Flickan med glasfötter and La Ragazza dai Piedi di Vetro have been available for a few weeks now in Sweden and Italy respectively. Both of these translations have been put together so well that they merit more than a brief line here. I’m going to attempt to do Italian and Swedish fairy stories next up in the drawings series, to tip my hat to the good folks at Fazi Editore and Bra Böcker.
I’ve been MIA for a bit, sorting a few things out here and there, but I hope to be back to posting more regularly soon. In the meantime, a mention that I’m going to be appearing at Bath Literary Festival on Sunday 7th March with Mathias Malzieu, author of The Boy with the Cuckoo Clock Heart. Kick-off is at 6.15 and all the info is here.
In other news I’ve just done a bit of blog housekeeping, having realised that I’d neglected to categorise lots of posts, including a few of the drawings for fairy stories. So if you missed one of those, you can check it out using the categories menu on the right. A new post in that series should be arriving soon…
Nineteen days after the year in question came to an end, I finally complete my list for 2009. Not particularly timely, I know, but here are my final three nevertheless. And although this list was never in any particular order, I do consider these three things to be my favourite discoveries of 2009. So without further ado…
T F POWYS - FABLES
The only book by T F Powys that’s widely available these days is Mr. Weston’s Good Wine, which I’ve yet to read but am really looking forward to laying my hands on some time in 2010. Two others, Unclay and Kindness In A Corner, have been reprinted by small publisher The Sundial Press, but for Fables you need to look in second hand bookshops (I got my copy from an online one for a pittance, and the good news is it was easy to find).
It seems that Powys may be one of those forgotten gems of English literature: too elusive in style to fit happily among his contemporaries, too reclusive in lifestyle to counteract that. Fables was published in 1929, but eighty years later it felt to me potent and fresh. But I should explain more. Theodore Francis Powys lived and worked in the tiny Dorset village of East Chaldon (population today, one hundred and sixty six), where from what I can tell he kept his head down and reflected on the nature of life and religion through the means of his writing. Evidently he was a very spiritual man who would have termed himself a Christian, but his take on religion seems to have been unconventional at least. That’s about all I can tell you about him specifically, other than pointing you at an article by John Gray in the New Statesman, but you can pick up a lot of Powys’ sombre, pensive character from Fables. This is a collection of twenty short stories, all set in and around the fictional West Country village of Madder. In this locale, everything can talk, and each story has at its heart a dialogue between two such conversationalists. When I say everything, I mean everything. Candles, buckets, the waves of the sea, the spitoon in the inn, the headstones in the church yard, everything can talk. Generally the less human a thing is, the more wisdom it has to impart. And wisdom is something Fables has in abundance, and little gems are given out at regular intervals by the least likely of speakers, alongside opaque messages that are dark and strange.
This book reminds me in a lot of ways of Hans Christian Andersen, whose stories are similarly full of talking objects and sudden moral interludes. Yet Powys is darker, stranger and less studied. Plot isn’t important to Powys, but humour is, which is a good thing given that most of the conversations held in Fables turn ultimately to the nature of mortality. Here’s an extract that seem to me to touch on everything Fables is about, taken from the end of my favourite story in the book, John Pardy and the Waves. You’ll just have to forgive him the bit about the maiden’s breast.
The waves had so much entertained John Pardy by their replies to his questions that he laughed loudly, rolling his body backwards and forwards and showing himself to be very merry.
‘Who would have believed it?’ he called out, ‘that fifteen hundred waves, who have talked with God, should take so great a notice of our little family!’
‘Your counting, Mr. Pardy,’ said the waves, ‘is far from being correct. We are more than you make us. And why should we not take notice of little matters? For all things that are made by God have an interest, and there is nothing so small but that some truth may be found in it.’
‘And look,’ cried John Pardy, ‘there before me is one of you, a green wave rising slowly like the gentle breast of a young maiden when she meets her lover. The wave moves fearlessly, it rises higher and still higher and is coming onwards; now ’tis crowned with white foam, it rushes on, breaks and flows to my feet and is seen no more. Surely that wave has died like a man, and will be no more seen.’
