What the Dickens?

Let me get this out of the way before we fall in love any deeper: I love Dickens. I REALLY love Dickens. Charles Dickens, born 1812, died 1870.
I have said this to people, and 98% invariably have a response akin to this: "Oooooo hoooooooo wayyyyyyyyy heeeyyyyyyyy la-di-da you like Dickens heyyyyyy well aren't you little Miss clever clogs/hoity toity/foofle laloofle:. I made the last one up. But the implication seems to be that anyone who has read, or even attempted to read Dickens is a bit up themselves.
I don't want to downplay Dickens, because clearly I think he's neato, but to me, Dickens must have been the....maybe...Erica Jong? of his day. I'm trying to think of popular, yet respectable writers of our age, but can't think of one off the top of my head. I'd say Dan Brown but I'd be lying.
Seriously. Dickens is a pretty easy read. But here's the rub: he is a fabulous read. His characters are so lively that they just about jump off the page and slap you in the face.
David Copperfield was a book that changed my life. Yes, it's about a gazillion pages long (and THIN pages, with little writing), and yes it usually comes bound in that hardback red cover with gold writing that looks impressive on the bookshelf, but hundreds of pages of that book fly by in an afternoon, or so it felt. I read this book on my honeymoon, and very rarely do I feel so gutted that I have finished a book. Sometimes I finish them and want to hurl the book out the car window. When I finished DC I was sitting on the balcony of the place that we stayed in in Broome. It was a warm day, despite being the middle of winter and as I finished it I curled it up to my chest and hugged it for about ten minutes. Truly. I wanted to bask in it's glow. I wanted to sew it into a blanket and wrap myself up in it. I wanted to blend it into liquid and drink it. I wanted to lever open my ribcage and plant it next to my heart. That's where I felt it belonged. Just thinking about it now makes me want to snap this laptop shut and read it from cover to cover again. Right now.
Now. This is not to say that DC is my favourite book. It's not. That will come later. It's one of. But it is the most heartwarming, the most uplifting, the most real book I have ever read. Some people think that Dickens is a bit of a depressing writer, or a bit of a one trick pony, and that his books paint a picture of a gloomy and dismal London, full of crooks and schemers, a Thames overflowing with rotting detritus, the streets crawling with thieves, orphans, whores, and the pitiful remnants of decent society. Let me tell you, I have never read an author's work that made me want to go to London more, because any city that produces writers like that is a-ok in my book. Or my blog. (I am a bit of an Anglophile anyway, but that's another story).
If you haven't read DC, it's very difficult to entice you to read it based on my interpretation alone, but if you have read it-boy. How about that Uriah Heep? That ingratiating little piece of snot. I knew he was trouble from day one.Uriah always seemed the most realistic character to me, I could almost feel him breathing down the back of my neck. Steerforth, you cad. I've met your type a thousand times before, and I'm sorry, Little Em'ly was an idiot for falling for your sweet talk. Agnes? Let's be friends! I think you're great. Ham? Oh, Ham, I've known your type too and it was never going to turn out for the best, but I was rooting for you. Dora, you're a bit of a dope, but harmless too. I wished you well.
And David. Sweet, honest, flawed David. Lovely David, gullible David, too-quick-to-grow-up David. I think I missed you most of all. You let me live in your world for a week or two and I will never forget it. You made me feel younger, more optimistic and less cynical all at the same time. I have searched high and low and have never found a fictional man like you.
Brilliant.
I made a terrible mistake after reading DC. I should have left it for a while and then read something completely different, like a book on container gardening or some such. But I was in such a dreamy honeymoon state that I started Great Expectations. On the same day. I know, I know, I know what you're thinking. Unless it's a sequel, what was I thinking?? How could I expect to find characters I cared about half as much as those in DC? Unfortunately I didn't, but it is certainly not the fault of Great Expectations. Sadly, GE will always just be the book that followed DC for me now, and it is a true regret. I would not be able to read it again without wishing I was reading DC.
The one thing that saved GE for me and kept me going was Miss Havisham. I loved that crazy broad. I know she's kind of supposed to be the creepy bad guy, but how interesting is she as a character? For the uninitiated, she's this old lady who lives in a huge crumbling mansion and was jilted at the alter when she was younger. She only ever wears her wedding dress, and the wedding feast decays on her table. She leaves her clocks stopped at the exact moment she found out she was jilted. Dickens describes her as a skeleton with eyes. She fosters a beautiful girl, Estella, who she trains to enchant boys (Pip) into falling in love with her and then revels in their pain as she jilts the boys as she was once jilted.
Miss Havisham is another one of those "breathe down your neck" characters. Dickens recreates her so delicately, you can imagine her sliding a dry, brittle old hand down your face as you read. Pip was a bit of pill, if I'm being honest, but Miss Havisham was the bomb.
The weird thing is though, even though this book was a disappointment to me, I still loved it. It was only a disappointment in relation to David Copperfield, and who knows, I might read it again some day.
But because I felt so burned, I haven;t been able to pick up another Dickens since, though I am dying to. I will though, because I know I will love it. Nicholas Nickleby might be my next one- maybe The Pickwick Papers. I've heard Nicholas Nickleby is one of his most beloved books, but is criticised for a lack of character development. Eek! Not Dickens! That could break my heart.
So for now, it's still Mr Copperfield, my other honeymoon love. I only wish I'd met him sooner.

