It seemed a good day to embark on some Victorian reading (inspired by my rereading of Possession which evokes the Victorian period so wonderfully) and I chose to go with some John Ruskin: The Pleasures of England, a series of lectures he gave at Oxford in 1884.


Filled with strident, oft heavy-handed opinions that sweep with intended majesty and authority over the topics of art, religion, and race, the lectures are, nonetheless, interesting in terms of his inclusion of story, his use of metaphor and his sentence construction.  If nothing else. I'm afraid I wasn't swayed by his intended majesty and authority.  Oh, I suppose I'm being a little hard on Ruskin.  But he is so terribly self-assured that it troubles one.


I do appreciate the construction of the lectures.  I miss lectures.  University lecturing is seemingly, and sadly, becoming a rare thing these days and I think it is to our detriment. After all, it is one of the ways we learn.  Not the only way, but one way.  And to lose one way, even one, is still to lose.  And there is something efficacious in the act of listening that is missing in the act of participating (not to mention ignoring).


But back to Ruskin.  He certainly can, and does, impart ideas worthy of note:


"When a boy falls in love with a girl, you say he has taken a fancy for her; but if he love her rightly, that is to say for her noble qualities, you ought to say he has taken an imagination for her; for then he is endued with the new light of love which sees and tells of the mind in her, —and this neither falsely nor vainly. His love does not bestow, it discovers,what is indeed most precious in his mistress, and most needful for his own life and happiness. Day by day, as he loves her better, he discerns her more truly; and it is only the truth of his love that does so. Falsehood to her, would at once disenchant and blind him."


And this rather important point about the study of things that have gone before us:


"If the reader believes in no spiritual agency, still his understanding of the first letters in the Alphabet of History depends on his comprehending rightly the tempers of the people who did."


And, once again, while reading Ruskin and noting his many allusions to things he assumed his listeners were familiar with, I marvel at the encyclopaedic nature of the Victorian attention, the voracious curiosity.  Even with (or perhaps because of) our ability to access information instantly, we are a desperately lazy generation by comparison, seems to me.

Currently Listening To: Bach's Italian Concerto


Currently Reading:  I have embarked on yet another delicious reread of A.S. Byatt's Possession.  It seems to me that no other author currently writing can engage both the imagination and the intellect in just the same way, with the same power, as Byatt.  I'm in the midst of those glorious, breathless letters between Christabel LaMotte and Randolph Henry Ash and marvelling once again at Byatt's ease of description, emotional observation, and seemingly effortless (though it can't be, of course) characterization.  How Ash and LaMotte live in my imagination! Each time I open the novel and sip a few lines, the characters leap to life once more.


In terms of non-fiction reading, I've been making my way through Northrup Frye's The Great Code which is also fascinating, erudite, engaging.  I feel like I'm in the midst of a great intellectual feast.


Reading these two authors, having all this papery access to fascinating thoughts, makes one wonder why one bothers with the lesser?  Don't get me wrong, I don't mean the lighter, though reasonably good, writers who engage the mind but rarely tax it, because those writers are useful for a non-wasteful rest between the real challenging stuff of the mind.  But you know what I mean . . . the authors who pretend at art and end by offering up artifice. What a waste of precious reading time.


Recently Read:  After reading the very interesting new Humphreys novel (more on this when I've a chance to write up something akin to really worthwhile about it), I took a quick jaunt through one of her earlier novels, Afterimage. Definitely not a waste of precious reading time.  It inhabits like poetry -- quickly, deeply -- and in the aftermath the reader finds herself going back to trace just what's been done with a few short, bright, perfectly paced words. Aferimage imagines a 19th century female photographer (inspired by Julia Margaret Cameron), a thwarted male adventurer who happens to be her husband, and their maid who transforms and is transformed by their household.  Art, love, class, a microcosm of the intersection of these points in a life.


Recently Watched:  Another quasi-spooky film.  A 1945 mystery that seemed largely to have been ripped off of better stories (in the Du Maurier vein), My Name Is Julia Ross.  Not uninteresting, the story centres on a young, unemployed woman of no family who answers an ad for a secretary/companion and finds herself embroiled in a nasty cover-up.  The acting was good (especially Dame May Whitty), but the plot was lacking.  

Aaaah! Them!

