This is going to be a bit of a mind-splurge, as is seeming becoming common-place in this blog. I find that it helps me to get the thoughts out of my head a bit more clearly.
The Goldfinch was an absolute by-the-till impulse purchase in a bookshop a few weeks ago. I have never read either of Tartt's other novels, as good as I am told they both are. I didn't really know anything about the novel either. So I didn't go into it with any expectations which I suspect was a good thing. I will now proceed, inevitably, to construct some expectations for you so if you favour a blank canvas approach to reading a new book (pardon the obvious metaphor), please turn away now.
The first thing to note about The Goldfinch is that Tartt's prose is immaculate- it is like sleeping in silk: you barely know it's there but you can feel the quality of it (this is a bit of a projected metaphor: I have never slept in silk, I sleep in ancient mismatched pyjamas of indistinguishable fibre). She glides her reader along with the utmost care, a street is described in 300 words, a note, an aside can take a page and a half but the story, or at least the first half of the story does not drag. There is no awkward crunch of a misplaced adjective, or an over-laden clause (in this respect it is the polar-opposite of this blog) and it seems to have been given the editorial care of a priceless object. This, as it turns out, is half the problem with the closing stages of the novel but more of that later.
The story revolves around Theodore Decker, a boy who, in a cruel twist of fate, loses his mother in a tragic and violent way. His action immediately after this event takes the rest of the novel to play out, over a period of 14 years taking in America and Europe. When we meet Theodore (or "Potter" as his damaged and spirited friend Boris takes to calling him, even into adulthood) he is holed up in a Dutch hotel room, sick in body and mind, recounting the story that has brought him to this point.
Theodore himself is written as a curiously absent character, with a personality fundamentally joined to the event that shattered his childhood. He is no where near as nuanced as the supporting players, particularly Boris, the poly-national drop-out he meets in Las Vegas, his damaged formally-absent father who takes him there, and the high-society Barbours who facing their own brittle realities initially take him in. The warmth, the heart of this story (although also present, albeit in an increasingly broken way, in the very fine characterisation of Mrs Barbour, particularly in the latter stages of the novel) is reserved for Hobie, the antique-restorer who fate throws into Theodore's path. The hulking benevolence of his character- juxtaposed with the ephemeral Pippa. is at once omniscient and naive and I was disappointed that Tartt, however understandably, relegates him from the final quarter of the novel, much as Theodore does.
There is much to appreciate in this novel, which at 864 pages in my edition, is no weekend read (nor should it be- in my humble opinion people who race through novels as if to win some sort of prize miss the point of reading entirely. I would say that though, I am a slow reader). However, the ending of the novel disappointed me no end. It didn't really have anything to do with the plot, which is resolved well- although the second the novel 'catches up' with itself in Amsterdam it all goes a bit bonkers-, but in the pseudo-academic meta-conclusioning that Tartt insists on putting her reader through, in Theodore's name and voice.
One of the main themes of the novel is the power of art on the individual and the place of art as a unifying agent across time and space (in a non-Doctor Who-y way). Theodore, like his mother before him, is captivated by the painting of the eponymous Goldfinch and his own conclusion is that regardless of the absolute nihilism which is part-and-parcel of the human existence (I know, ever so cheery, this) art, and in particular, a piece of art with which one truly connects, can act as a kind of salvation, Which, y'know, I get. However, Tartt then blunderingly breaks the reader/author/protagonist dynamic: suddenly Theodore is addressing a reader, as it becomes clear that he's been writing something all along ("although it doesn't matter since no one's ever going to see this" *snore...*), and talks about the beauty of understanding that "we can speak to each other across time" through art.
Suddenly the hand has been played. Like the intricate brush-works and textures on the canvas Tartt is suddenly screaming at us: isn't what I've just done beautiful? Aren't I clever? You'll carry this with you forever! Which is a massive gamble because, if you loved the novel more than any other book you've ever read, you'll cry "Oh god, I understand, this novel- it is my Goldfinch" and laugh and cry and know that you will be forever bound to this book, to all those who read it and have the same emotional connection, and you will, in your own small way, become immortal. If you don't (and this, dear reader, in case you were in any doubt, is where I am), you'll see The Goldfinch as a very fine book, like a very fine painting in a gallery, which you will close and go 'ahh' and have enjoyed, but which will have ultimately left you with the feeling that it was just a touch pretentious. Which is a great shame, because the craft is spectacular. The plot is compelling, I just felt that Tartt reached a little too far in her closing pages and, in so doing, overcooked her Goldfinch just ever-so slightly.
Perhaps I am being disingenuous- perhaps Tartt is making a wider point about art which doesn't direct include her own work. But the fact that the novel is called The Goldfinch does bring out my cynical side. However, who am I to argue, I haven't won a Pulitzer for anything (there's no blog category, right?). So reader, I recommend this book to you, if only so you can make up your own mind.
Saturday, 13 September 2014
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
'Untitled'
Feel like I haven't read anything in full for ages so this isn't a book post. I was rifling through some papers the other day and found a poem I'd written a few months ago which on re-reading, didn't make me cringe and scrunch up into a tiny ball (me, not the poem. I tend not to throw away, however awful), mainly because it memorialises a time for me that deserves to be remembered. I re-jigged it a bit and, in the spirit of elephant-brainedness copied it below. It's a sentimental mind-splat without a lot of craft so don't take it too seriously.
