Raven Ramblings

She’s Leaving Home!

2010-03-10T22:40:00.008Z

Children never really leave home; neither do they ever become adults, in their parents’ eyes at least. Until I had my own home my accumulated detritus, collected over many years, lay undisturbed in the attic of my mother’s house. It was my god given right, or so I thought, to leave whatever I wanted in the home that I had grown up in and had my mother ever complained I would have been startled, completely taken aback at such an unthinkable state of affairs.

One fine afternoon I overheard her, in her twilight years, order a young man (to whom she wanted to give a few hours work in case he came in handy one day) to build a large fire in the back garden and put on it anything he could lay his hands on from the garage. I thought no more about it but wandered out, some time later, to find the smouldering remains of my niece’s collection of archaeological reference books amongst other former treasures. It was up to me to inform said unfortunate niece that the bits and bobs she had thought would lay undisturbed until she had the wherewithal to retrieve them, were decimated, destroyed, burnt to cinders, and quite beyond rescue. I can still hear the shrieking and gnashing of teeth that came down the phone line that otherwise sunny afternoon.

When my youngest daughter left home she asked if I would do the same with her collection of books as I had done for my eldest son. A carpenter was duly contracted to create and fit another long shelf or three and no sooner had the varnish dried than Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, Anne Rice, Clive Barker, Stephenie Meyer, J.R.R. Tolkien et al were lined up side by side and left to await being reunited with their owner at some future date.

On the opposite wall, in higgledy-piggledy order sits Philip K. Dick, Harry Harrison, Arthur C. Clarke, Iain Banks, Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Kurt Vonnegut, Brian Aldiss, Gary Larson and his Farside Gallery, and the high jinx of Calvin & Hobbes.

My son didn’t arrive home to deposit his book collection before heading off to the States. Instead, I got a frantic call saying that his erstwhile father, who had housed his library until now, was moving and would perforce have to dump the books unless arrangements were made. I thought long and hard and two minutes later rang my ex-boss in the UK, a man of integrity, incredible and many kindnesses, and a father himself. Two days later this company director drove up to Horsham and proceeded to load his car with everything that was known to belong to my son and heir, including his art portfolio.

The books were taken back to company headquarters, boxed and shipped, gratis, to Ireland ready to take possession of three rows of shelving where they collect dust but look no less impressive for that. The bonus was that two of the pictures in the portfolio were mounted and framed and hung with great delight, a reminder of the other career path he could have chosen. Whenever my son comes home (it’s been so long now I hardly know what he looks like) he mooches about in my sitting room, taking down the odd book, enjoying the fact that they are all here, safe, on show and not going anywhere.

There is still one shelf dedicated to my children's childhood heroes that entertains visitors, keeping the younger ones amused and sending the older ones way down memory lane. There’s Rupert Bear with his oriental chums; Asterix and friends up to all kinds of tricks; and the complete collection of Tin Tin with the faithful Snowy at his heels.

I’ve heard it said that you’re never alone with a shelf full of books to keep you company. And I know that as long as my tiny sitting room is crammed full of all our favourite books, my children will keep coming home, if only to check on Philip, or Iain, or Terry, or Douglas, or even me!

Beg, Borrow, Steal

2010-03-08T17:53:00.008Z

Sometimes a book calls out to you in a voice as strong as a summer breeze. You lift it up, caress its inviting cover, turn it over and back as though to make sure it fits the grip of your hand and before you know where you are, it belongs to you. You leave the shop, and head for home knowing you have a treat in store. A million chores await, the list goes on and on in your head but wait a minute, a poem arrives on cue, a reminder that some things can wait and other can’t, some simple pleasures should not be denied. "You’ll be a long time dead," she said so long ago, and she is now and she was right and I dare not forget her words. You slip into your favour chair, kick off your shoes, and ignore the world for a while as you dip into Beg, Borrow, Steal: A Writer’s Life by Michael Greenberg. Joy of joys! Need I say more?

Leisure by W. H. Davies

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?—

No time to stand beneath the boughs,

And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

What we talked about....

2010-02-28T22:26:00.008Z

....when we talked about nothing.

Lobby talk:

“Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“Yer man, whatshisname.”

“Oh, yea, he’s staying here with his wife.”

“Must have arrived last night.”

“Mmmmm…”

“He was sitting outside reading that book, you know, the one that won the IMPAC.”

“The horses one?”

“Yea, Out Stealing Horses, I think.”

“Loved it. By Per Petterson, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, think that was it.”

And here’s another one as we enjoyed dinner in a high-class restaurant off the orangery:

“Well, did you?”

“No, I never slept with a policeman.”

Pause

“...but I did sleep with a policeman’s wife!”

We all cracked up at that one.

Instant friendship:

“But I can come with you. I speak Spanish, it’s absolutely no trouble at all.”

Ulla could and did and without her our visit to A&E would not have gone so smoothly. She translated, filled in forms, held hands, and guided us through the system with ease. P, having fallen down some marble stairs, emerged after her ordeal looking like Frankenstein’s moll with large black stitches running up her gashed arm. We could not repay Ulla’s kindness but we can pass it on.

Holiday bliss

2010-02-23T19:57:00.009Z

The four of us are sitting at a corner table in Marbella - that of the sea, the shops and the unexpected sunshine - in our hotel bar reading our books: P is deep into The Post Office Girl by Stefan Zweig with a cold cup of coffee in front of her; T is thoroughly enjoying Italian Shoes by Henning Mankell with the remains of a bottle of Coke being cleared away by the bar girl. G, with a very pleasant glass of rosé in hand, is on the second part of The Notebook, The Proof and The Third Lie by Agota Kristof, an intriguing novel that I may have to reread; and I am stuck into another Mankell, The Man from Beijing, that is so enjoyable. For once we aren't yacking away but are absorbed in our other worlds, the amiable chatter of our fellow residents burbling away in the background, the musak a gentle thrum of guitar. Oh but this is bliss!

