Love Me, Love My Books

 This week has been my birthday, and my husband Richard gave me ‘Ex Libris – Confessions of a Common Reader’ by Anne Fadiman. This collection of essays about the love of books made me reflect on my own attachment to my book collection. Why don’t other objects – CDs, or clothes, for example – have the same emotional significance?

When I moved in with Richard, I brought my goods and chattels with me: half a set of cast-iron pans (the other half stayed with my ex), a dinner service (a twenty-first birthday present), and books – lots and lots of books. Over the months that followed, as we decided that this was to be a permanent arrangement, I parted with my duplicate colander (his was nicer) and my grater (ditto) and my sofa (too uncomfortable).  The books, however, stayed. All of them.

My books are old friends, they are travelling companions. There are the books I have studied, laboriously; identifiable by the worn spine, the margin notes and the underlines. These are the books I could, at one time, quote at length, and whose themes, narrative technique and characterisation I have written about till I never wanted to read them again (at least, not for a while).  We are like veterans of a war, these volumes and I. We have seen action, and we bear the scars.

There are those books I bought (often second hand) in a fit of academic enthusiasm, because they constituted ‘reading around the text’. These are obscure collections of essays, or historical texts, books on myths and legends, or biographies.  I have carted them around, they have survived six house-moves and numerous ruthless clear-outs, yet most of them remain unread.  I can’t part with them. To do so would be to admit defeat.

Then there are the books I just love, that I have read over and over, the stories that have stayed with me. These I might lend to a trusted fellow reader, (after writing my name inside the cover), but I welcome their return like the prodigal son. To part with these would be to reject an old friend.

Richard looks perplexed. ‘Why do you have two copies of ‘Sons and Lovers’? Surely one can go?’

Ah! No!’ I exclaim, and launch into an earnest explanation of how this later edition is significantly longer than this, earlier, version, and is arguably truer to Lawrence’s original intention. Both, therefore, are vital. Richard’s eyes glaze over and he pushes them back onto the shelf.

There are similar, equally valid reasons for keeping the ‘Complete Works of Jane Austen’ as well as most of the novels in separate volumes (the complete works is too heavy for everyday use). And for duplicates of Yeats, Joyce, Tennyson, Hardy…. I could go on.

Now, with two children, the collection is growing exponentially. Books have a whole new emotional significance – how can I possibly part with the chewed board edition of ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’ that we’ve shared together until we both know it by heart? The boys have inherited my attachment to duplicate volumes. We have two ‘Complete Thomas the Tank Engine’ collections, containing identical stories and illustrations.  We need both - the volume is part of the request – ‘‘Gordon the Big Engine’ from the red book please!’ I cannot resist the draw of a box-set, so we must find room for ‘The Complete Roald Dahl’ or several yards of ‘Famous Five’. Despite the lure of the internet, the boys love ‘information books’, weighty hardbacks called ‘1000 Amazing Facts’ or ‘How Things Work’ – these also must be accommodated.

When a bookcase is full, new volumes are slotted in at the top, horizontally. They pile up on bedside tables, or at the side of the sofa.  I have tried to enforce a ‘one in, one out’ policy on myself, but to no avail. In desperation I have resorted to a Kindle, so book purchases take up only ‘virtual’ space. 

However, Richard still buys real books for me. By his own admission, he is not a big reader of fiction. But he chooses thoughtful, luxurious reference volumes -  ‘The Oxford Companion to English Literature’, for example, and a ‘Dictionary of Phrase and Fable’ - both glossy tomes which take up an extravagant amount of space on the shelves.  He has given me serious, thought-provoking books, indulgent, escapist books and downright silly books.

I’m off  to read some more of my birthday present, as I reflect that, despite our double-stacked, groaning shelves, my husband still buys me books.  That’s love, that is.

Exam nerves

“Turn over your papers now.”

My palms are sweaty as I reach for the bundle of pages in front of me. The butterflies in my stomach seemed to have turned into dragons, breathing fire. I stare at the text but it could be written in Egyptian for all the sense it makes. I squeeze my eyes tight shut hoping that when I open them all will become clear. A deep breath, then open.