"It's hard to blaze a trail when it's so
damned cold" she said
"It's amazing what they'll wear to keep warm"
A drawl met with scowls and typing
And a chocolat chaud from
the 40 cent machine
Hardly the dream of the bourgeoisie:
Enough for bread and cheese and
not much else
(the waiter in the Flore disdained us, quel surprise)
Wine experts decreed 1.80 a bottle was all we'd need --
and that it was,
nauseated from the Gare de L'Est
to Montparnasse
then home to bed as the rest
went out again.
A day of fur and pearls and
playing dress-up to troop into
the cold for a bar we never found
(we out-performed the boulevard, that day).
Paris with tea-drinkers:
Yellow tags and chips on the Ile:
The accent tripping further away,
our 'pardonnez' lost in the Englishness of our apologies.
*
One day the hawkers took no notice
as we reached the foot of the Tour
so we'd arrived, with no glance to the sky
To see it ironed into triangles of cloud.
And still we rode the 4 north and south
between the same old haunts.
'Til at last,
one day in May,
and the sun on our bellies on the Promenade des Anglais,
we thawed
and slept
and dreamed of where we'd been,
where we'd forever be.
"It's hard to blaze a trail when it's so
damned cold" she said
"It's amazing what they'll wear to keep warm"
A drawl met with scowls and typing
And a chocolat chaud from
the 40 cent machine
Hardly the dream of the bourgeoisie:
Enough for bread and cheese and
not much else
(the waiter in the Flore disdained us, quel surprise)
Wine experts decreed 1.80 a bottle was all we'd need --
and that it was,
nauseated from the Gare de L'Est
to Montparnasse
then home to bed as the rest
went out again.
A day of fur and pearls and
playing dress-up to troop into
the cold for a bar we never found
(we out-performed the boulevard, that day).
Paris with tea-drinkers:
Yellow tags and chips on the Ile:
The accent tripping further away,
our 'pardonnez' lost in the Englishness of our apologies.
*
One day the hawkers took no notice
as we reached the foot of the Tour
so we'd arrived, with no glance to the sky
To see it ironed into triangles of cloud.
And still we rode the 4 north and south
between the same old haunts.
'Til at last,
one day in May,
and the sun on our bellies on the Promenade des Anglais,
we thawed
and slept
and dreamed of where we'd been,
where we'd forever be.
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
Maya Angelou- Still I Rise
In memory of Dr Maya Angelou, who passed away today aged 86 I was going to post my favourite poem of her's, 'Still I Rise' without comment, convinced that nothing I could say would ever live up to the power and brilliance of her own words. But although I still believe that what I have to say about her could never match what she had to say about herself and her work, one of the most abiding sentiments that Dr Angelou has left for me is that to hide oneself for fear of failure and recrimination is not living life to its full potential- that emotions and the essence of living should be celebrated. So although I have cried three times already over her passing (which when you're in an office is surprisingly difficult to conceal) and am writing this on a laptop that is substantially older than Justin Bieber's career (and may in fact be older than Justin Bieber himself) here I write my own interpretation of her words.
The poem can be found here http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/still-i-rise and it might be better to open it in a second tab. I'm also putting a link to Angelou reading a slightly edited version of the poem. She has a truly wonderful voice https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqOqo50LSZ0
'Still I Rise' is a poem that does just that, and the oxymoron of the title is the gateway by which Angelou uses supreme control of language to make the rhetoric, the hyperbole of the lines more powerful. The first verse is confrontational with the power immediately held by the voice of the poem (Angelou herself): 'You may write me down in history' she begins and then subverts immediately 'with your bitter, twisted lies'- the tone of the stanza is hard (it's easy to get some real venom behind the harsh consonants in both 'bitter' and 'twisted') but the end of it is lifted, held and controlled by her use of commas 'But still, like dust, I rise'.
The second verse works in opposition: sassiness is a fabulous word to say, although with a southern English accent you really do need to put a lot of sass into it for it to sound right! Its bright sibilance fizzes in contrast to the darker images and longer vowel sounds, the 'gloom' and 'oil' in the second and third lines (oil being oxymoronic too being physically dark but prized). The rhetorical questions that become part of the fabric of the poem are both challenging and humorous- later on she will ask 'Does my haughtiness offend you?' 'Does my sexiness upset you?'- the symmetry in the rhythms of these lines becoming taunts to her opponents. And for all that the nature of this poem is a serious and angry confrontation, what does she do when goaded? She dances and laughs in celebration of her own worth, here manifested as gold mines and diamonds, natural resources taken by man. It is an interesting opposition to the images with which Angelou herself identifies: the ocean, the moons and suns: all things that are greater than mankind itself, world-shifting and profound.