The Lenten Read - It Begins

2010-02-17T11:04:00.010Z

'Tis the first day of Lent and I'm itching to begin my first forty-page foray. With the proviso that I may change my mind at any time (why yes, I am playing the female card), I have chosen the following books for my Lenten Read:

Little Hands Clapping, Dan Rhodes (Cannongate), 313 pages, 7.82 days

The Sorceress, Michael Scott (Randomhouse), 483 pages, 12.07 days

Invisible, Paul Auster (Faber), 308 pages, 7.7 days

The Missing, Tim Gautreaux (Sceptre), 422 pages, 10.55 days

Which all adds up to 38.14 days (N.B. I will always go for the good stopping point over exactly 40 pages). Interspersed with the above will be stories from Simon Van Booy's Love Begins in Winter (it won The Frank O'Connor Short Story Award this year over Wells Tower's Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned which I loved so I have high expectations (Rosita Boland asks about the influence of book awards on reading choices here)).

I've been waiting to read The Sorceress for ages after flying through the first two in the series (the fourth book, The Necromancer, will be out May 25th). I've also been waiting on Invisible, especially after hearing the author on Open Book way back in the summer of 2008, a very interesting individual indeed.

The Missing has been highly recommended and really, what's not to love about a novel set in 1920s Louisiana, "a wild world of jazz, moonshine and lawlessness"? Little Hands Clapping arrived in last week and I was hooked from the first sentence of the synopsis: In a room above a bizarre German museum, and far from the prying eyes of strangers, lives the Old Man.

In content the books are quite a mix, yet all are fiction, all written recently by Western white males. If we are to judge ourselves by what we read, I'm not sure what this says about me other than the abundantly obvious fact that I love a good yarn well told.

Daily updates on progress will be tweeted with possibly a blog post or two thrown in for good measure (if I'm not too busy reading).

~Louisa

A Singular Man

2010-02-15T19:39:00.006Z

Colin Firth plays a blinder as a gay English Professor in A Single Man. It's a pity though, that it almost always seems to be straight actors who portray homosexuals and lesbians on screen. I would have hoped that in this day and age we could openly accept Hollywood stars who prefer their own gender rather than keeping them shut up in the veritable closet. So, the straights play gays and the gays play straights and no one is any the wiser. One scene has George Falconer sitting on the couch opposite Jim, his partner of sixteen years, as they are both reading completely different kinds of books: George holds After Many a Summer Dies the Swan by Aldous Huxley, Jim is engrossed by Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote. It’s funny to note that before I became involved in the world of books I would hardly have noticed, let alone rushed home to find the Huxley quotation that seemed so apt on screen: "Experience is not what happens to you; it's what you do with what happens to you."

Blooming holidays!

2010-02-12T15:58:00.005Z

You’ve decided where to go, booked flights, organised hotels, packed and weighed your bags, sent the cat to longsuffering relatives, persuaded the dog to take up residence in a home with bars across the windows, and all you have to do is make sure you have something decent to read. Simple? No, definitely not!

To Pisa, Italy, I brought three books: one was ok, the second was awful, and the third I had read before (a ghastly mistake) so I set off for the largest bookstore in town. The English section comprised two sets of shelving in which Charles Dickens and Dan Brown featured among the usual chick-lit and dross of the lowest order; I chose the former and spent the remainder of my holiday with Hard Times tucked under my oxter (not a bad choice as it turned out. I can now visualise Miss Haversham at the table of her wedding feast and the genial Pip as he grew up with a cast of the strangest characters). Note to self: plan better next time.

Albuquerque, New Mexico, with five books in tow, none of which I could read on the flight as I was seated next to Bill for the long haul with whom I talked non-stop, laughed, watched the same movie, and left in Chicago with a nod of regret. No sooner landed than I headed for Borders that was full of luscious temptation that I didn’t resist; next was Barnes & Noble, another house of sin for the likes of me. More books to read but still I didn’t manage a single page due to (a) the time difference that had me in bed by eight; (b) so many relatives dying to catch up on old times; (c) the view from the back garden of humming birds flitting around the feeding table; (d) the wonderful dry heat that did me a power of good. I eventually managed to get stuck into Henning Mankell who kept me highly entertained with his grumpy detective, Wallander (who could do with a good holiday himself), and a bloody crime to be solved by fair means or foul.

My flight home was just as fortuitous with Harry, another of Chicago’s sons, for company who helped me carry my suitcase, bursting with unread books, to a waiting bus.

Next week I’m off to Marbella with three gals from the book club for seven days of fun, fun and more fun. We’ve agreed to take two books each to share after reading so basically that’s one book a day if all goes according to plan. It should be enough, but then again, what if none of them are any good??? Oh the trials and tribulations of being too far away from my favourite bookshops and that steady supply of literary surprises growing like sturdy trees beside my bed, on the sideboard, near the couch and strewn on the hall table.

Having a good book to read is like a security blanket for bibliophiles without which we’d turn into nasty, spiteful, frustrated bores longing for an English box of Cornflakes off which to read (as if we needed to know) the ingredients, nutritional value (ha!), country of origin, and other useless information. Reading is reading when it boils down to it and going mad in a world without books doesn’t bear thinking about.

Bait

2010-02-08T16:16:00.003Z

Bait by David Albahari

A young man tries to record his mother’s memories before she is lost to him forever. They are both haunted by the collapse of the former Yugoslavia, the devastation that was their home in Serbia before they left for the safety of Calgary, Canada. The narrator of this story listens to his mother’s voice describe a life she has left behind but carries in her heart.

"Some people simplicity calms and others it upsets, in that lies the whole truth. I don’t know whether I can associate that with my mother, but if I compare her with my father, then Father, perhaps like all fathers, becomes hopelessly complicated always at the furthest remove from the best path, while Mother pauses through the labyrinth like a knife through a head of cabbage, without resistance, until it reaches the heart."

This book, though densely written, pours emotions through a sieve of loss, exile, language and love. It is a reflection of a time, a place, and a mother who never stood still, who never gave up, who loved until she took her last breath.

The Man Who Peers Into Your Brain!