‘You are wrong,’ said the waves, ‘for as soon as it broke and was gone, it became one with the vast waters of all the oceans. In a few millions of years, perhaps - and what are these years to us? - those drops of water will collect again, rise up, roll on, and break upon the coast of Greenland during a summer night - but no human creature will see them. Even though we waves lie for centuries in the deeps of the waters, so deeply buried that no man could think that we should ever rise, yet as all life must come to the surface again and again, awakening each time from a deep sleep as long as eternity, so we are raised up out of the deeps high above our fellows, to obey the winds, to behold the sky, to fly onwards, moving swiftly, to complete our course, break and sink once more.
‘We, who are waves, know you, who are men, only as another sea, within which every living creature is a little wave that rises for a moment and then breaks and dies. Our great joy comes when we break, yours when you are born, for you have not yet reached that sublime relationship with God which gives the greatest happiness to destruction.’
‘I am interested in what you say,’ said John Pardy, ‘and I have half a mind to join in your revels; but tell me, if I come to you shall I have the same pleasure in destroying others as I am likely to have when I am destroyed myself?’
‘You may sink a ship,’ answered the waves, ‘and with good luck you may become a tidal wave that will drown a city.’
John Pardy walked into the sea.
WILLIAM ELLIOTT WHITMORE - ANIMALS IN THE DARK
I had the good fortune to come across William Elliott Whitmore just in time to see him while he was touring the UK. If you find yourself with a similar opportunity I’d urge you to go and do the same. One critic described him as having ‘more soul than a graveyard’, and that’s spot on. Added to that his live shows are engrossing, not because of any fancy theatrics but because of the weight of emotion he throws behind his music. He’s got several records out, but Animals in the Dark (2009’s) is my favourite, thanks to its blend of subject matter. Old-fashioned protest songs about political corruption share the tracklisting with heartfelt, gut-turning songs about grief and hope. Then of course there is Whitmore’s voice, which has a broken depth to it reminiscent of somebody like Tom Waits.
I wanted to embed a video of a performance of Old Devils he did for KEXP Radio, but embedding is disabled on that one track only. So here’s the link to that, and an embedded version of Hard Times.
You know when you’ve fallen in love with a record when you find its songs soundtracking your own experiences. This record did that for me in 2009, some of its songs acting as a kind of tonic during some squally patches. You can of course listen to Whitmore further at his myspace page. I’d recommend There’s Hope For You and Hell or High Water and… well, I’d recommend the whole album, of course.
YI-FU TUAN - ESCAPISM
I don’t know where to begin with this one. In a nutshell, this book is a tour-de-force of nigh on every aspect of human experience and society. Yi-Fu Tuan is an emeritus professor and geographer and he has a remarkable ability to take a perspective on human affairs seemingly entirely removed from cultural influences. And that’s a really hard thing to do. Escapism was the last thing I read in 2009 and one of only two books (the other being Fables) that I wanted to start again the moment I finished. Its main theme is that escapism is a human drive that has been fundamental to the development of all our society. Escapism here essentially means the escape from nature, our need to build ourselves protection from the big bad world. Better than any explanation I can give is the blurb posted below, or the Google Books preview, which was what persuaded me to buy the book in the first place. Reading it made me rethink so many things, or simply see them in a new context. I’m more used to reading work by fiction writers or critics who operate in the realms of literature. Contrasted with Tuan’s geographer’s eye, their writings seem incredibly human-centric in a world that firmly is not. That’s fine, but it’s refreshing to see things from Tuan’s perspective.
I have to confess that my brain often clunks out about halfway through most of the more academic books I try to read. The point at which the author, having outlined the basics that underpin their argument, is ready to launch into the real substance of the book is normally the point where I start trailing behind. Yet while I found myself not nearly clever enough to understand everything in Escapism, Tuan’s easily accessible prose style made things far easier on my synapses. It was the most thoughtful, enlightening book I read all year.
In prehistoric times, our ancestors began building shelters and planting crops in order to escape from nature’s harsh realities. Today, we flee urban dangers for the safer, reconfigured world of suburban lawns and parks. According to geographer Yi-Fu Tuan, people have always sought to escape in one way or another, sometimes foolishly, often creatively and ingeniously. Glass-tower cities, suburbs, shopping malls, Disneyland — all are among the most recent monuments in our efforts to escape the constraints and uncertainties of life — ultimately, those imposed by nature. “What cultural product,” Tuan asks, “is not escape?” In his new book, the capstone of a celebrated career, Tuan shows that escapism is an inescapable component of human thought and culture.