The images associated with those unknown (although very much known) foes in the poem are brutal: 'You may kill me with your hatefulness' Angelou writes, mirroring her opening line. Indeed, the notion of her broken body 'bowed head', 'shoulders falling' in the face of this hatefulness only serves to emphasise this possibility of total destruction, both physically and psychologically. However, the refrain and the overriding sound at the end of the poem with the lengthened 'i' sound in 'rise' an unstoppable exhalation, the breath that drives the poem, the voice, keeps going. Indeed, the increased frequency of the phrase 'I rise' and the change in meter in the final two stanzas mean that the reader speaking the poem aloud takes in more and more breath, becomes, in a sense, more alive as the poem reaches its powerful crescendo. This crescendo is also emphasised by the powerful iambic lines: 'Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave/I am the dream and the hope of the slave'. Angelou's message here becomes clear: taking the hurt and the suffering of her own life, of her history and the history of her ancestors has galvanised a response which will see her going far beyond above the people who would crush her. The end, depending on how you read it, is a meditative sigh or a chanting cry: 'I rise/I rise/I rise'.
It's a poem that never fails to give me goosebumps and it is Angelou's skill as a poet as well as the sentiment of the words themselves that inspire such a powerful reaction in me, and in many people who read or hear her work. I was wondering this evening why her death so upset me and I think the reason is this: that such a woman with such tremendous capability to live to the fullest potential of her being has now left us, makes her death seem somehow more profound. But the truth is, the very fact that such a person has existed, and that we can share in her thoughts and her life is a joy that can never be extinguished. And so, in that spirit, Angelou can have the final word here:
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."
The poem can be found here http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/still-i-rise and it might be better to open it in a second tab. I'm also putting a link to Angelou reading a slightly edited version of the poem. She has a truly wonderful voice https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqOqo50LSZ0
'Still I Rise' is a poem that does just that, and the oxymoron of the title is the gateway by which Angelou uses supreme control of language to make the rhetoric, the hyperbole of the lines more powerful. The first verse is confrontational with the power immediately held by the voice of the poem (Angelou herself): 'You may write me down in history' she begins and then subverts immediately 'with your bitter, twisted lies'- the tone of the stanza is hard (it's easy to get some real venom behind the harsh consonants in both 'bitter' and 'twisted') but the end of it is lifted, held and controlled by her use of commas 'But still, like dust, I rise'.
The second verse works in opposition: sassiness is a fabulous word to say, although with a southern English accent you really do need to put a lot of sass into it for it to sound right! Its bright sibilance fizzes in contrast to the darker images and longer vowel sounds, the 'gloom' and 'oil' in the second and third lines (oil being oxymoronic too being physically dark but prized). The rhetorical questions that become part of the fabric of the poem are both challenging and humorous- later on she will ask 'Does my haughtiness offend you?' 'Does my sexiness upset you?'- the symmetry in the rhythms of these lines becoming taunts to her opponents. And for all that the nature of this poem is a serious and angry confrontation, what does she do when goaded? She dances and laughs in celebration of her own worth, here manifested as gold mines and diamonds, natural resources taken by man. It is an interesting opposition to the images with which Angelou herself identifies: the ocean, the moons and suns: all things that are greater than mankind itself, world-shifting and profound.
The images associated with those unknown (although very much known) foes in the poem are brutal: 'You may kill me with your hatefulness' Angelou writes, mirroring her opening line. Indeed, the notion of her broken body 'bowed head', 'shoulders falling' in the face of this hatefulness only serves to emphasise this possibility of total destruction, both physically and psychologically. However, the refrain and the overriding sound at the end of the poem with the lengthened 'i' sound in 'rise' an unstoppable exhalation, the breath that drives the poem, the voice, keeps going. Indeed, the increased frequency of the phrase 'I rise' and the change in meter in the final two stanzas mean that the reader speaking the poem aloud takes in more and more breath, becomes, in a sense, more alive as the poem reaches its powerful crescendo. This crescendo is also emphasised by the powerful iambic lines: 'Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave/I am the dream and the hope of the slave'. Angelou's message here becomes clear: taking the hurt and the suffering of her own life, of her history and the history of her ancestors has galvanised a response which will see her going far beyond above the people who would crush her. The end, depending on how you read it, is a meditative sigh or a chanting cry: 'I rise/I rise/I rise'.
It's a poem that never fails to give me goosebumps and it is Angelou's skill as a poet as well as the sentiment of the words themselves that inspire such a powerful reaction in me, and in many people who read or hear her work. I was wondering this evening why her death so upset me and I think the reason is this: that such a woman with such tremendous capability to live to the fullest potential of her being has now left us, makes her death seem somehow more profound. But the truth is, the very fact that such a person has existed, and that we can share in her thoughts and her life is a joy that can never be extinguished. And so, in that spirit, Angelou can have the final word here:
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."
Thursday, 22 May 2014
Americanah- Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
I had to leave this post unfinished and was going to leave it unpublished as well but on re-reading I realised that I'd got further with it than I thought. I'm posting it here because this is a great book, I'm just sorry that my thoughts on it are a little under-developed.
I'm a big fan of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and I was gutted to have missed the premiere of Half of a Yellow Sun in Streatham a few of weeks ago. There are lots of things to say about this book- mostly compliments- but there are also a couple of things about the novel that just lacked a bit of the magic of her previous two novels, and in particular Half of a Yellow Sun which is one of the most astonishing books I have ever read.
Americanah is a departure from the subject matter of Adichie's previous two books. In Americanah, the political situation in Nigeria is the catalyst for the action rather than the subject of the novel as two school mates Ifemelu and Obinze fall in love and go to university in nineties Lagos, amidst the chaos of teacher strikes and military disquiet. Half way through their undergraduate degrees Ifemelu departs for America to complete her studies while Obinze remains in Nigeria before trying his luck in the UK. The themes of love, separation and reconciliation run through the novel but this, frankly, is no where near as interesting as the development of Obinze and, particularly, Ifemelu and the identity politics of being a Black African in America and Europe.