2010-01-27T21:00:00.006Z

Oliver Sacks seems to know everything; honestly, he’d make you sick with envy and a feeling of terrible inadequacy! But then, at least he’s qualified enough to explain the inner workings of the mind in such a way that you’d feel understood and fascinated, both at the same time. Sacks the author is also a physician and professor of Neurology & Psychiatry at Columbia University Medical Center. The first time he and I crossed paths was when I discovered Martin (my erstwhile other half) reading Awakenings, a mind-blowing account of Sacks’ work with survivors of the 1918 sleeping-sickness epidemic when hundreds slipped into a bizarre paralysis, only occasionally able to move or communication, institutionalised for life. When Sacks went to work with these patients in the 60s, L-DOPA was having dramatic results on these lifeless souls who started to move, and talk after nearly 50 years of rigid silence and in this book he brings these forgotten people alive. Amazing!

A Leg to Stand On recounts Sacks’ experience as a patient when he was hospitalised after a climbing accident in which he badly damaged his leg. He describes what it’s like to be the one in the bed instead of the one looking down from a great height; the loss of personal control, the one in pyjamas being told what to do by the one in a business suit, an insight that many a doc could do with experiencing in my opinion! He also talked about the body’s rejection of a limb that has become obsolete - however briefly - and how he woke himself up trying to kick his leg out of bed on more than one occasion. Weird, but definitely fascinating.

In An Anthropologist on Mars and also in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Sacks uses case studies to illustrate the myriad ways in which neurological conditions have affected how his patients relate to the world around them. His writing is scientific but also compassionate and he brings the lives of some astounding human beings to life under his sharply honed pen: the colour-blind painter who had to learn to live in a black and white but mostly grey world; the surgeon who is beleaguered by obsessive tics – except, that is, when he is in the operating theatre. I want to end every sentence with an exclamation mark to demonstrate my sense of awe at how these unusual and wonderful people cope with life and I swear I will never again complain about anything.

Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain was made into a television documentary that I recorded and watched over and over, each time being freshly amazed at how music seems to reach the parts of the brain that nothing else can. A surgeon who after a car accident decides to take up the piano obsessively, writing compositions, giving recitals and excelling at this totally new gift that seems to have come from out of the blue. The drummer whose sense of rhythm beats the demons out of his head and calms his world down. The young man with sight loss, who can hardly carry even the most basic conversation, locked in his autistic world and yet is unbelievable on a piano.

With Seeing Voices we are guided into a silent world where he explores, with passion and insight, the world of the deaf. Migraine is yet another revelatory exploration in which he discusses the similarities between the visual hallucinations and/or auras preceding a migraine and those that are induced by hallucinogenic drugs or deliria.

The man is a wonder (and I am his biggest fan) and yet when he wrote, Uncle Tungsten, a memoir about growing up in a London Jewish family, the child of two doctors, I was left with a feeling of absence, as if he had not been there at all. He was sent to a brutal boarding school during the war where he was most unhappy so perhaps that coloured his reflections and his memories. That, and a brother who was mentally ill, sent him on a career path that would take him to the USA where, through his writing, he would eventually open a window on the hitherto secret world of the neurologist.

Book Clubs: Part 3

2010-01-24T21:43:00.003Z

What on earth will we read?

When it’s your turn to choose the book club book do you dash into the nearest bookshop, have a quick rummage, and grab something off the shelf because it looks good? If so, you need to go back to your club and spend some time deciding exactly what kind of book you all want to spend your hard earned money and limited amount of time on reading.

The main thing is that you should stretch yourselves, improve and challenge your reading habits, move out of your comfort zone and for goodness sake resist choosing something that everyone will simply enjoy. What on earth would you talk about? Oh, I loved it! So did I! Me too! Anyone for coffee? Reading for sheer pleasure is what most of us do anyway so if you’re going to leave your comfortable home on a dark and wintry evening there’s got to be a challenge, an enthusiasm, and a zest for exploration with like minded literary lovers.

Oisin and Stella (aka my nephew and niece-in-law) are setting up their own book club in sunny Albuquerque. First off they discussed the project with like-minded friends to see what kind of group they would form; then they emailed Aunty Mary for a comprehensive guide on how to set about the business and then they sat down and planned exactly what they wanted to read. They have come up with an ingenious plan and a list of excellent books that should see them well on their way for the year ahead. Everyone is on board, everyone has the list, and all the books can be bought second hand or borrowed from the library. Oh I’d love to be a fly on the wall at their first meeting. I’m sure we’ll hear more from this innovative book club.

~Posted by Mary

Book Clubs: Part 2

2010-01-20T21:54:00.008Z

The Long and the Short of it

You may think I’m completely bonkers but I have come to the conclusion that there is a perfect length for a book club novel and it’s 300 pages, give or take!

I have just conducted a scientific survey by going to my own bookshelves, picking out many of the titles used in book clubs, flicking to the back and finding that the range was not less than 280 pages and not more than 350. QED!

Having said that, I know many club that have tackled The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver which comes in at a whopping 614 pages, every one a gem. And there’s many clubs that have loved The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett who manages to tell a wonderfully imaginative and succinct tale over a mere 128 pages.

A long book is too much for most busy people to get through in the time available (usually a month) and a short book does not always have enough meat for an entire evening’s discussion. Having said that, The Trial by Franz Kafka, coming in at a crisp 197 pages (depending on the translation) inspired such a thought provoking discussion with my gang that I cannot recommend it highly enough.

On a practical level, book club members will get to the end of a novel that is a reasonable length, even if it’s not something they’re particularly enjoying. And if everyone has read the book, everyone can fully take part in the discussion.

So, before you choose a novel for your book club, give a thought to its size and then proceed to the next stage in the process of trying to please some of the people some of the time because take it from me, you won’t please all of the people all of the time!

~Posted by Mary

Book Clubs: Part 1

2010-01-15T22:00:00.004Z

So, you want to start a book club and you haven’t a clue how to set about getting one up and running: Well, look no further, help is at hand from the Queen of Book Club Land.