At last, then, I’ve finished my list. It’s been fun to do, but I promise I’ll spare you another one until the end of this year at least . If anyone would like to drop in any recommendations of their own, please do leave them in the comments section.
If you’re free at 7:30 on the 18th January, why not stop along at Mostly Books in Abingdon, where I’ll be doing a reading? Mostly Books is a great shop - winning the New Bookshop of the Year award in 2008 - and your ticket includes a glass of wine. What more could you ask for? Tickets can be reserved by emailing books@mostly-books.co.ukor calling 01235 525880. More details are at www.mostly-books.co.uk
The Girl with Glass Feet is published today in the USA by the wonderful Henry Holt and Company. It has the same Rose Cooper jacket design as the UK hardback, and Henry Holt have done a fantastic job of producing it. They’ve also got some bits and pieces up on their webpage that you can read/view, including this neat slideshow.
To double the excitement at my end, the UK paperback is also now available and in book shops, published by Atlantic Books. It also looks gorgeous.
In light of these releases I’ve updated the book page of this site, adding a few extra review quotes and a panel of all the covers. Let me know if it does wild things to your browser, as it did some very peculiar things to mine as I tried to upload it!
This was the best movie I saw all year. District 9, by Neill Blomkamp. It’s like a creature from a bestiary, made from the parts of many different animals. It’s a sci-fi blockbuster with aliens and giant robots, yes, but it’s also an exploration of prejudice and a take on possibly the best short story ever written, Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. It has an engrossing central performance by Sharlto Copley and because it’s from South Africa it’s gloriously free of boring Hollywood cliches.
I know this film divides people. The sci-fi and action movie parts don’t appeal to everyone. But if you’re unsure about it I’d urge you not to be put off by its genre. It’s one of those works that exposes genre as the ugly, blinkered beast that genre really is. As for me, I’m waiting with bated breath for whatever its creators do next.
With 2010 newly arrived, I’m going to be wrapping up the list soon with a final top 3 post. Before that I have a few bits of house-keeping to do on this site, as well as some book news to impart. More soon…
I just love this fella. He’s the Ooser (who I wrote about in the summer). Knowing that this big, dopey-looking wooden head exists is enough to bring a smile to my face. Since initially posting about him on this blog, I’ve found two great pieces of journalism that I wanted to link to. The first is an article from the Guardian that interviews some of the Morris dancers who accompany the Ooser on his dancing trips, and the second is a short BBC video posted by folkmagic on YouTube.
Reading and watching these, the things that strike me are the comments by the dancers. They don’t appear to view themselves as pagans, or the Ooser as any sort of religious symbol. There’s no hokum here or analysis about fertility rites. They do this simply because “it makes you feel good to be alive.” And what better thing to write about on a cold New Year’s Eve than life-affirming May Day rituals?
A very happy New Year to everybody reading this. Thanks for following this blog, and I wish you all the best for 2010.
I can’t even remember how I discovered www.butdoesitfloat.com, but I’ve found myself going back there with increasing frequency as 2009 has gone by. For the best explanation of what the site is like you only have to visit it once, but I think it’s more rewarding to check in there quite often. It’s remarkable that the people who compile it can continue to find such interesting and unusual images, and it makes my list of great things discovered this year because of the countless occassions on which it’s made me go, ‘wow, look at that!’ I also love the way the images fade forward out of the white backdrop, giving you a ‘what’s next?’, unwrapped-present sort of thrill.
Don’t miss the category list on the right hand side of the page, which will lead you to the archived posts. Clicking on any of the images themselves will lead you on to their source.
Here are some links to a few of my favourites: John Stezaker’s collages, Rockwell Kent’s woodcuts for Moby Dick, an Inuit sculpture posted by airform on flickr, and Guy Sargent’s photography.
Then there came a third flash. Manoeuvres of a
most extraordinary kind were going on in the vast
firmamental hollows overhead. The lightning now was
the colour of silver, and gleamed in the heavens like a
mailed army. Rumbles became rattles. Gabriel from
his elevated position could see over the landscape at
least half-a-dozen miles in front. Every hedge, bush,
and tree was distinct as in a line engraving. In a
paddock in the same direction was a herd of heifers,
and the forms of these were visible at this moment in
the act of galloping about in the wildest and maddest
confusion, flinging their heels and tails high into the air,
their heads to earth. A poplar in the immediate fore-
ground was like an ink stroke on burnished tin. Then
the picture vanished, leaving the darkness so intense
that Gabriel worked entirely by feeling with his hands.