For a moment I’m blinded by light, then as my eyes adjust I can see the exam paper but it’s moving away from me. I stretch out but the papers and the desk they’re on recede from my touch. Then I realise it’s not them that’s moving, it’s me. I’m drifting upwards. Below me are the rows of desks and students. No one seems to have noticed what’s happening to me. I call out but there is no response. I look for my desk but there are no empty places. Is that me down there? I’ve never seen the top of my head before. There’s no doubt it’s me though - mousey-brown hair tied back in a ponytail and lime green fingernails. Is this an out-of-body experience? How about that?

I bump gently into the ceiling like a loose helium balloon. The people below me look small and still, a regimented army doing battle with GCSE English. On the floor beneath them are the lines and patterns of different sports - green for netball, blue for badminton and tennis, yellow for indoor footy. At this level I can see through the high gymnasium windows out onto the sports field. There’s a game of hockey in motion, white-shirted players moving swiftly from one side of the pitch to the other, their sticks outstretched. Mr Potts, the P.E. teacher places his whistle in his mouth and points at a player. I can’t hear anything though. It’s silent in here apart from the whisper of pages being turned and the occasional muffled cough.

I push against the ceiling and begin to drift downwards. It’s a bit like swimming. I approximate a front crawl motion and find I can control the direction and speed of travel. I float over to where Mr Jennings is sat facing the pupils. He’s supposed to be invigilating but appears to be engrossed in a book. I lower myself to just above his head. I can see the shine of his bald spot and flakes of dandruff on his shoulders. What’s he reading? The cover says Pride and Prejudice but the contents don’t look like anything Jane Austen would write. It’s more like Shades of Grey. Mr Jennings! Who knew you were such a perv?

A thought occurs. If I can read the teacher’s book over his shoulder then maybe …? I do a sort of breaststroke and swim away from Mr Jennings towards the middle of the room. Here she is. Amanda, head bowed, pen moving at speed across the page. She’s such a goody-goody. First to put her hand up, first with an A*. She might just be my saviour. I peer down at her writing, words streaming out behind her pen. It’s like a blue ribbon, a swirl of letters and words, as meaningless as the hieroglyphics on my exam papers. Then I notice a similar swirl of ink on the palm of her other hand and on her wrist and disappearing under her sleeve. Amanda Phillips, you dirty cheat!

Mr Jennings is on the move. He walks down the central aisle towards me. I mean towards the actual me, sitting at my desk with my eyes closed. I watch from above. He leans over my desk and says in an exaggerated whisper, "Time to wake up, young lady. Clock’s ticking." I open my eyes and I’m there sat at my desk looking at Mr Jennings in the face, his stale cigarette breath filling my nostrils. He frowns, stabs his finger at the paper before me as if I’ve forgotten what we’re here for. Then he straightens and walks away.

I look down at the first question on the paper, and heave a sigh of relief as the letters and words resolve themselves into legibility. I read it carefully.

‘Describe how Jane Austen uses bird’s eye view narration to reveal unexpected insights into the characters in Pride and Prejudice.’

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

ORK (Part Four) by Richard Wells

(See 21/7, 8/9, and 8/12 for the first three parts of ‘Ork’)

At least they feed him. A hungry worker is a poor worker they tell him. Their tract is the work of traitors. Although Ork could never put his name to such a document he has no choice but to use the press that will bring their tract to life. The machine has not been well treated and he curses at the frequent breakdowns. But his skills and his dextrous fingers come to his aid. He works all day and well into the evening.

His captors are pleased with his progress and tell him of their future plans, how together they will make a forceful team. At last he is allowed to sleep, but without further food. He dreams of Digger by his side. Woken by cold and hunger, he rises in the darkness and feels his way around the room. He edges towards the single doorway which he finds locked and barred.

Did he imagine a ceiling hatch or was it really there? He moves carefully through the darkness to where his memory – or his imagination – tells him the hatch should be. The ceiling is almost twice the height of a man. He removes paper stacks from the table and drags it into position, making noises he is sure will awaken someone. But all is quiet. Standing on the table he is able to reach and hope. The rough wooden panel greets him and he pushes upwards. His arms, strong from years of labour, haul him up into the space beneath the roof, slipped slates revealing pinpricks of what must be moonlight. He feels his way carefully across the joists, crosses the top of a rubble filled wall and continues. He concludes he must now be over a different room and searches for a second hatch. His luck holds. The board is tight-fitting and Ork struggles to prise it open, paying the price of broken nails and grazed fingers. Only as he’s dropping to the floor below, does he see the dim outline of a sleeping figure and curses his sudden change in fortune.