In fact, where Adichie is strongest in the novel is where she is engaging with race through Ifemelu's blogs. It is polemical stuff in its directness, and ensures that readers are fully confronted with the underlying racism (and sexism) at work in so many aspects of Euro-American society. The blogs, emails and texts that permeate this novel are fascinating in themselves as literary devices as they are undoubtedly the 21st century epistolary reality in literature. We encounter all three every day yet why does it feel so much more modern when they are used in literature? Is it because we are used to the diarist, to the correspondence by letter? How many books can you name using a technological epistolary device that you would deem 'classic'? This gets us in to the realm of 'what makes a classic?' 'what makes a novel a work of literature?': important questions but not the original intention of this post.
But it is interesting nonetheless that, through Ifemelu, Adichie presents her readers with two courses of food for thought: racial prejudice and literary snobbishness. Confronting her reader with both of these simultaneously can almost feel overwhelming and there were a couple of moments, when I was reading this on my commute, that I had to close the book for a few moments and just think about my own attitudes, as a reader of fiction, as a white privileged woman. I loathe this phrase but I've never felt so compelled to check my own privilege as I have reading this book.
That said, I was a little unsatisfied by the conclusion to the book and it felt that, as important as Ifemelu's return to Nigeria was in the trajectory of the novel, the return to her relationship (the word here used in the most general, non-loaded way to avoid any spoilers) with Obinze did not ring true with their characters. This is a shame because it is the last impression I had of the book. But there is much here to enjoy, to be interested and challenged by, and Adichie remains one of the most interesting and compelling authors out there.
I'm a big fan of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and I was gutted to have missed the premiere of Half of a Yellow Sun in Streatham a few of weeks ago. There are lots of things to say about this book- mostly compliments- but there are also a couple of things about the novel that just lacked a bit of the magic of her previous two novels, and in particular Half of a Yellow Sun which is one of the most astonishing books I have ever read.
Americanah is a departure from the subject matter of Adichie's previous two books. In Americanah, the political situation in Nigeria is the catalyst for the action rather than the subject of the novel as two school mates Ifemelu and Obinze fall in love and go to university in nineties Lagos, amidst the chaos of teacher strikes and military disquiet. Half way through their undergraduate degrees Ifemelu departs for America to complete her studies while Obinze remains in Nigeria before trying his luck in the UK. The themes of love, separation and reconciliation run through the novel but this, frankly, is no where near as interesting as the development of Obinze and, particularly, Ifemelu and the identity politics of being a Black African in America and Europe.
In fact, where Adichie is strongest in the novel is where she is engaging with race through Ifemelu's blogs. It is polemical stuff in its directness, and ensures that readers are fully confronted with the underlying racism (and sexism) at work in so many aspects of Euro-American society. The blogs, emails and texts that permeate this novel are fascinating in themselves as literary devices as they are undoubtedly the 21st century epistolary reality in literature. We encounter all three every day yet why does it feel so much more modern when they are used in literature? Is it because we are used to the diarist, to the correspondence by letter? How many books can you name using a technological epistolary device that you would deem 'classic'? This gets us in to the realm of 'what makes a classic?' 'what makes a novel a work of literature?': important questions but not the original intention of this post.
But it is interesting nonetheless that, through Ifemelu, Adichie presents her readers with two courses of food for thought: racial prejudice and literary snobbishness. Confronting her reader with both of these simultaneously can almost feel overwhelming and there were a couple of moments, when I was reading this on my commute, that I had to close the book for a few moments and just think about my own attitudes, as a reader of fiction, as a white privileged woman. I loathe this phrase but I've never felt so compelled to check my own privilege as I have reading this book.
That said, I was a little unsatisfied by the conclusion to the book and it felt that, as important as Ifemelu's return to Nigeria was in the trajectory of the novel, the return to her relationship (the word here used in the most general, non-loaded way to avoid any spoilers) with Obinze did not ring true with their characters. This is a shame because it is the last impression I had of the book. But there is much here to enjoy, to be interested and challenged by, and Adichie remains one of the most interesting and compelling authors out there.
Wednesday, 23 April 2014
Happy Birthday Mr. Shakespeare
Today commemorates, approximately, the 450th birthday of William Shakespeare and so to mark the occasion I have chosen to revisit a piece of text that first made me realise just quite what a genius he was. I was fifteen and reading Romeo and Juliet as part of my GCSEs and decided I'd do a little exercise in close reading. Never one to self edit, the result was a 3000 word monstrosity of coursework. Here I present a much revised, hopefully much shorter, and pretty irreverent commentary on one of the most famous exchanges in the play.
ROMEO: If I profane with my unworthiest hand,
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,
My lips two blushing Pilgrims ready stand,
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
JULIET: Good Pilgrim you do wrong your hand too much
Which mannerly devotion shows in this,
For saints have hands, that Pilgrims' hands do touch
And palm to palm is holy Palmers' kiss.
ROMEO: Have not Saints lips and holy Palmers too?