By the way, there is an episode of South Park that parodies Great Expectations. I saw the South Park episode first, and it kept coming back to me as I was reading the book. Usually it's the other way around. But in my opinion, it's one of the worst episodes, and that is a very big call for me, as I love South Park. But Miss Havisham controls a fleet of flying monkey robots, and that aint half bad.

The Grim Brothers Grimm

I've just had a baby. By just, I mean four and a half months ago, preceded by nine months of pregnancy. Prior to that I was a primary school teacher, six months of Year Six, four years of Kindergarten (I love the word "Kindergarten"- child garden - beautiful). So I have a fair bit of experience with children's books. (By the way, I would like to state that I am going back to work, the past tense was perhaps inaccurate.) 

So, I've been thinking a bit about what I read to my baby girl and have been stockpiling books for her to read when she's a bit older (another two months should do it- just kidding). I don't want to just force my favourite kid's books down her throat (my favourite picture book was "The Lorax" by Dr Seuss and my favourite chapter book was "Matilda" by Roald Dahl. In fact, that's my daughter's name- Matilda, not Roald), I want to expose her to all sorts of different types of books. To that end, she has fiction books, non-fiction books, picture books, bedtime books, story books, chapter books- all sorts of books- on the shelves in her room. She loves the book "Madeline" (so do I) and this generic book called "Big Blue Train" with lots of big bright colours. 

I've also been thinking about fairy tales. I'm not one to ban fairy tales because they're misogynistic or sexist or even just lame. When I was a girl, though, I did think fairy tales were a bit lame. I never understood why Rapunzel didn't just climb down her own hair, or Cinderella didn't just leave the wicked stepmother and find the prince for herself. BUT. I do know of a lot of parents who won't read fairy tales to their children because they think they are too violent and disturbing, and I have to say, I know where they're coming from. Let's have a think on Hansel and Gretel. Here we have two children, who are too costly for their parents to keep, so the wicked stepmother forces their lily livered father to ABANDON them in the woods. When the resourceful children use pebbles to find their way home, the stepmother forces the father to abandon them AGAIN, but this time they only have breadcrumbs, which are eaten by the birds, so they get lost. They find a gingerbread house in the woods, and eat it, but it is owned by a WITCH who has the house to ENTICE children so she can EAT them! She captures them and puts old Hansel in a CAGE to FATTEN him up, so that she can EAT him. Gretel is in some sort of slave type non-contractual agreement. Long story short (not really), the witch heats up the oven to COOK Hansel, but he pushes her in and she BURNS TO DEATH. The kids go home, the stepmother is dead so they all live H.E.A. The end. 

Right on. 

As an aside, I always thought that it was a little bit coincidental that the stepmother happened to also be dead when they got home. What I'm hinting at here, is that I always suspected the witch and stepmother were one and the same. Bitches. 

And another thing, if I was Gretel (or Hansel for that matter), when I got home I'd say "look Dad, I'm glad SM is dead and thanks for the invite home and that, but you did ABANDON ME IN THE WOODS TWICE. Remember that? Now GET BENT." And then I would go to DOCS. Talk about henpecked. 

So that's H&G. Then there's Snow White -stepdaughter better looking than stepmother, stepmother again abandons child to scary fate in scary forest, sends woodsman out to KILL her and cut out her HEART as proof of her DEATH but nice woodsman doesn't buy it, seven little people, sweeping , cleaning, happiness prevails, until evil SM talks to stupid mirror again and find out she's still alive so POISONS her with apple, and you know how it ends. Bloody horrific. 

Cinderella, another evil SM. More servitude, bitchy stepsisters, you know the score. 