So it's that time of year again.  The time of year when pumpkins get carved, candy is procured for little tykes in costumes, and Mr. Inkslinger drags up all the scary movies he can find for our evening perusal.


Tonight's offering was the 1954 sci-fi/horror film Them!  And it was rather fun, really.  The premise: it all starts in the desert of New Mexico around, about the test site for the atomic bomb.  Seems the fall-out from the radiation has done something to the local ant population.  And humanity is at risk if a team of doctors, police, and military guys can't get the best of the mutations before it's too late.  Filmed during the Cold War, of course, the story is charged with contextual tension. But I think it holds up well as a good, scary tale.  There are some absurd moments, but when aren't there in a horror film?  And it makes a good metaphor for what people feared would be unleashed by the atomic age (monstrosity).


Mr. Inkslinger particularly enjoyed seeing connections to Ridley Scott's Alien films.  And I thought the elderly, eager scientist (played by the fascinating Edmund Gwenn) bore striking character similarities (though ultimately more benign) to Jurassic Park's John Hammond.  Also of interest is the depiction of a strong, intelligent female doctor who dares the queen's nest with the men.


What a fun evening!

When Mr. Inkslinger first suggested that I would enjoy reading the renowned American food writer M.F.K. Fisher (1908-1992), I hesitated to jump in and test the waters.  I'm not sure why. I suppose I hadn't, at that point, read any books devoted to eating, food, and the social aspects thereof and wasn't sure it was my kind of reading material.  I wasn't really a foodie by any stretch of the imagination.  After a few years of being (more or less) patiently tutored by Mr. Inkslinger and his more good-food-centred approach to living, I was ready to give Fisher a go.

And he is right. I enjoy her writing immensely.  Having read Margaret Visser first, I inevitably made comparisons while I was reading Serve It Forth by Fisher (even though this is both anachronistic and limiting/misleading as Visser doesn't really concentrate on food/memoir).  There is the same relaxed, conversational approach to subject, with anecdotal asides, and a healthy dash of cleverness.  A little bit of sarcasm can creep in from time to time as well, but it is always tempered by reasonableness (note: the use of sarcasm is quite different from mere snarky observations.  I can't abide snarkiness as it's primarily ignorance and prejudice masquerading as clever asides. Sarcasm, however, is a satirical tool that can show up ignorance and prejudice).


Mostly, Serve It Forth is about food and the human response to food, loosely organized historically, and written in the most readable prose. Yet in it one learns something of the author (I rather liked her) and her experiences. 


What a treat. An easy read for a tired brain suffering from the steady pinch of tedium (I find myself growing ever more weary of the semi-housebound state).

Thanksgiving feasting has come and gone around these parts and the leaf colours are deepening towards winter.   I love this time of year, but to avoid more whining about my not being able to get out enough to fully enjoy (breathe in) the autumnal glories I will concentrate on the moments of beauty I can enjoy:

A neighbourhood beauty spot, for example.  

And books, always books.  I've just finished the Mozart bio and I enjoyed the last half even more than the first.  There was quite detailed info about the operas and his methods of composition, more on his wife and sister and sisters-in-law,  a bit about the singers and actors with whom he interacted and for whom he wrote. Ultimately, though, I didn't feel I really became well-acquainted with these intriguing historical figures.  A really great biographer can make the life, the context, the other interacting figures come alive in a way a basic history text cannot.  Focussing on a particular individual means details and anecdotes and assessments that add such colour and texture to the overall tapestry of the time period.  This bio, while good, was a bit unfocussed for my taste. I kept wanting more, more excerpts from letters and first-hand accounts, more about Nannerl (his sister), more about Constanze (his wife). But a good read nonetheless.  

I'm moving on with some light reading now, a little Mary Stewart, in fact.  I came across what I think is the one novel of hers I have never read.  I could be wrong, but I think it's the only one. At any rate, it's Madam, Will You Talk?  And I have expectations of much enjoyment.

*Update: Madam, Will You Talk? is not the only Stewart I've not read.  I read it, in fact, two years ago.  I remembered the story, if not the title. The expectations of much enjoyment were justified, however. What a delight are Mary Stewart novels.