JULIET: Ay Pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer
ROMEO: O then dear Saint, let lips do what hands do,
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
JULIET: Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
ROMEO: Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
[Act 1, Scene 5]
And they snog.
Now everyone likes a good flirt but if you flirt with Shakespeare's words in your mouth well, heaven help your flirtee. But before we get to these words, let's get some context. Although with minimal dramatic licence most productions of R&J will have had them making googly eyes at each other before this exchange, the first important thing to note is that Romeo has already spotted Juliet, but she has not necessarily seen him. He's likened her to a 'snowy dove' among crows and foreshadowed her death by observing that she seems 'for earth too dear'. For him, Juliet is dazzling energy itself ('she doth teach the torches to burn bright') and this is in direct contrast to the darkness of Romeo who 'shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out/And makes himself an artificial light' (the 'artificial light' I think it's fair to assume, is a metaphor for Rosaline). Their love will consume them entirely- light annihilates the darkness as darkness annihilates the light. Their story is a juxtaposition of opposites and balance and it has already started.
Now just a note on the verse form and then I promise we'll get going. This is, when read in isolation, a sonnet. And a sonnet is traditionally one of the most trussed up of verse forms. This version is a classic Elizabethan version, written in iambic pentameter with a defined rhyme scheme. Which makes it a Mr-Darcy-in-a-wet-shirt sort of exchange. The structure means that we can all see exactly what's underneath, and it's hot: the sensuality is there clad in translucently restrictive garb. The regular, heart beat rhythm that ebbs and flows between the two characters dominates but there are a couple of heart-skippy moments: both of which up the ante that bit more. Shakespeare packs the sonnet with noun repetitions: 'saint', 'prayer', 'hands' but when the repeated word 'lips' crops up in line 9 the first de-dum that you would expect from an iambic line gets sort of squashed, and the heartbeat skips a beat. It does the same when Juliet says 'move' in line 13 and stops the flow of the line. Clever, eh?
Now to the words. Romeo really goes for it doesn't he? To him, as I've already said, Juliet is other-worldly: the summary of his lines is basically: you are biblically hot, am I allowed to kiss you? He's ready to profane but once again Shakespeare balances this with doubt, and the hyperbole is tempered by the opening word 'If' and the coyly 'gentle sin'. On the other hand his lips are blushing with both doubt and arousal and you try saying 'smooth touch' without making a kissy face (you just tried it, didn't you. Adorable). So cards are very much on the table. Oh Mr. S, you are so cunning. But this is no peacock display: the ball is quite determinedly placed in Juliet's court. And she has yet to make her judgement.
'Good Pilgrim' are her first words. Good being a good sign, and a repetition of Romeo's description of himself making it clear that she's in on the joke, and she likes it. You know that people attracted to each other mirror each other's body language? Well, this is the verbal equivalent. Juliet immediately picks up on the imagery but neutralises it somewhat 'Saints have hands that Pilgrims' hands do touch': hey buddy, you've got hands, I've got hands. Get me off this pedestal a bit and let's do something with... hands. Flirty, sexy undertones but joining in the Saint/Pilgrim joke. Are these two made for each other or what? With this encouragement Romeo then decides to try it on a bit: 'Have not Saints lips..?', Juliet reciprocates 'Ay Pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer'.
So, if hands come together in prayer 'let lips do what hands do' says Romeo, ever the logician. Crunch time. Come of Jules, we're all rooting for you. 'Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake' she says. Alright Your Royal Coyness. She's brought the metaphor home and is not going anywhere, except to be kissed, the word 'move' ironically grounded mid-sentence by a comma. A hesitation, but crucially, she's has the deciding line, and she has given Romeo the divine right. 'Then move not' he says as he leans in and the entire audience go wobbly kneed, 'while my prayer's effect I take'.
If only this was the grand finale, eh? The curtain comes down and the world goes away with a happy heart. But the prologue has told us otherwise and it's already gone wrong as Juliet realises just after this exchange: 'my only love sprung from my only hate/Too early seen, unknown, and known too late' which, brutal though it is, is a phenomenally balanced line.
So like so many teenage infatuations, this post is over before it has barely begun. Despite that however, I hope you've enjoyed my little analysis: sad to say perhaps, but this is one of my absolutely favourite ways to spend my time. But for now I'll bid you adieu: I'm off to have a slice of cake in the great man's honour.
ROMEO: If I profane with my unworthiest hand,
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,
My lips two blushing Pilgrims ready stand,
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
JULIET: Good Pilgrim you do wrong your hand too much
Which mannerly devotion shows in this,
For saints have hands, that Pilgrims' hands do touch
And palm to palm is holy Palmers' kiss.
ROMEO: Have not Saints lips and holy Palmers too?
JULIET: Ay Pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer
ROMEO: O then dear Saint, let lips do what hands do,
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
JULIET: Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
ROMEO: Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
[Act 1, Scene 5]
And they snog.
Now everyone likes a good flirt but if you flirt with Shakespeare's words in your mouth well, heaven help your flirtee. But before we get to these words, let's get some context. Although with minimal dramatic licence most productions of R&J will have had them making googly eyes at each other before this exchange, the first important thing to note is that Romeo has already spotted Juliet, but she has not necessarily seen him. He's likened her to a 'snowy dove' among crows and foreshadowed her death by observing that she seems 'for earth too dear'. For him, Juliet is dazzling energy itself ('she doth teach the torches to burn bright') and this is in direct contrast to the darkness of Romeo who 'shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out/And makes himself an artificial light' (the 'artificial light' I think it's fair to assume, is a metaphor for Rosaline). Their love will consume them entirely- light annihilates the darkness as darkness annihilates the light. Their story is a juxtaposition of opposites and balance and it has already started.
