I got. Without getting too heavy with the academic or theological details, King manages to wet the intellect's appetite while providing a really satisfying tale in the process!

Why is it that decadent reading is often the most satisfying? Indulging in King novels is (ostensibly) a kind of research into the best of the mystery genre, but it is not strictly related to anything I'm writing or working on at the moment. And yet reading these novels (I've moved on to A Letter of Mary . . . my sis has finally loaned me some of the rest of the series!) is both restorative and inspiring (these aren't novels that try too hard or come across as pretentious grab bags of attempted literariness).

Oh, and have I mentioned I loved the chapter epigraphs in Regiment? All these little snippets about women keeping quiet and their inferiority to men. Says so much . . . the narrative doesn't have to make much more of it.

Oh what fun to sink into the wonderfully well-realized world of Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes! I'm reading A Monstrous Regiment of Women by Laurie R. King. Finally!! After finishing The Beekeeper's Apprentice, I was desperate to read the rest of the Mary Russell books. My sister, King fan that she is, promised to loan the lot to me. And then months went by; nagging ensued, but to no avail. I finally broke down and purchased the next instalment and am indulging in some mysterious doings and happenings with the fascinating sleuths.

So far, the theological aspect of the developing mystery (the possible feminine aspects of God) is a captivating hook for both plot and the fleshing out of Russell's intellectual side. And seems to coincide with the further humanizing (I won't say feminizing) of Holmes. But I haven't managed to get too far as yet . . . which causes me to wonder why I'm blogging instead of reading. :)

Our snow is currently in danger of being rudely dispersed by the rain and fog. Since I would very much like it not to snow again until next winter, I had been hoping this snow would stick around until the 25th (white Christmas!). I suspect neither wish is about to be granted.

It's a good day to cosy up to some words, though, the already-written variety as well as those about to be born. Lately I've been reading a novel that is not a typical choice for me (which was one of the goals for this year). It's An Arsonist's Guide To Writers' Homes In New England by Brock Clarke (kudos for the title!) and I'm tentatively enjoying it. The protagonist, Sam Pulsifer, who is also our narrator, is not entirely sympathetic, but he is amusing, if a bit dim . . . and a 'bumbler'. As a teenager, he unwittingly killed two people when he accidentally set fire to Emily Dickinson's house. Doesn't sound like the kind of novel to illicit chuckles and giggles, but it is. And I do find myself becoming concerned about how it's all going to turn out for poor old Sam (son of aforementioned victims has decided to stalk his happy home and come between him and his wife). The strongest parts of the novel, for me, are when Clarke turns his pen on the weaknesses in the literary world.

Cat Wrapping

My Hatchepsut loves the holiday season. Eating the tree, cuddling up on the tree skirt, gnawing on twinkle-light cords, pouncing on gift wrap. But there's nothing like cozying up with some packing from a recently arrived box of books. Mr. Inkslinger and I just received our book order (all gifts for the bookies on our respective lists) and Sut took the opportunity to claim the paper packing for her own cat-designed nest (she has her 'I object' face on as she hates having her picture taken).



Her sister tried to fit in the box with the books, but couldn't quite make it.

Currently . . .

. . . listening to: Joaquin Rodrigo, Concerto de Aranjuez

. . . reading: Adele: Jane Eyre's Hidden Story by Emma Tennant. Underwhelmed, so far. Then again, I'm can sometimes be demanding when it comes to retellings, side tellings, revisions of great works of literature. A dozen or so years ago I read Tennant's sequels to Austen's Pride and Prejudice and didn't hate them (didn't love them, either) so I thought I'd give this one a try. We'll see what happens.

[UPDATE: Having finished the aforementioned, my opinion (alas) hasn't changed. A blending of the plots of Jane Eyre and Rebecca, and using a variety of voices (including Mrs. Fairfax and Grace Poole) to some effect (Adele's is the most believable, if somewhat confused). Not as satisfying as one might have hoped. Oh well. Perhaps I'll have a better time reading Daphne by Justine Picardie?]

. . . looking forward to reading: the new Jasper Fforde that just arrived in the mail. I enjoyed The Eyre Affair and am hopeful about this one (more to come).