There are clubs within clubs (golf clubs, yacht clubs), there are all male, and all female, and better still, mixed clubs, husbands and wives (that doesn’t translate easily into Partners & Partners but you know what I mean) who get together to socialise and discuss, work mates, book shop clubs, library sponsored clubs, friends from way back who went to school together clubs. There are neighbourhood clubs, long distance clubs - Skype means you can attend from anywhere in the world - and television and radio clubs. I’m sure there are clubs for retired zoo keepers, for call girls when they are not on call, for disillusioned dentists and resting actors – any possible mix of people who want to share their love of books can get together and create their own unique club.

If you are setting up your own book club then you get to decide who is going to be in your gang, and whether it will be a set number or expand and contract as time goes on. But do remember that your club will probably take on a life of its own and you may not be in charge for long!

It’s impossible to kick someone, who proves to be impossibly irritating, out of your club especially if they are neighbours and/or friends so think hard before you issue that invitation. Many a club has gone to the wall because of one person who thinks that their opinions are the only ones that matter; there are others who interrupt, violently disagree, talk about their children at the drop of a hat, relate every incident in a book to some event in their own lives which they then proceed to tell you about at great length. But, of course, you may only find out these grating habits when they have chosen their favourite easy chair in your front room from which there’s no dislodging this comfortable cuckoo.

We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver proved such a contentious book that members of one club nearly came to blows. There was a healthy mix of those who loved it, those who hated it, and those who said they wouldn’t dream of reading such a ghastly novel. "But how", some said, "can you make assertions about a book you haven’t even read?" Everyone enjoyed the heated discussion, well those who’d bothered to read the chosen title did, but two grim faced ladies sat on the sidelines, lips pursed, nothing to add to the evening except their contempt for something about which they had only assumptions. Seemingly, they never returned!

~Posted by Mary

Enough is Enough!

2010-01-11T21:48:00.005Z

I'm sick of housework! Now that I've fulfilled the motherly duties that are expected of me at this time of year (open house for my nearest and dearest, endless supplies of laundered sheets and towels, cupboards bursting with food etc.), I'm thinking of shutting up shop and putting the closed sign over the door. I have, after all, a life outside the confines of these four walls. I have New Year's Resolutions to make (I only do positive ones so I shall be starting something new rather than giving something up), old friends to reconnect with, and holidays to plan.

While I'm waiting for my twenty-ten life to get into gear I intend reading some wonderful books that have been sitting on my bedside table begging for attention. I think I'll start with, The Drinker by Hans Fallada. I lent it to Sara first who thought it was brilliant but utterly depressing so I will gird my loins and get stuck in. This novel was discovered after the death of the author and is most likely based on personal experience. It was originally written in an encrypted notebook and found in the Nazi insane asylum in which Fallada was incarcerated. It does sound dreadfully gloomy but having read Alone in Berlin, also by this author, I know that it will be well worth the effort.

Depression

2010-01-07T13:03:00.009Z

"But I'm not depressed", I said in protest to my grumpy doctor as he scribbled a script for valium. Without lifting his head he said coldly, "I didn't say you were depressed, I said you had Depression".

I left the surgery feeling worse - if that were possible- than when I went in. My symptoms were odd: I couldn't easily push the pram, my legs buckled when I tried to stand up, I went through the motions like a robot with sluggish batteries. I found it very confusing; my feelings were all over the place and I had no idea what it meant to have Depression. Two valium later my left eye started to twitch. No way, I thought, I'm not having this so I flushed the rest of the bottle down the loo.

I slowly returned to the whole of my health with some better understanding of what had happened to me but when it returned, in another form with different symptoms, I, once again, had no idea what it was. My new doctor (one who believed that there were alternatives) did not put a label on what I was feeling; he merely handed me some small white homeopathic tablets with the instructions: "take as on the label and go easy on yourself". Blessed relief, it worked.

With a few more years clocked up I now know what rocks my boat, what sends me under as if to drown the life out of me, and the ability to remember that it will pass, in its own good time. And when it does, I once more get out my reading glasses and get stuck in to the delicious retreat that a good book provides. Today, the book that has me in its thrall is The Notebook, The Proof, and The Third Lie by Agota Kristof, an intriguing tale of which I will tell you nothing so as to encourage you to find out for yourself. It's fascinating so far and I'm only on page 55!

I tell you, dear reader, of my occasional dealings with the dreaded "Depression"; it comes, it goes, its grip as relentless and unyielding as a straightjacket, its wake a trail of devastation – but luckily I have a very short memory. I tell you not so as to elicit your sympathy but simply to tell those of you who occasionally succumb to this debilitating illness, that you are not alone.

Posted by Mary

The Lenten Read - An Intro

2010-01-04T12:59:00.005Z

The sacrifice of giving up something for Lent has perhaps lessened in appeal in times when many are giving up little luxuries on a daily basis as a means of survival rather than as a way of spiritually or physically detoxing. Last year, rather than choosing to temporarily eradicate some minor evil from my life, I choose a more positive approach and decided that I would commit to reading forty pages for forty days. Each morning I would tweet my progress (or lack thereof) from the previous day and with one or two hiccups completed my Lenten Read successfully. I intend to do it again this year, with a bit more preparation and thought into what I'll read, and suggest others keep it in mind as New Year Reading Resolutions fly around the interweb. Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent) is February 17th this year and before then I'll post which tomes I'll attempt to tackle. This isn't, by the way, rooted in religious discipline despite the use of Lent - February and March are literally and metaphorically dark months and a good time to positively exercise the imagination.

~Louisa

Ayn Rand

2010-01-02T12:43:00.005Z

I don't believe in coincidences; I'm convinced there's an underlying reason why concurrent events seem to occur without apparent causal connection. For instance, on Thursday I noticed that Sara has got stuck into yet another blockbusting classic novel. It was lodged on the corner of the kitchen table, as big as a brick but far more interesting with an arresting cover that caught my eye: Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Hmmm... I sat down, cup of green tea in hand and started reading. My allotted fifteen minutes passed far too quickly and I reluctantly returned the tome to its resting place before returning myself to my workstation.