Now just a note on the verse form and then I promise we'll get going. This is, when read in isolation, a sonnet. And a sonnet is traditionally one of the most trussed up of verse forms. This version is a classic Elizabethan version, written in iambic pentameter with a defined rhyme scheme. Which makes it a Mr-Darcy-in-a-wet-shirt sort of exchange. The structure means that we can all see exactly what's underneath, and it's hot: the sensuality is there clad in translucently restrictive garb. The regular, heart beat rhythm that ebbs and flows between the two characters dominates but there are a couple of heart-skippy moments: both of which up the ante that bit more. Shakespeare packs the sonnet with noun repetitions: 'saint', 'prayer', 'hands' but when the repeated word 'lips' crops up in line 9 the first de-dum that you would expect from an iambic line gets sort of squashed, and the heartbeat skips a beat. It does the same when Juliet says 'move' in line 13 and stops the flow of the line. Clever, eh?
Now to the words. Romeo really goes for it doesn't he? To him, as I've already said, Juliet is other-worldly: the summary of his lines is basically: you are biblically hot, am I allowed to kiss you? He's ready to profane but once again Shakespeare balances this with doubt, and the hyperbole is tempered by the opening word 'If' and the coyly 'gentle sin'. On the other hand his lips are blushing with both doubt and arousal and you try saying 'smooth touch' without making a kissy face (you just tried it, didn't you. Adorable). So cards are very much on the table. Oh Mr. S, you are so cunning. But this is no peacock display: the ball is quite determinedly placed in Juliet's court. And she has yet to make her judgement.
'Good Pilgrim' are her first words. Good being a good sign, and a repetition of Romeo's description of himself making it clear that she's in on the joke, and she likes it. You know that people attracted to each other mirror each other's body language? Well, this is the verbal equivalent. Juliet immediately picks up on the imagery but neutralises it somewhat 'Saints have hands that Pilgrims' hands do touch': hey buddy, you've got hands, I've got hands. Get me off this pedestal a bit and let's do something with... hands. Flirty, sexy undertones but joining in the Saint/Pilgrim joke. Are these two made for each other or what? With this encouragement Romeo then decides to try it on a bit: 'Have not Saints lips..?', Juliet reciprocates 'Ay Pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer'.
So, if hands come together in prayer 'let lips do what hands do' says Romeo, ever the logician. Crunch time. Come of Jules, we're all rooting for you. 'Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake' she says. Alright Your Royal Coyness. She's brought the metaphor home and is not going anywhere, except to be kissed, the word 'move' ironically grounded mid-sentence by a comma. A hesitation, but crucially, she's has the deciding line, and she has given Romeo the divine right. 'Then move not' he says as he leans in and the entire audience go wobbly kneed, 'while my prayer's effect I take'.
If only this was the grand finale, eh? The curtain comes down and the world goes away with a happy heart. But the prologue has told us otherwise and it's already gone wrong as Juliet realises just after this exchange: 'my only love sprung from my only hate/Too early seen, unknown, and known too late' which, brutal though it is, is a phenomenally balanced line.
So like so many teenage infatuations, this post is over before it has barely begun. Despite that however, I hope you've enjoyed my little analysis: sad to say perhaps, but this is one of my absolutely favourite ways to spend my time. But for now I'll bid you adieu: I'm off to have a slice of cake in the great man's honour.
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
Queenie- Alice Munro
It seems fitting that a short story should be afforded a short post (I am also writing this under time pressure on my lunch break) but I couldn't let this one go without writing a brief note on this fabulous story.
I bought a tiddly £1.99 copy of Queenie in Waterstones a few weeks ago, not long after it was announced that Alice Munro had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. I enjoy short stories but don't read enough of them- which is absurd because they should be the perfect companion to my daily commute (and could be just the thing I need to wean myself off of Candy Crush Saga, which has already consumed so much of my 27th year).
It's the first of Munro's stories I have read and, on finishing, I was overawed at her mastery of the form. Indeed, unlike Munro, I am struggling and about to fail to describe the story in a way that is not cliched or better summarised by somebody else. Sufficed to say therefore that the story, about a woman, Chrissy, who travels to Toronto to stay with her estranged step-sister, the eponymous Queenie and her husband, feels like the TARDIS, such is its extraordinary capacity for detail and literary economy.
Through the first person narrator Munro immediately draws the reader into a deep intimacy with herself and her characters but also skilfully builds and maintains a sense of isolation that permeates the story, and particularly her central characters. The story encapsulates the awkward reality of the re-consolidation of female intimacy while addressing the shift in dynamic between once close sisters whose roles have now been complicated and re-assigned to that of wife and housekeeper in the case of Queenie and unemployed sister-in-law in the case of Chrissy. Several roles are played by both characters throughout the story- and indeed Chrissy foreshadows this at the start of the story when she describes Queenie's appearance as being a costume when she meets her from the train. The necessity of artifice is a theme that returns later in the story and is something that Chrissy comes to recognise as a means of protection, of getting ahead in the city both personally and professionally. I'm interested to see whether this chameleon-like portrayal of female characters is a characteristic of Munro's stories in general and what such a portrayal might indicate.