. . . planning: some early Christmas gift wrapping to the sounds of Christmas music (I've been trying to get as much of the chore-oriented Christmas activity out of the way early . . . so I can just relax and enjoy. Speaking of gift-giving, Juxtabook has a great list of possible gifts for the readers on our lists.

I've not been this enthusiastic about a work of nonfiction in awhile. Booker Prize winning author Yann Martel's What Is Stephen Harper Reading? * was so compelling I read right into the early hours of the morning (4:30). I didn't want to stop. Without being overtly testy or too, too patronizing (some might disagree), Martel's approach to Harper is mostly engaging and lends itself to some wonderful insights about reading, education, and art. If one believes art is integral to our survival as a society, much of what Martel writes about will be somewhat familiar. But he expresses it so well, and, usually, rather more gently than I expected and in ways that seem meant to (and do) inspire.

If you haven't heard about this book, it came about as a result of a plan Martel had -- duly executed -- to send one book every two weeks, each with an explanatory letter, to Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper. Because what a nation's leader reads, Martel argues, is surely the business of the people who live in that nation. How Harper furnishes his mind is of importance because it directly influences our reality. (I wouldn't want to go too far down this road, however, there are implications that might lead to some negative conclusions when you go down the scrutinizing-another's-imagination road. . . in the same way that I am not comfortable with all the scrutiny over a leader's private life, even though I realize who he/she is and how she/he behaves inevitably carries over into public and political life. Martel makes a valid point in that political ideology, ethics, morality, are direct results of what we expose our minds to, but since our rights stop where another's begins we are limited in what we can do about our leaders' imagination, or lack thereof. We can choose to follow or not, however. That having been said, there is a great deal to be gleaned from these pages).

At any rate, it's a brilliant stroke for the importance of arts in contemporary politics. Martel illustrates why the present government's cuts to the arts are dangerous, why art matters, why attention to art, literature, language, education, is worth a government's time and attention, all by simply focussing on one member of government and chatting to him about books (albeit the leader of the government, and albeit without any real response from said leader . . . those who would argue that perhaps Harper is a lover of books himself and that this plan/experiment/publicity stunt(?) is inherently patronizing and harsh forget the following: why, if Harper is a book lover, does he not even acknowledge the letters/respond with a quick note of agreement/disagreement to an award-winning Canadian author who is seeking to engage him on this topic? At the very least, it's a missed opportunity to take what, even if it's a publicity stunt, could be used and/or spun as positive PR).

A book about books, a list of recommended books, is always attractive to book lovers. This one has the added fun of making a political statement.

That brings us to the books themselves, the ones he writes about and sends in their book club for two. He's chosen a whole range of books, with no particular pattern or design in the order or choice. From Borges to Kafka to Austen to Tolstoy. Woolf, Buck, even Laura and Jenna Bush. The books are pretty random, are recommended with a short blurb on why each book is important, what it means to him, something on what it's about. A fascinating correspondence of one!

A couple of excerpts:

In the republic of letters, all readers are equal. Unlike other retail outlets, bookstores don't really come in categories, be it luxury or low-end. A bookstore is a bookstore. Some specialize, but the restriction there has only to do with kinds of books -- say modern languages or art -- and not with classes of readers. Everyone is welcome in bookstores and all types rub shoulders in them, the wealthy and the poor, the highly educated and the self-taught, the old and the young, the adventurous and the conventional, and others still.

But I've always liked that about books, how they can be so different from each other and yet rest together without strife on a bookshelf. The hope of literature, the hope of stillness, is that the peace with which the most varied books can lie side by side will transform their readers, so that they too will be able to live side by side with people very different from themselves.

*You can find it all at the website dedicated to this ongoing attempt to encourage stillness in Stephen Harper . . . I have to say that while I like reading the new additions to the sent list (and the letters) on the site, I'm a book person and I prefer reading the letters as a book and am so glad it was published!

We awoke to a world of snow yesterday morning, and it set the tone for a blissfully langourous Sunday. Much cozy book-reading was enjoyed by all. Not to mention the utter bliss of sinking one's teeth into a homemade drop doughnut! Crispy and sugary on the outside, fluffy and light on the inside. Mmmm.