Last night, as the world outside my window was blanketed in a white duvet, I dived into my pre-heated bed to watch another episode of Mad Men (set in the glamorous world of a Madison Avenue advertising agency in the 60s – it's excellent), the series that Santa so kindly left at my request. I was deep in episode eight when advertising exec, Donald Draper, was handed a cheque for $2,500 by his boss who pointed to a large book on his shelf and asked: "Have you read her? Rand, Atlas Shrugged. That’s the one." He looked meaningfully at his employee and advised him to take $1.99 and buy himself a copy! It was obviously a sign, aimed at the reader in me to go out and get myself a copy post-haste.

Alisa Zinov'yevna Rosenbaum was born in Russia (1905 – 1982). She studied, at the University of Petrograd, in the department of social pedagogy, majoring in history and was an ardent student of Aristotle, Pluto and Nietzsche. On her emigration to the US in 1926, she decided on Ayn Rand as a professional name for her writing and began her career as a screenwriter in Hollywood. Rand embraced philosophical realism and objectivism the essence of which she described as, "the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute."

Of all her writing, she is best remembered for two of her novels: The Fountainhead, written in 1943, a slim volume that concentrates on the life of architect Howard Roark who struggles in obscurity rather than compromise his personal and artistic vision. And also Atlas Shrugged, published in 1957, that tells of a man who said that he would stop the motor of the world - and did. When the character Francisco d’Anconia is asked what sort of advice someone would give Atlas, he replied that he’d tell him "to shrug". Well, I for one, am intrigued!

Round Robin Rubbish!

2009-12-29T19:37:00.009Z

It's time to take stock of your Christmas cards, note who forgot and who remembered (that works both ways), and quickly read through those round robin letters that come from near and far from people you know really well but also from those you've met once or twice so long ago that you can hardly remember who they are: "Jenny came first in her year, again, despite her late start in September. After a nasty bout of Chicken Pox, she got straight down to her studies and didn't let Peter's success in the swim team distract her for a moment. Delilah, not to be outdone, worked her socks off and pulled an A in Home Economics, with the help of her mother, of course!" Good lord, who cares? Do I even know these people? I'm sure I'd remember a Delilah!

The amount of boasting that doting parents indulge in can make their offspring appear superhuman with their straight As in school and university, career paths as well defined as aircraft runways, and perfect relationships with other beautiful and successful people.

If I were tempted (I'm not) to write such a letter detailing my every move in the last 365 days and then send it to all my friends and vague acquaintances it would read like a comedy of errors full of semi disasters, unforeseen expenses, glitches, bouts of depression, burnt dinners, and missed opportunities; with minor successes along the way, the occasional successful holiday, excellent entertainment in the cinema and theatre, and many a laugh with friends thrown in. But the thing is, I've had another great year; I'm alive and kicking and not in debtors prison. Absolutely no one in their right mind would want to hear chapter and verse of my ups and downs other than my therapist and she's heard it all before.

The Guardian columnist, Simon Hoggart, compiled three books on the subject of Christmas round-robin letters, all of which made me snigger with glee. The Hamster who Loved Puccini: The Seven Modern Sins of Christmas Round Robin Letters starts with the Peccadillo of Proud Parents: "Fortunately Megan is doing well with her singing and gained a first-class grade in her performance exam at the end of summer, after only half a dozen singing lessons!" In the chapter The Melancholy Mawkishness of Misery, a letter tells about an unusual discovery in September of the year: "Alasdair and Judi paid a visit to the Family History Centre, and unearthed what may be a minor skeleton in the family." And in the wonderfully titled Vice of Vituperation, one family describe their neighbours between gritted teeth: "At least the Parkers can be relied on for consistence – they are all still gifted, multi-talented, and smug!"

I really shouldn't be such a curmudgeon but if the round robin letter comes from a good friend, I'd far rather a quick note intended for mine eyes only. Surely we'll be able to catch up on all the gossip at some time during the year. As for those acquaintances whose lives and mine merely touched in passing, I can only admire their tenacity in keeping my home address, year in year out, as if at some stage in the future we might meet again when they will be confident that I will be fully up to date on how they have spent their time in my absence.

A Christmas Carol

2009-12-24T21:54:00.007Z

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon ‘Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.

That's not a very cheerful start to a Christmas story of any description. It would hardly put you in the mood for carol singing, gift wrapping, or hanging decorations on a freshly cut tree. But then, the reality of Christmas is often far removed from the fairy tale version put out by advertisers pimping their wares.

I wonder how many homes live up to the Hollywood image of the festive season. I have had so many ghastly Christmases that I often think I can't bear to live through another one: I've been sick, poverty stricken, terribly lonely, bored senseless, force-fed festive cheer till I wanted to vomit, and often away from home and family.

In 2004 I went to Brussels to spend Christmas week with my sister. We were both invited to spend the day with her friends (who I had never met): a man whose wife had just died in tragic circumstances, whose adult son was mentally challenged but behaved well enough, and with another friend who was dying of some obscure illness and her husband who smoked like a factory chimney throughout the meal. But I loved it! The food was great, there were no emotional attachments (apart from the love I have for my sister), no gifts, hilarious conversation, and mine host walked us home through the snow to a waiting cup of tea and a meowing cat. The downside came the following morning as my sister spent the entire day nursing a migraine with the blanket pulled up over her head leaving me to my own devices in a city that was shrouded in a thick grey blanket of fog. I couldn’t speak French (still can't), and a weird system of locks prevented me leaving the apartment block in case I never got back in again so sightseeing was a non started. So, I read, ate leftovers, brewed tea, and exercised briskly by running on the spot in my room to prevent madness setting in.

Then there was the memorable Christmas when my teenage self cooked the entire meal from start to finish. As I proudly carved at the table, my brother berated me for being over-generous with the turkey and I could feel the tears welling up as I presented what now felt like miserable fare to him and my father. The three of us made for very dreary company.

I still giggle when I think of the time I got up early, before everyone else, and borrowed my sister's present – a red and blue scooter – and used it to zoom down to early morning mass in Monkstown Church and back home again before she even noticed. What on earth possessed me? I was all of six or seven years old with a determined wild streak but also canny, in that while everyone else was trudging off to the obligatory church ritual, I was home and dry and busy playing with my own presents.