Whole characters, such as the druggist and his officious wife who offers Chrissy a job, are sketched in one or two sentences but rather than feeling Impressionistic, the story is profoundly robust, clear and highly structured. Indeed it is Munro's matter-of-factness in her delivery of the story that makes the ephemeral thoughtfulness of the closing paragraphs, as Chrissy tries to find her sister again and again, all the more heartbreaking. I felt bereft for the characters and of the story as soon as I read the final line.
In fact, the story left such an impression that I instantly ordered Munro's 'Dear Life' collection. If any of these stories leave half such an impression as this one has had on me, expect many a half-baked blog post to come in the next few weeks!
I bought a tiddly £1.99 copy of Queenie in Waterstones a few weeks ago, not long after it was announced that Alice Munro had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. I enjoy short stories but don't read enough of them- which is absurd because they should be the perfect companion to my daily commute (and could be just the thing I need to wean myself off of Candy Crush Saga, which has already consumed so much of my 27th year).
It's the first of Munro's stories I have read and, on finishing, I was overawed at her mastery of the form. Indeed, unlike Munro, I am struggling and about to fail to describe the story in a way that is not cliched or better summarised by somebody else. Sufficed to say therefore that the story, about a woman, Chrissy, who travels to Toronto to stay with her estranged step-sister, the eponymous Queenie and her husband, feels like the TARDIS, such is its extraordinary capacity for detail and literary economy.
Through the first person narrator Munro immediately draws the reader into a deep intimacy with herself and her characters but also skilfully builds and maintains a sense of isolation that permeates the story, and particularly her central characters. The story encapsulates the awkward reality of the re-consolidation of female intimacy while addressing the shift in dynamic between once close sisters whose roles have now been complicated and re-assigned to that of wife and housekeeper in the case of Queenie and unemployed sister-in-law in the case of Chrissy. Several roles are played by both characters throughout the story- and indeed Chrissy foreshadows this at the start of the story when she describes Queenie's appearance as being a costume when she meets her from the train. The necessity of artifice is a theme that returns later in the story and is something that Chrissy comes to recognise as a means of protection, of getting ahead in the city both personally and professionally. I'm interested to see whether this chameleon-like portrayal of female characters is a characteristic of Munro's stories in general and what such a portrayal might indicate.
Whole characters, such as the druggist and his officious wife who offers Chrissy a job, are sketched in one or two sentences but rather than feeling Impressionistic, the story is profoundly robust, clear and highly structured. Indeed it is Munro's matter-of-factness in her delivery of the story that makes the ephemeral thoughtfulness of the closing paragraphs, as Chrissy tries to find her sister again and again, all the more heartbreaking. I felt bereft for the characters and of the story as soon as I read the final line.
In fact, the story left such an impression that I instantly ordered Munro's 'Dear Life' collection. If any of these stories leave half such an impression as this one has had on me, expect many a half-baked blog post to come in the next few weeks!
Monday, 6 January 2014
The Edible Woman- Margaret Atwood
Hello there, and a happy new year to you.
It doesn't take a genius (no offence) to work out that this new post coincides with the new year and all of the procrastination-guilt that is so prevalent at this time of year. Already in my mind this morning I have determined that I will be at least 20 mins early for work every day (already scuppered by a truly awful commute), will run an entire 5km race by September (my third run yesterday ended prematurely when I schlomped nauseated and exhausted into a thicket) and will write at least a short post about every single book I read in 2014. A ridiculous overachieving set of goals which I have no doubt I will fail at but here we go, no more mucking about, book one of 2014: The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood.
If you have never read any Atwood then do, she is a rare breed of author who manages to create a really dynamic reading experience whilst still giving you time and space to think about the things she's writing about. I was shocked to find that she wrote the first draft of The Edible Woman aged 24 such is the skill found in the novel but given the subject matter and main protagonists it makes a lot of sense. The main character, Marian, is in her early to mid-twenties and lives in an apartment with her female friend Ainsley above their disapproving landlady. She has a not-quite-run-of-the-mill job (for a female graduate in '60s Canada) at a market research agency, and a sensible (read dull and traditional) boyfriend, Peter. All is formulaic in Marian's life until she meets English graduate and all-round odd-ball, Duncan, and Ainsley in bohemian fancy determines that she wants a baby, without the need for the man to stick around. Most bizarrely, as Marian's world unravels she finds herself afflicted in a very particular way by finding it harder and harder to eat anything.
At its heart the novel is about the deconstruction of the self, and more specifically, the feminine in the society the characters inhabit. Marian represents the teetering middle-ground of feminine existence- neatly reduced by society to the gap between sexual inexperience and marriage. She similarly finds herself perched ever more precariously between her work friends, otherwise called the 'Office Virgins' for their mutual- although not identically reasoned- no sex before marriage stance, and her old school friend Clara, who is married and mother to 2 and soon after 3 children who have all appeared in exhaustingly quick succession.