In the interest of this post, I looked into more Grimm stories. It may interest my non existent reader to know that there are worse tales out there.

Take the happy little story of "The Jew Among Thorns". Let me summate: Servant is granted 3 wishes by dwarf: A gun that will shoot anything servant aims at, A fiddle that will make anyone dance who listens, and the ability to make anyone do anything the servant asks for. Servant walks down road, meet Jew who is listening to beautiful bird song, Jew says "what a beautiful bird, I wish that it were mine". Servant shoots bird, it falls into thorns below, Jew cries out and goes into to get dead bird. Servant's "humour" is tickled, once Jew is in thorns, he starts to play his fiddle. Jew must dance amongst thorns. Jew is scratched to buggery, servant cries "you have fleeced people often enough, now the thorns will do the same to you!" (???) Jew, in terrible pain, says "if only you stop your fiddling, I will give you all the gold I have", servant does, Jew gives servant money, servant pisses off, Jew runs off to the magistrate. Jew says servant stole money, servant calls him a dirty liar, magistrate believes Jew, servant sentenced to be hanged. His last wish is to play his fiddle one last time (damn), which he does, all can't stop dancing, magistrate says "if you stop fiddling, I'll spare your life", which he does. Servant struts up to Jew and says "now tell the truth and tell them where you got the money or I'll start playing again" and the Jew says "I STOLE IT, BUT YOU HONESTLY EARNED IT". (Capitals author's own). Jew is hanged as thief. 

Uh, what? Uh, WHAT? The involvement of the Jew in this story is only thus: Jew admires lovely bird, bird gets shot, Jew gets thorns up clack, robbed and hung for his trouble. I'm sure you can predict what I will have to say about this. Let's just say, I think I know why Walt Disney never turned this fairy tale into a cartoon. On second thoughts, from what I've read about him, maybe he should have. 

Ha ha ha.

Eva Braun's Cows

So. As I start this blog, I am currently reading "The Lost Life of Eva Braun". I usually find that my current book choice can be traced in a linear or non-linear fashion from a book previously read. In this case I started with a history of the Mitford sisters of Britain, which led me to The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate, both by Nancy Mitford, which led to "A Life of Contrasts" by Diana Mitford. Hitler's relationship with Unity Mitford (full name "Unity Valkyrie Mitford", conceived in Swastika, Canada- no foolin'. Was anyone MORE destined to have relationship with Hitler?) led me to Eva Braun. I usually choose the biographies of women. I don't know why. But next in this family tree of books will be Evelyn Waugh's "Vile Bodies" and "Hons and Rebels" by Jessica Mitford. Then I believe I will be done with the Mitfords for some time. 

Anyway, so Eva Braun. The author says that there are a billion biographies of Hitler, but only two on Eva. If she hadn't been involved with Hitler, there would probably be two less, so far she seems quite unremarkable. But the times that she lived through were so remarkable, and this, in itself, makes for interesting reading. 

I've wanted to read a biography of Hitler for some time. But all the ones I've seen have been so intimidating that I've steered clear. I find though, that I'm more interested in the pre-war days, the "failed artist" days. I always wonder what could make someone who wanted to be an artist, become a dictator? This book briefly states that his failure as an artist led to his, later rampant, then burgeoning, anti-Semitism. I've always wanted to paint well, but have never been able to. It's made me into a rampant anti-Crayola. 

So, thus far, I'm finding the Hitler bits more riveting than the Eva bits. I'm up to Hitler taking control of the NSDAP (later Nazi party), which started out with 50 members when he joined and he multiplied the membership by about 60000% by his powers of oration. He made friends in the right places, one of them being a man called Putzi Hanfstaengl, who I note for two things, the stupidest name I've read in a long time and for introducing Unity to Hitler. 

Eva and Hitler are just about to meet. I can't say for certain, because I haven't read the book, but I think things are going to turn out smashingly for the two of them. I love a good love story. 

Just me

For as long as I can remember, I have loved books, and loved to read. I have been reading a book since I learned to read, at about the age of 4. 

I read all books. Fiction, non-fiction, biographical, auto-biographical, fantastical, whimsical, autodidactical, political- I love them all. 

That's not to say that I'm not particular about the kinds of books that I read. I am very particular. I have gone through phases of trying to read weighty tomes, intelligentsia texts, but found them so boring that I'd rather try to pass them as stools than pick them up and continue reading them. So then I've tried reading light and fluffy "chick-lit" books that dropped my IQ about 20 points and made me forget where I parked my car. This is a true story that I might tell one day.