But I'm over all that now. I've grown older and wiser and I know how to protect myself from the ravages of enforced enjoyment. This year, what started out as a cosy threesome to celebrate the festive season has turned into a party of five and quite possibly a sixth if we're lucky. We will cook and bake and stuff ourselves silly with nary a turkey in sight. I've been asked for a nut roast without nuts, a pecan pie with no eggs, and meat for a lad who thinks that vegetables should only be used as a side dish.

My own order is already in for homemade Sticky Toffee Puddings, a vegan recipe worked to perfection that has me drooling at the prospect.

We don't do presents (Basil can't wrap) cause we have everything we could possibly want. At some stage during the morning we'll all go for a walk and maybe end up at Sandycove where hundreds of swimmers brave the winter chills by diving into the Forty Foot. The atmosphere is absolutely fantastic. Most of the crowd are running around half naked; the rest dressed as if for a Siberian winter. It would almost make you want to strip off and get into the choppy water yourself, but I'm not that crazy! Just being there makes us all realise that we are glad to be alive and living in the moment.

Eventually, we'll head for home, buoyed up by the excitement, where Basil will be waiting for his lunch. The fire will be set so all I'll have to do is strike a match to create instant atmosphere (something no mere radiator can aspire to), light a few candles, and fill the house with music. We'll Skype the prodigal son who couldn't make it home this year; maybe we'll get a turkey to celebrate when we see him next, whatever the time of year.

And wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, I wish you comfort and cheer and the joy of a good book on this single overrated, highly pressurised advertiser's dream day of the year.

Kris Kindle

2009-12-21T16:39:00.006Z

One thing's for sure, seeing as we all work in the trade no one is going to get a book for Kris Kindle, more's the pity. When I picked Ruth's name out of the hat I knew exactly what she'd like. We've worked together long enough, shared and enjoyed so many of the same books, discussed food ad nauseum in our tiny canteen, so picking a gift for Ruth would be child's play for me. Dermot, on the other hand, drew a complete blank when he picked Robin's name from the few remaining scraps of paper. "What on earth will I get him!" he intoned scratching his head at the same time. "Leave it to me", I gaily assured him, "I'll have it sorted out in a jiffy". The tension lifted from his furrowed brow as I made a beeline for the office. After discussing some pertinent business I casually asked Robin if he preferred to buy the beans to grind his own coffee and what, if any brand, would he recommend as I wanted to get some for a very good friend. Robin, a man who can't get through the day without the help of gallons of this richly aromatic beverage, waxed lyrical on the subject: the taste, the occasional simulated heart attack resulting from too many cups of the stuff, the possibility of spending a vast fortune on a deluxe machine, the label, the name, the price and even where to buy his favourite brand of the magic brew. Sorted!

"Dermot, I've solved all your problems!" As I had already arranged to go to this particular shop later in the week, I promised to pick up a couple of packs and all Dermot would have to do was wrap. He was well pleased indeed.

Fast forward twenty four hours: Brinnnng, brinnnng! My mobile phone rattled away on the kitchen table at eight in the evening and Robin's name came up. Thoughts raced through my head: Problems at work. I was fired! The place was flooded. He wanted me in a six in the morning to get the place ready for the Christmas rush. "Hi Robin, how's it going?" Mind still running around as we got over the pleasantries. "You know that coffee you were looking for? Well, I'm here in the shop now", he said, "we're getting the weekend groceries and there's an offer on. Would you like me to pick you up some?" I resisted the urge to tell him that there was no mystery friend, that I didn't actually drink coffee at all, and that the deliciously roasted beans were for him. "Oh, thank you very much, that's great. I'd love it."

Back to the drawing board, Dermot.

Seeing as I now have three packs of delicious ground coffee, I picked up I Love Coffee! Over 100 Easy and Delicious Coffee Drinks by Susan Zimmer which shows how to make "cappuccinos, iced coffee quenchers, after-dinner coffee desserts and classy coffee martinis". I hope my guests over the Christmas period will be suitably impressed, and probably very surprised.

You'll love it!

2009-12-19T10:21:00.003Z

That’s exactly what she said when she handed me the latest novel due to hit the shelves of bookshops everywhere: "You'll just love it, it's fantastic!" I took the advance reading copy home and tried to wait until the weekend before getting stuck in. But no, delayed gratification doesn't work for me when it comes to books. Dinner over, cat fed, plants watered, feet up, book out: I got stuck in straight away and gave it my total concentration as I took in the setting, got to know the characters, mentally visualised the plot as it proceeded to unfold. No one could say I didn't give it time. I read to page 112 before coming to my senses. It was a load of baloney dressed up in a fancy jacket with superlatives dancing across the front and back exclaiming in loud and flamboyant language all kinds of precious nonsense in the full expectation of huge sales. Well, I won't be recommending it to anyone but I may have to tell a white lie, even use a mental reservation (that's the most fashionable equivalent of not telling the whole truth) to ensure that I don't cut off my supply of advance reading copies.

No fanfare greeted the arrival of The Journey Home by Olaf Olafsson as it landed on my desk via a mistake somewhere down the line. Its quiet cover promised nothing but neither did it offend; the back had three simple reviews from Time Out, The Irish Times and my favourite, The Times. "Disa is exquisitely well portrayed. The picture of her frustrations, regrets and achievements is subtly built up and the revelations about her life are carefully structured to maintain surprise. A quiet and beautiful novel."

Then I read about the author who was born in Reykjavik, Iceland, in 1962 and now resides in New York. He studied physics and became Executive Vice President of Time Warner. I wasn't sure I had read anything written by an Icelandic author, and this definitely sounded interesting so my curiosity got the better of me and I took the plunge.

Three days later I set The Journey Home down with huge regret. Regret that I had reached the end, regret that I would have to leave Disa and her family, but also delight in having discovered a beautifully written novel that seems to have passed under the radar.

