Books for a French sojourn...

Have books, will travel.

Packed and ready to go, big decision made: which books to read in France? I love to read novels set in the place I'm adventuring through, it enriches the whole experience. These are the three volumes stashed in my bag:

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Marcel Proust, Un Amour de Swann (English edition - Swann's Way)

Sebastian Faulks, A Week in December

Any other suggestions? What are your favourite travel reads?

Vive la France!

Today. 3.00pm. In the lounge at Sydney Airport being served vintage Veuve Clicquot, sticky date pudding and icecream by a waiter named Will Studd. Talk about serving me up a story on a plate...

I love France already!

Wondermark tickles me

More from the irrepressible pen of David Malki !

This one's for you mum! x

Click on the photo to enlarge.

Comptoir de l'Image

I can't wait to go to this bookstore in Paris!

Described by Wallpaper* City Guide Paris as an 'ideas vault', the tiny shop - Comptoir de l'Image - is packed with a collection of photography and design books, 'a catholic range of contemporary magazines' (huh?) as well as vintage fashion titles. Très bon!

Flaubert encore

During nightly bouts of insomnia this week I have:
1. Finished reading Madame Bovary by lamplight; and
2. Discovered that my upstairs neighbour takes a 12 minute shower and a bowel movement daily at 3am (thin walls).
Flaubert is a treasure. Which reminds me of the the third thing I did whilst others slumbered: downloaded Freebooks for iPhone and acquired a copy of his 1869 work, Sentimental Education: The Story of a Young Man. Doubt I can bring myself to read it on a 3"x2" screen though. The soft felt of aged pages that whisper as they're turned is a textural accompaniment essential to the pure pleasure of reading.
So, to firmly fix Flaubert's adulterous bourgeois romp in my imagination, before Madame Bovary is returned to rest in my bookshelf, a few more pieces de resistance...
Emma convincing Charles to conduct an experimental operation on a villager's club foot:
"Bovary might, indeed, be successful; might be an able surgeon, for all Emma knew. And how satisfying for her to have urged him to a step that would bring him fame and fortune! Her one wish was for something more solid than love to lean upon."
Rodolphe wearying of Emma's frequent impassioned declarations of adoration for him:
"Because wanton or mercenary lips had whispered like phrases in his ear, he had but scant belief in the sincerity of these. High-flown language concealing tepid affection must be discounted, thought he: as though the full heart may not sometimes overflow in the emptiest metaphors, since no one can ever give the exact measure of his needs, his thoughts, his sorrows, and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we strum out tunes to make a bear dance, when we would move the stars to pity."
Rodolphe contemplating a tin full of old love letters written to him by his past conquests:
"What a lot of humbug! Which summed up his opinion. For his pleasures had so trampled over his heart, like schoolboys in a playground, that no green things grew there, and whatever passed that way, being more frivolous than children, left not so much as its name carved on the wall."
And finally, Rodolphe crying poor after the Madame has reignited his desire for her, then archly stubbed it out by asking for cash:
"'I haven't got it, my dear lady'. He was not lying. If he had it he would doubtless have given it to her, distasteful though it usually is to perform such noble deeds: a request for money being of all the icy blasts that blow upon love the coldest and most uprooting."
Poor Emma. Her downfall was tragic and complete. But at least the lady lived and loved - what else was she to do? - whiling away hour upon hour in the endless mire of a marriage to the puny cipher that was her husband, in the dormant village that was her captor?

Bono rolls the dice...

Charles Bukowski, poet, novelist, short story writer, lived in LA and wrote a lot about the ordinary 'poor' American. In 1986, Time magazine called Bukowski the 'Laureate of American Lowlife'. Have a listen to Bono's take on Bukowski's Roll The Dice.

Team Whitman

Forget the soccer, this is my kinda game.

Whitman vs Sawyer...ooh tough call.

Which literary giant would you back? There's a range of classics to choose from. Get your Novel-T League team shirt here.

Loving Flaubert

Dipping into Flaubert in preparation for a sojourn to France ooh la la. Madame Bovary was the novel that scandalised a nation on publication in 1857 and ultimately resulted in Flaubert's prosecution for immorality. Quelle horreur.
I am loving every word, every phrase, every paragraph. One quarter of the way in and here are some passages that sing...
On the sudden death of Charles Bovary's first wife:
"...But the damage had been done. A week later, as she was hanging out the washing in the yard, she had a spasm, and spat blood; and on the following day, as Charles was drawing the curtains, his back to her, she exclaimed: 'Oh God!' heaved a sigh and fell unconscious. She was dead! It was incredible!"
On entering the Les Bertaux farmhouse where he at first failed to notice Emma's presence:
"...the shutters were closed. Through the chinks in the wood the sunshine came streaking across the floor in long slender lines that broke on the corners of the furniture and flickered on the ceiling."
On a green silk cigar case found along the road from La Vaubyessard to Rouen:
"Love had breathed through the meshes of the canvas; every stitch has fastened there a yearning or a memory; and all those interwoven threads of silk were but a projection of that same silent passion."
I'm up to the part where Charles and Emma have just moved to Yonville and Madame Bovary has taken a walk with young Leon, and Leon "didn't know how to proceed, being torn between fear of making a false move, and desire for an intimacy which he accounted well nigh impossible."...
Poor old Flaubert only made a measly 500 francs for the first five years' sales of Madame Bovary. I wonder how many millions of copies have sold since...?