My parents are not massive readers. My mum is a fan of the "Aussie battler comes good" genre- a tough talking girl rounding up the sheep on a station in outback QLD with only her old mate Bluey (the cattle dog) for company, but with a heart of gold, meets either similar tough talking shearer or fiddle playing nomadic gypsy type or young and dreamy but confused priest type and has torrid yet fulfilling affair that ends happily with them raising their little tough talking little tackers on the family farm, surviving droughts, evangelists, local town gossips and visits to the big smoke. 

Dad likes non-fiction, I think. Our house was (still is, but I don't live there anymore) full of those 4 kilo huge pictorial hardcover books called "Australia", or "Wide Brown Land", or "God's Country", that could just be tools to illustrate the aforementioned stories of mum's - 

13, 465, 871 pictures of the bush/scrub/outback, one picture of a beach, one picture of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. But I do remember him reading Wilbur Smith voraciously, along with my brother. They would go halves in the books, my brother would read them first, as he was the quicker reader, Dad would read them later. I remember reading a couple in my teens and being shocked at how much sex was in them. I didn't mind them much at that age, but have had to avoid them my whole life because I can't make the sex connection with my dad and brother. Surely this was awkward for them too? Maybe it's one of those boy things. 

Dad was also a big reader of National Geographic. He has been a subscriber since about 1964 or so. We have shelves and shelves of them in our house, in mint condition. So I say he was a big reader of them, but I don't actually remember him reading them, as much as cataloging and rearranging them. He doesn't know, but I lost one of them- November 1994. I can't even remember how I lost it, but I lived in constant fear of the discovery for about 5 years, but I don't think he ever noticed. This particular edition had pictures of topless natives in it- this was the only reason I would read them. I did enjoy the huge maps that used to come with NG. I don't know if they still do, but they were fantastic. Really enormous, detailed maps of obscure places like Yukon Province, East Germany, The Himalayas and the Atlantic sea floor. Those maps were the best- I would spend hours on the bedroom floor with them poring over every detail. 

My eldest brother, Jeff, to my knowledge, had never picked up a book and read it from cover to cover after the era of "Dick and Jane go to market". He tells me he has read 7 books as an adult- the entire Harry Potter series. I have to say, if you're going to go on a book fast, those books are a hell of a way to binge. Excellent taste. 

My sister will go down in the annals of our family as the first reader, the youngest reader, possibly the best reader. My mum thinks we all have our particular talents and annoying quirks that developed as children. I apparently spoke within hours of being born (first word: "hello". Insightful.). Leanne did same with reading, or just about. Mum says she could read the newspaper from the age of two, Leanne maintains it was about 3 or 4. She is a big reader of the classics- Jane Austen, Charles Dickens. She introduced me to Charles Dickens and I am forever, eternally grateful. 

But by far, the biggest influence on my reading habits (actually many, many habits- my sense of humour, my taste in music, my self-contained joy in irritating my mother) was my brother Rob. Closest to me in age, but still 8 years older, my sister Leanne saved my life, but my brother Rob fed my soul. He was the smartest, funniest, funnest, coolest person I knew, until the age of about 16 or 17. I told EVERYONE about him. I wanted to be just like him. The funny thing is, now that I think about it, I know I would have been his annoying little kid sister, and his influence on me certainly wasn't intentional. That's probably what made it all the more pervasive. But I loved everything he did. He had the best friends, the best clothes, the best toys (yes he had toys as a teenager. He still has toys as an adult). He watched the best shows, listened to the best music, ergo, he read the best books. He still influences so many things I read and listen to, he is still giving me casual little tips about books that I end up reading more fanatically than him. I might write more about his influence later, because it was just so massive that I could go on for another two hours about it. 

Then there was me. Again, I might go into the childhood that I had that made me such a big reader, but not today. It's a bit too emotionally draining, and I think my baby is waking up. This "blog"- god I hate that term- is not for anyone but me, really. I have been thinking for years that I should devote more time to not just reading books, but reflecting on them and thinking about them in the context of my life. I keep a diary, and at the end of each day I write in there and usually write a couple of lines about the book I happen to be reading, but with the day to day minutiae of every day, it's usually just a little comment crammed in at the bottom of the page, so it's important that I make more of an effort than that.

But, if I know myself, this might fall by the wayside after a few entries, so I can't commit to anything big, Blogspot. It's not you, it's me. It's just not the right time in my life to make a big commitment to someone new. You've got other bloggers, you can make it work, there are other nice girls out there.

Etc.