2009 was the year in which I at last learned to like Thomas Hardy, and Far From The Madding Crowd (and specifically the passage above) was the thing that finally taught me how. It’s taken me some time to get there, but let me explain why, and the reason I now think he’s so special.
I’m writing this at my parents’ house in Dorchester, where I grew up. This is also the place where Thomas Hardy lived most of his life (it’s Casterbridge, if you’re looking for it in his novels), and Hardy’s stern, moustachioed countenance turns up everywhere. I am sitting, for example, in a road named after a place from one of his novels, in an estate where every road is named after a place from one of his novels, next to another estate where every road is named after a character from one of his novels, and near the house he built (which is now a kind of museum dedicated to his living arrangements), which is beside a pub that is named after him. And so on.
When I was studying English Lit, I already had a sense of Hardy overkill, but during the course of my school and student days, and by a freak arrangement of syllabuses, I ended up having to study The Mayor of Casterbridge three different occasions. That was enough Hardy for one lifetime, I thought, but when I ended up living in Oxford I thought it might be fun to read Jude The Obscure, since it’s about somebody moving there from the West Country. I coped with it for a while, but when I reached the part where Jude’s children do what they do (I don’t want to spoil what happens for you, because it’s near the end, but if you’ve read it you’ll know the bit I mean) I was finding Hardy’s pessimism about human nature unbearable. So I renewed my disinterest in his novels.
All year long, though, I’ve been reading about the weather, and some interesting things about humanity’s relationship with it down the centuries, and as such I’ve been drawn to writers who concentrate heavily on nature and its effect on people (hence Ted Hughes in the first post of this list). Hardy’s name always crops up among nature writers, so I thought I might give him another shot. I chose Egdon Heath for this purpose, since by all accounts it contains some of Hardy’s best uses of nature. Then when I got to the bookshop, Egdon Heath was out of stock. Worried I’d lose my resolve, I chose another book: Far From The Madding Crowd.
I loved it. When Hardy starts using the landscape as a character, he really shifts up a gear. I think the passage above shows that. He becomes like Ted Hughes, a kind of shaman invoking the natural world and the weather and channelling a sense of these things through words. I found those powers absent from Jude The Obscure, due I think to its urban setting, and I can’t really give a fair comment on The Mayor Of Casterbridge, but when nature starts pulling strings in Far From The Madding Crowd, the prose lights up so dramatically that it’s well worth the slog through some of the between times.
Stornoway have been playing wonderful little gigs around Oxford for the last few years, but in 2009 things really took off for them. Their clever, melodic folk-pop has started to gain attention nationwide, and they’ve shown up several times in the papers and on shows like Later with Jools Holland. For a while they had a quote on their myspace page that called their sound ‘a living, breathing Mark Twain novel,’ and that’s not far off. If this is sounding worryingly fey to you, I think you might be pleasantly surprised by the earthiness and honesty of their songs and lyrics.
Until recently my favourite gig of theirs was one in the Jericho Tavern in Oxford, when they unplugged their instruments and played acoustic, standing on the tables with the audience huddled around them. Then, at the end of October, they played in the Sheldonian Theatre, which is a 17th century venue designed by Christopher Wren. Here’s a picture of the outside, and here’s a nifty 360 degree virtual tour of the inside (worth checking out for the painted ceiling). The strange seasick feeling this latter link will give you isn’t present in the actual theatre, although the seats are as unforgiving as the hardest of church pews. Stornoway mesmerised despite that, and were supported by the Oxford Millenium Orchestra, who went on to play some of their songs along with them. Gigs in beautiful, historical venues, accompanied by full-blown orchestras, are something bands tend to do at the height of their fame, when they start feeling comfortable enough to try something out of the ordinary. The fact that Stornoway are still unsigned just demonstrates how innovative and ambitious they are. I’m sure 2010 will be an incredible year for them, but in the meantime you can listen to them at their myspace page and on the BBC, where you can watch some session videos.