Global Warning

2009-12-13T20:23:00.007Z

"I think all this global warming stuff is complete and utter nonsense. It's just a conspiracy put about to frighten the masses, keep them in their place", said my dear friend, Mr X, in all earnestness. Well I don't feel qualified to back up claims that we may well drive ourselves into extinction with our careless use of the world's resources and the invention of man-made pollutants. I'll leave that to British scientist Jim Lovelock, father of the Gaia theory.

Throughout his career, Lovelock has come up against scepticism, reluctance, disagreement and general disbelief. And yet there were plenty of people who believed in the Y2K millennium bug that was supposed to wreak havoc on systems all over the world. Everyone waited, with bated breath, while the clocks chimed in the New Year and nothing happened! Millions believe in a god, or set of gods without ever having come across one or even having the tiniest proof that such immortals exist. And yet, when it's right in front of our eyes we seem to have a problem understanding why the ice caps are melting at an alarming rate, or grappling with the awesome changes in weather conditions, and many look the other way rather than face the quite large hole in the ozone layer which is a mere 24 million km2.

No, I'll leave all that to James Lovelock who established the Gaia theory now recognised as a useful way to understand the dramatic changes happening to the environment of the Earth. The Vanishing Face of Gaia is his final word (he is, after all, approaching his 90th birthday) on the terrifying environmental problems we will inevitably have to confront. He tells us that the earth as we know it is vanishing and it is moving inexorably to a new, hot state. The idea that we can "save the planet" by reducing carbon emissions is, according to Lovelock, nothing but a sales pitch. The earth, as it always has done, will save itself. It is up to us to save the human race.

With my limited scientific knowledge I do take most of my information on the state of our world on trust from respected experts who have no reason to pull the wool over my eyes. There are some things, however, I can make my own mind up and having had two down-to-earth parents who instilled certain values, I live my life in such a way as to keep my carbon footprint to a minimum. "Waste not want not", as my mother used to say and my father would chime in with, "Moderation in all things". If you take both those maxims to heart, you won't go far wrong.

Someone Special

2009-12-08T20:43:00.005Z

"And have you anyone special in your life?" she enquired, solicitously or so I thought. When I replied in the negative she proceeded to launch into an account of her own love life, the pros, the cons and all that jazz. I studied her closely, looking for hints and tips, something that would help me snare a mate, a dancing partner, a dinner date, a friendly voice in the void of a Sunday afternoon and all I saw was orange lipstick haphazardly applied, and a face that has seen at least thirty five more summers that my own mottled visage.

The rest of my Sunday was wasted as I pondered my many shortcomings: impatience, an inability to drink myself into a stupor, two left feet, a preference for home cooking, a hatred of bigots, a dislike of organised religion, myopia, oh, and impatience. I decided by the end of the day to be positive, to concentrate on my attributes: good humour, generosity, a love of all things book related, punctuality, and a creative hand in the kitchen. No matter, the exercise was obviously a complete waste of time. I would just have to cultivate other more endearing qualities or maybe accept that it is out of my hands and in the lap of the gods. All I have to do is age well, mature, let time gently pass and by the time I’m in my eighties some equally mature Don Juan will saunter (on his zimmer frame) into my life and keep me company in the Autumn of my years. Bloody hell!!!

In the meantime the only romance I am going to get a whiff of is through the pages of some far-fetched novel where the woman always finds true love, or the man sees his future mate across a crowded room and knows in an instant that they are "the one". That brings the beloved Jane Austen to mind, but who could find fault with anything this skilled and witty novelist has written: Emma, Northanger Abbey, Sense & Sensibility, Persuasion, Pride & Prejudice, Mansfield Park. They’re all wonderful and different and yet the same in so many ways. He loves her, she doesn’t love him, father doesn’t approve, stubborn heroines, ruthless relatives, greed and ignorance, but in the end the man gets his woman and the woman gets her man and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now leave me be while I sulk for just a little bit longer and try to ignore any possible traits I may have in common with the indomitable Miss Haversham whose fate, had she had worn orange lipstick, might well have taken a different turn.

What's a Hobbit?

2009-12-05T17:49:00.002Z

I have been fortunate to have had not one, but two older brothers to read and filter through the sci-fi fantasy section of bookshops for thirteen years 'til I came along. As I've grown, my treasury of books has been added to and enhanced by numerous hand-me-downs and borrowed reads. One of my earliest book-related memories is opening an oblong parcel one birthday and seeing a golden brown book cover with the words: The Hobbit written on it. I looked up at my brother and asked in all innocence, "What's a Hobbit?"... I devoured every last spellbinding word and conjured up the strange worlds first envisioned by Mr. Tolkien. A couple of Christmases later, The Lord of the Rings followed with equally gratifying results.

I also remember scanning through the shelves of books belonging to my siblings to find something to write a school book-report on when I was nine or ten. Everything was brightly coloured and had pretty pictures on the fronts but when I looked inside I was repeatedly disappointed by how small the writing was and how boring the story lines seemed to be. I continued to pick through the stacks for maybe an hour or two, which, when you're that age, seems like forever. The second I picked up Terry Pratchett's Small Gods, I knew I was holding something special. The writing was just the right size, the cover was colourful without being garish and best of all, on reading the first paragraph I laughed no less than three times. I was hooked.

When I was recommended The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy I jumped in head first with no hesitation or questions and haven't been the same since. I felt like I had been waiting for Douglas Adams all my life and everything I had hitherto read was just the introduction. No words, at least on this planet, could describe how I feel about Mr. Adams and his works of utter incredulity. I have devoted much of my spare time to trying to understand what sate of mind he was in when the idea was first conceived and how it came to evolve into such a variety of stories. Hitchhiker's was first spawned as a radio series back when my brothers were hidng behind the sofa from the Daleks of Dr. Who fame. It was remodeled and reworked into the book shortly after, and later still, much to Adams disbelief, more books followed in the series. Stage shows, musicals, computer games, a movie and public recitations have been performed with equally disastrous and ecstatic reviews. All of these creations begin in the same place and time, all star the same characters and all split and follow completely different tangents shortly after the word is demolished in the second or third chapter. I thank my lucky stars, and some of my unlucky ones too, that i have been privy to the knowledge that "Belgium" is actually a most offensive curse word and that [SPOILER ALERT] 42 is the answer to life, the universe and everything.