The figure stirs and to prevent any cry of alarm, Ork moves swiftly to clap his large hand around the mouth of his captive. There is just enough light from a tiny window above the door, for Ork to recognise that the man he is silencing is Jonas. Whispered greetings are followed by whispered explanations of capture and forced labour. Ork removes the bonds from his friend’s hands and legs. Jonas leads them to a recess. He knows there are tools stored there and he selects a long metal bar which he uses to lever open the bolted door. At the sound of the timber jamb splintering, they freeze. But there are no sounds of footsteps. They enter a wooden lean-to and Ork smells Victor before he sees him.

Saddled and reined, they lead the horse through the unlocked gate into the night air. At the end of the street, they both mount Victor and pass through the silent town.

The ride is long and hard. On the moonlit riverbank, they talk of the precautions to be taken, should their captors come visiting again, whilst Victor drinks and grazes. By the time they eventually descend the hill behind Ork’s house, they are all exhausted. Ork is just alert enough to glimpse the weak candlelight flickering through the kitchen window. They dismount and he signals for Jonas to move to the front door, to block any escape, whilst he moves cautiously to the back door. He finds the entrance bolted. Peering through the window he sees the vague, shadowy outline of a woman. Whoever her few muffled words are addressed to, is out of sight.

When he sees Jonas enter the room, he shouts to warn him of the danger. As she hears Ork’s voice, the woman turns to face the window. She smiles at her husband. Her previously hidden listener bounds into view, barking, tail wagging furiously.

Write Time

‘So have you got any New Year’s Resolutions?’ people ask each other at this time of year and I recently found myself offering up the same one as last year and the year before that.

‘To write more,’ I said and even though I meant it sincerely, I cringed inwardly as I said it.  Because I have been here before, too many times and I knew deep down that my hopes were doomed.

Or are they?  I don’t know if it is the eternal optimist in me, but something has felt a bit different in the last few days.  As a teacher, I have enjoyed the last two weeks off work, and the leisurely lie-ins and general laziness of my Christmas holidays have resulted in a strange phenomenon. 

During the evening, I find my mind firing up, ready to create.  By the time I get into bed I am positively buzzing with ideas.  As I turn out the light I have to fight the urge to get up and turn on my laptop.  I feel like I could write all night.

Perplexed by this strange turn of events, I reached out to the community of the Internet.  Surely I couldn’t be the only one with these nocturnal yearnings? 

A few clicks later, I found the confirmation that I needed.  A guest blog post by Jonathan Manor on Jeff Goins’ blog about  writing at http://goinswriter.com/night-writing/
revealed that there are plenty of writers, bloggers and freelancers, for whom the twilight hours are a hotbed of creativity. 

Manor questions the received wisdom that the morning is the best time to write and explains that, for him, writing at night works best,

‘…because it’s devoid of distraction, there’s nothing else left to do in the day, there’s no one else to hurry to. It’s simply just you being yourself and pouring out the emotions that you’ve gathered from your day time experience and using that creativity to create something beautiful and interesting.’

Further reading on the topic led me to Matt Shoard's blog post on Writing at Night,
which reveals a long list of famous authors who wrote at night, including Tennessee Williams, Charles Dickens and TS Eliot.  http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2010/dec/21/writing-at-night

I had thought that my lack of productivity during the day was due to a lethal mix of perfectionism, procrastination and a general lack of willpower.  But looking back I see that the reason most of my first drafts are written in the evening is simply because I am responding to my natural writing rhythms.  While redrafting and editing are fine for me as daytime activities, my initial creative burst needs to happen at nightfall.

All day long I have been trying to write this blog post.  I had no idea what to write and I felt that I had nothing to say.  At 8.30pm it suddenly came to me and flowed out with ease.  So my New Year’s Resolution has been retained but extended slightly. ‘Write more, but at the right time.’  And the next time I have an urge to create as I turn out the light, I will get up and write.