The female experience in relation to sex, the not having it in the case of the Office Virgins, or, in the case of Ainsley and Clara, the seemingly inevitable product of it, is at the heart of this novel and yet the book underplays, even coyly removes itself, from the act itself. This surely is deliberate as each woman in the novel appears to be defined by it and yet Atwood treats it as almost a queasy topic, in the same way that food becomes progressively less appetising to Marian. Throughout the novel Atwood cleverly plays on the concept of the femininity being equated to reproduction- and in a society where a woman was expected to give up her job when she got married the equation between marriage and motherhood is absolute. Marian both consciously and subconsciously rejects this, as Atwood emphatically does so. I'll try not to spoil it but at the grand denouement of the intriguing relationship between Marian and Duncan all parties are left unsatisfied. Indeed, satisfaction for Marian comes later and in a more surprising form.
The narrative structure itself flips between first person (Marian) to third person and back to the first again for the very final chapter. In this way, Atwood allows for the disintegration of Marian's character both literally in the structure of the novel as well as in the plot itself, before the emphatic recapturing of self at the end. Marian ends the novel on the ambiguous note, but the optimistic reader will end the novel with Marian's eyes looking up and not back. It is intriguing then that Atwood has asserted that written before the second wave of Feminism of the late '60s, this is not a feminist book. From 2014 it certainly reads like the germination of a new era for women and perhaps therefore it should be read, not as the book that changes perceptions, but the earth into which such seeds can grow in the minds of both women and men (corny, eh? I thought of that one myself). And yet, at some point I will read the novel again with Ainsley at the forefront and probably come to a different conclusion.
In short, this novel is as relevant for a modern audience as it was when it was written and, although driven by the female experience, will appeal to anyone trying to make sense of their life's direction.
It doesn't take a genius (no offence) to work out that this new post coincides with the new year and all of the procrastination-guilt that is so prevalent at this time of year. Already in my mind this morning I have determined that I will be at least 20 mins early for work every day (already scuppered by a truly awful commute), will run an entire 5km race by September (my third run yesterday ended prematurely when I schlomped nauseated and exhausted into a thicket) and will write at least a short post about every single book I read in 2014. A ridiculous overachieving set of goals which I have no doubt I will fail at but here we go, no more mucking about, book one of 2014: The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood.
If you have never read any Atwood then do, she is a rare breed of author who manages to create a really dynamic reading experience whilst still giving you time and space to think about the things she's writing about. I was shocked to find that she wrote the first draft of The Edible Woman aged 24 such is the skill found in the novel but given the subject matter and main protagonists it makes a lot of sense. The main character, Marian, is in her early to mid-twenties and lives in an apartment with her female friend Ainsley above their disapproving landlady. She has a not-quite-run-of-the-mill job (for a female graduate in '60s Canada) at a market research agency, and a sensible (read dull and traditional) boyfriend, Peter. All is formulaic in Marian's life until she meets English graduate and all-round odd-ball, Duncan, and Ainsley in bohemian fancy determines that she wants a baby, without the need for the man to stick around. Most bizarrely, as Marian's world unravels she finds herself afflicted in a very particular way by finding it harder and harder to eat anything.
At its heart the novel is about the deconstruction of the self, and more specifically, the feminine in the society the characters inhabit. Marian represents the teetering middle-ground of feminine existence- neatly reduced by society to the gap between sexual inexperience and marriage. She similarly finds herself perched ever more precariously between her work friends, otherwise called the 'Office Virgins' for their mutual- although not identically reasoned- no sex before marriage stance, and her old school friend Clara, who is married and mother to 2 and soon after 3 children who have all appeared in exhaustingly quick succession.
The female experience in relation to sex, the not having it in the case of the Office Virgins, or, in the case of Ainsley and Clara, the seemingly inevitable product of it, is at the heart of this novel and yet the book underplays, even coyly removes itself, from the act itself. This surely is deliberate as each woman in the novel appears to be defined by it and yet Atwood treats it as almost a queasy topic, in the same way that food becomes progressively less appetising to Marian. Throughout the novel Atwood cleverly plays on the concept of the femininity being equated to reproduction- and in a society where a woman was expected to give up her job when she got married the equation between marriage and motherhood is absolute. Marian both consciously and subconsciously rejects this, as Atwood emphatically does so. I'll try not to spoil it but at the grand denouement of the intriguing relationship between Marian and Duncan all parties are left unsatisfied. Indeed, satisfaction for Marian comes later and in a more surprising form.
The narrative structure itself flips between first person (Marian) to third person and back to the first again for the very final chapter. In this way, Atwood allows for the disintegration of Marian's character both literally in the structure of the novel as well as in the plot itself, before the emphatic recapturing of self at the end. Marian ends the novel on the ambiguous note, but the optimistic reader will end the novel with Marian's eyes looking up and not back. It is intriguing then that Atwood has asserted that written before the second wave of Feminism of the late '60s, this is not a feminist book. From 2014 it certainly reads like the germination of a new era for women and perhaps therefore it should be read, not as the book that changes perceptions, but the earth into which such seeds can grow in the minds of both women and men (corny, eh? I thought of that one myself). And yet, at some point I will read the novel again with Ainsley at the forefront and probably come to a different conclusion.
In short, this novel is as relevant for a modern audience as it was when it was written and, although driven by the female experience, will appeal to anyone trying to make sense of their life's direction.
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