Currently Listening To: Saint-Saëns, Carnival of the Animals


Recently Read and Enjoyed:  Besides the pile of children's books I'm making my way through, I've been reading quite a few Anna Katharine Green mysteries (still!).  What a deft hand at plot is Green!  Dark Hollow is the most recently read Green.  It was so well-paced and the characters so compelling.  So glad I stumbled across Green by accident.  


Also, some poetry has made its way off the reading pile.  I've just finishing reading (and found myself thoroughly impressed by) Stephanie Bolster's new book of poems, A Page From the Wonders of Life On Earth.  Zoos as mirrors, life and echoing art . . . an intriguing collection of poems!  Such a great eye for the telling image.  The poignant thrust of the well-timed line.  And doesn't that cover just make you want to delve in?

Currently Reading:  For some reason that I've yet to pin down, I've started in on a bio of Mozart.  Now, I can appreciate Mozart intellectually, but he doesn't occupy that place in my heart reserved for Bach and Beethoven.  I realize he was a genius, that he changed (with some assistance) the musical landscape, as it were, but still.  No, I'm not a Mozart fan (perhaps I was unduly influenced by that hilarious but off-putting laugh attributed to Mozart in the film Amadeus? I hope not, seems shallow :).  So why the bio? A few years ago, Mr. Inkslinger tossed the book my way and thought I might like it as it comes at Mozart from the direction of the women in his life.  Hmm, I thought. That might do.  And then I promptly forgot about it.  Well, I've remembered it now and I'm about halfway through Mozart's Women: His Family, His Friends, His Music by Jane Glover and enjoying it quite a bit.  His poor sister, though.  Stuck at home or in a stressful marriage while Mozart goes about creating musical revolutions.  

And I'm still reading Helen Humphreys great new novel The Reinvention of Love.  I'm going slow, enjoying the prose, taking in the interesting way she has arranged the narrative (more on this when I've finished reading the book).  I've moved beyond love affairs and duels and am now in the section where Saint-Beuve is struggling for his art.  Alas poor Saint-Beuve, ever in the shadow of Victor Hugo.


Currently Anticipating:  A low-key, but family-filled Thanksgiving weekend. We'll have a vegetarian roast beast, some lovely potatoes (Mr. Inkslinger makes perfectly mashed potatoes) and veggies, and a yummy cherry pie.  That's the plan, anyway.  I'm sure laughter and much chatting will be involved as well.  Not to mention other eatables.  

Growing up, my knowledge of Laura Lee Hope (a.k.a. The Stratemeyer Syndicate) was limited to a handful of books.  I'd been given an old copy of The Story of a Plush Bear when a child (hand-me-down from my older sister) and I'd happily indulged in a few Bobbsey Twins books from my school library (the 'purple editions' of the Bobbseys, I should say).  I'd enjoyed them as sweet, simple stories with a dash of adventure, but I did grow out of them rather quickly.  My affection for the stories remained, but I didn't read them as often or for as many years as, say, The Nancy Drew series or The Hardy Boys books.   


Imagine my dismay when, as an adult, I began to delve further into some of the Bobbsey books and Make Believe Stories by Laura Lee Hope and discovered objectionable depictions of minorities.  Either I'd never read those particular stories, or the reprints were edited to downplay the more obvious*, or I'd somehow never noticed any of it (unlikely, but possible), but I was disappointed with the more blatant stereotyping in some of the stories once I did read/notice it as an adult.  Of course, one needn't read those particular stories to children (you see, I'm thinking ahead to the arrival of Little Inkslinger) until one can have a good, long discussion about pre-Civil Rights society and the damaging and dangerous misconceptions about race and ethnicity (not to mention pre-Women's Movement misconceptions about whether all women were born complete with apron and vaccuum). And one can carefully select the later reprints that seem to be stereotype free.  Still, more than a few uncomfortable moments were had as I read through those stories during my ongoing search for the best reads for The Little Inkslinger. 


I've been slowly reading through and keeping track of children's books that will make it onto a reading stack for The Little Inkslinger once he/she arrives and is ready to be read to (although, when isn't one ready to be read to?!), and the list is expanding (despite the aforementioned). I'm rediscovering Thornton W. Burgess, for example.  Oh, and all ideas for great children's books are welcome!! If any of you have any favourites that you think are essential childhood reading, do share the info!


* This is the most likely, actually, as later reprints were edited for just this problem.