For Christmas this year I have asked for books, unlike my usual demands for DVDs, shoes or electronics, and I can't wait to see what assails my mind next. Perhaps Brother Clause will find me another piece of literary art that I may cherish and draw from as much as I have previously. I patiently wait for the next installment in my repertoire of cult-collected classics.

The Parent Trap

2009-11-28T12:44:00.006Z

When asked what were their greatest concerns, people, who had long since retired, replied that they worried most about their children! Those children were most likely adults with children of their own but their mums and their dads spend their twilight years fretting over their welfare. Young parents seem to have this fairy tale belief that once their beloved tots reach double figures, they will be able to rest easy, take a backseat at last while independence and self-control kick in, their children released into civilised society to fend for themselves. Excuse me while I laugh hysterically here! Those self-sufficient mini adults only appear to be so because they tell their former minders absolutely nothing about what’s happening in their lives. Zilch. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say, and yet it’s terribly sad. I know many young girls who have gone to England for a termination and returned home, often ill (mentally and physically), not able to confide in and seek comfort from the very people who brought them into the world. I know a tall, handsome, educated young man who so feared his parents’ reaction that, after being thrown from a motorbike, he stayed in bed with a supposed bout of flu while nursing a broken leg under the covers.

Where, though, would the book market be without the misery memoirs that litter the shelves? If children had the ideal parents and nothing untoward ever happened, we would have a utopian society with nary a misery guts in sight. One large book chain came up with the idea of a "Painful Lives" shelf and the publishing industry often refers to this new genre as "Inspirational Lit". Though I would love to know why these readers are so inspired by tales of abuse, trauma and neglect, and yet... And yet I have to respect anyone who climbs out of hardship and suffering and lives to tell the tale. And, there is some comfort to those who have suffered in their own lives to read and identify with others who were in the same situation.

An American writer who has written about her real-life experiences with damaged children is Torey L. Hayden. She was a special education teacher and I have read every single book she has written. She has written variously about autism, Tourette syndrome, sexual abuse, foetal alcohol syndrome, and her particular speciality, selective mutism. When I read her first book, One Child, in 1980, I felt I was there with her in the classroom, trying to reach this child who the world had practically given up on. Misery memoir? Definitely not, but that’s the section where you’ll find this excellent author.

I think (you can never be sure) my offspring know that they can tell me virtually anything and I won’t fall apart: aghast, astonished, disappointed, accusing. I have learnt (I didn’t know this right from the start) to listen passively, keenly and not react like I would have when they were small: "Tell me who hit you and I’ll go and have it out with his mother"! I used to think they wanted someone to yell and shout and demand retribution so they’d know they were loved and protected. Well, I was wrong. I have learnt to keep my emotions to myself most of the time and just be a sounding board; it’s not easy. Sometimes I think my heart will break but luckily I’m made of sturdier stuff. Sometimes I can’t sleep for thinking and worrying. Most times I cut off and get on with my own life.

I’d hate to be that little old lady spending her twilight years worrying about her kids – but apart from my heirs and graces all living blissful, fulfilling, healthy lives, I probably will!

The Incredible Mr Kavanagh

2009-11-24T21:00:00.010Z

If I suffer from even the slightest headache, I pack up and go to bed early; hobbling around on an ingrown toenail makes me feel dreadfully sorry for myself; and don’t talk to me about backache! I still remember the time I decided to water my garden - after dark - and fell headlong into the rose bush. For days afterwards I walked around with two nasty gashes up my face feeling like a war hero. I was on the receiving end of many a furtive look as I walked the aisles in my local supermarket, but I sported my wounds with pride, glad however, that the evidence of my late night gardening would soon disappear. How on earth would I fare if I had really had something to complain about?

Arthur Kavanagh came into the world in 1831, the fifth child of an amazingly strong-minded woman who considered him another beloved son to be treated no different to the rest of her brood. Kavanagh enjoyed the rough and tumble of family life in Borris House, Co Carlow, where he had an excellent classical education; he also loved to escape into sport at which he neither excelled nor failed. The only difference between him and his brothers and sisters was that he had neither legs nor arms but shortened stumps with hands and feet attached. Had he been born today he would be labelled ‘handicapped’, treated separately from the rest of his clan, sent to a special school, mollycoddled, handled with care and generally made to feel different. Our Mr Kavanagh, however, had expectations of a full rounded life, and what he got was more than most people are capable of achieving in the ordinary run of things.

I discovered The Incredible Mr Kavanagh by Donald McCormick at my local library in Deansgrange, and I have lived with him in my head ever since. I had browsed the biography section looking for something to amuse and entertain me through the long winter evenings, and though I certainly was amused and entertained, I was also reminded to live this life of mine with a bit more gusto and a lot less namby pamby behaviour; life is there to be taken and enjoyed and lived to the full.

Arthur Kavanagh was a skilled yachtsman and sailed as far as Russia, India, Persia and Kurdistan. He rode horseback across Europe and Asia and was an accomplished huntsman. At the age of thirty-five he was elected Member of the British House of Parliament where he served for eleven years, becoming the first MP to obtain permission to tie up his boat on the Thames at Westminster so that he could live on board when in London. Arthur survived his older brothers to become heir to the family estate in Carlow which he managed efficiently and fairly (he was know as a good landlord who cared for the people in his area in a time when so many tenants were badly treated and left in dire circumstances).

There’s an hilarious piece in the book where Arthur’s future wife, Harriet, screamed with fright when she first set eyes on him; at the time, he was standing on the hall table looking very odd and slightly scary in his black cape preparing himself to go out in rough weather. He was actually a very handsome man and once she got over her shock they were well matched and went on to have six healthy children of their own.

On Christmas morning, 1889, with his family gathered round him, Arthur Kavanagh died at the age of fifty-eight. I have just touched on his extraordinary life here and can only think, in awe, of how much this Carlow man accomplished in a time when he could well have given up without trying. There’s a lesson in there for all of us.