And when we went outside to do some requisite shovelling of all that white stuff in the driveway (orders from an impending Monday), the sun kissed the tops of the trees in a most decadent display of affection:



The only thing that could have made it better would have been a nice, thick mystery tome with which to warm one's sense of adventure . . . while sipping some hot cocoa.

I did manage to finish a short treatment on the friendly political relationship of Edward VII and Teddy Roosevelt called The King and the Cowboy by David Fromkin. And, though a little underwhelmed at the hasty treatment of a subject that deserves more depth, I enjoyed reading about Edward VII's sex chair, Teddy Roosevelt's somewhat stalking-like approach to the wooing of his first wife, and Kaiser Bill's childish political machinations . . . all collected in one, rather slim, book and all subjects I know very little about (in the past, I've had more interest in WWII, so this year has seen a good deal of me reading up on the early years of the 20th c). I would have liked more from Fromkin, obviously, but for a quick Sunday read it certainly did the trick.

Mr. Inkslinger and I also took the opportunity of a lazy indoors day to watch The Lady From Shanghai, which I suspect he enjoyed more than I did. While I do admire Orson Welles' talent, this film displayed less of it than usual (for me, anyway, it felt a little overdone). But Mr. Inkslinger more than redeemed his taste when he produced some homemade sweet potato chips which, evidently, requires nothing more to make than thinly sliced sweet potato, some lightly rubbed-on oil, and a little salt.

Steeped in Ricardian sympathies, I am. Especially after reading Sharon Kay Penman's The Sunne In Splendour. Without making Richard (Dickon) overly heroic (admirable, but still authentically human), Penman manages to expertly illustrate why the Tudor version of Richard's reign (villainy, monstrosity, etc), is just plain ludicrous while, at the same time, providing a really gripping read. There are still moments in the story when one thinks, "I'm still not convinced about Richard's motivations" but those moments are very rare (the only moment that really stands out for me is during the debate about whether or not Richard should accept the crown. I wasn't altogether convinced, just didn't feel I either understood or believed Richard's desire to be king . . . I'm not convinced Richard ever wanted to be king. He was too smart not to know the cost).

And the relationship Penman sketches in for Anne and Dickon is heartbreakingly beautiful, moving. Anne just manages to avoid coming across as too saintly, and Richard's affection for her is part of what makes his character so fascinating. His brother, King Edward, too, is so very real. I expected him to jump off the page at any moment. Penman really knows how to flesh out those historical personages. The setting, too. I could smell the food, horses, see the candles guttering.

It's strange, but as I read I kept dreading the end, knowing, as we do, how Richard's life culminated in tragedy. Like any of my favourite books with less than idyllic endings, I kept hoping the ending would be different. That, somehow, inexplicably, Richard and Anne and their little son would triumph. Silly of me, but true nonetheless. And this illustrates Penman's skill as a storyteller. Not one of the 900+ pages was a drag. Not one of the characters faltered in terms of feeling authentic. It was such a wonderful immersion in the last days of the medieval period in England. Such is the power of well-researched, believably rendered, historical fiction . . .

That was fun! Now on to more Ricardian reading, perhaps. Or a reread of Tey's brilliant The Daughter of Time.

Found myself in an Alden Nowlan poem mood today (not surprisingly:

For My Grandchildren, as Yet Unborn by Alden Nowlan

For my grandchildren
who will never know
the beasts of the fields:
my own grandmother
would call from the pasture
gate, "So-Boss! So-Boss!"
It would be dusk, and the cattle
a half-mile away in the trees,
but Old Mother Whitehead,
leader of the cows, would hear her
and come with the others behind her,
not that she cared
whether they followed,
she alone among them
went where she pleased.
Creeters, my grandmother said,
which meant creatures which meant cows.
And they'd walk not at all
as they'd walked that morning;
they'd come slowly,
slowly, but not stopping;
it was even
a little frightening
the way they came
out of the woods
and down the hill,
so purposeful they seemed,
Old Mother leading them.