A little alliteration...

Ever wake up in the morning with a song in your head? This morning I woke up with a poem in my head. A verse spinning around sing-song inside my mind. Specifically, a verse from The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
And as a song stuck in your head is passed from one to another by singing a few simple bars, let me pass on to you this verse, because I love a little alliteration in the morning...
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea...
I'm also reminded of a few lines from another favourite, totally different poet, Banjo Paterson. From The Wind's Message:
Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running free
That swings around the sudden bends in swirls of snow white foam...
Ah beauty... Happy Friday.

Bathtime. Last night. 9pm.

Words cannot describe how blissful this is...:) 

One friend screamed with laughter, another said it looked like something you'd find in a granny's house. I, the converted, am unmoved by their mirth.

Bathtime booklovers, you can get yours here.

The Word Cup of Football

My sole interest in the 2010 FIFA World Cup lies in checking out the space-age stadiums and trying to spot my Japie mates in the crowd. Hello Thorntons hello Spencers hello BreadHead!
Then Doris from Sandton sent me this enchanting fan photo from the Boston Globe, which was crying out to be shared, so I got to thinking about the World Cup and literature (which incidentally, if you make a typo when spelling as I just did, comes out as Word Cup...ha!).
Anyhow, there is a link. Ben Schott, author of Schott's Original Miscellany and subsequent volumes, writes a blog for the New York Times called Schott's Vocab, which he describes as: 'a repository of unconsidered lexicographical trifles - some serious, others frivolous, some neologized, others newly newsworthy...'
He's created an almanac of facts and statistics pertaining to the Soccer World Cup which kicked off in South Africa last Friday.
Soccerphiles can check out all the gory details in his Schott Op-Chart: Soccer World Cup Miscellany.
To see the complete collection of images in the Globe's brilliant World Cup photo essay, click here.

Can't stop the Beat...

Jack Kerouac wandering along East 7th Street, Manhattan, 1953. Passing the statue of Congressman Samuel 'Sunset' Cox, 'The Letter-Carrier's Friend' in Tompkins Square, after visiting William S Burroughs at the pad he shared with Allen Ginsberg.

Flashback to 1998: road trip across the USA with my mate Boyo and the Marines, in a two-seater Cherokee jeep, utes blaring country music in convoy behind, boards on top, camping gear in the back, and a dog eared copy of Big Sur in hand as we pulled into... Big Sur, California. 
It was late summer and I was sure I could smell the faint smoke of the bush fires Kerouac's alter ego, Jack Duluoz, was charged with sighting from his perch high in the trees in the Bixby Canyon wilderness back in 1962. 
The cabin in which Kerouac/Duluoz sought solitude belonged to his long time friend and fellow Beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti. 
The lady with whom he then sought respite from solitude, was Billie (in real life Jackie Gibson Mercer)...mistress of Cody Pomeray, a thinly veiled portrayal of his other close and real life mate, Neal Cassady.
You follow? 
Anyhow, it was epic.
Today: Kerouac, Cassady, Burroughs and Ferlinghetti feature in a collection of 79 photographs of Beat poets and friends taken by Allen Ginsberg, himself a poet of the Beat generation, regularly spoken of in the same breath as Kerouac.
So this is a rare moment in time when I say 'I wish I was in Washington DC' because then I could go to the National Gallery of Art and gaze rapturously at rarely seen portraits of Kerouac [insert appreciative phwoarr here], a genius of stream-of-conscious writing and patron of the School-of-Self-Inflicted-Hard-Knocks.
Beat memories: The photographs of Allen Ginsberg is on until September 19. The Gallery says his images are far more than just historic snap shots: 'the same ideas that inform his poetry — an intense observation of the world, a deep appreciation of the beauty of the vernacular, a celebration of the sacredness of the present, and a faith in intuitive expression — also permeate his photography.'
Aah pictures... they do tell a thousand words.

Neal Cassady and his love of that year (1955) the star-cross'd Natalie Jackson

Winter bliss...

My brother T, who has a great eye for gifts, sent me this photo. 
Has to be the world's third greatest invention (after the wheel and the GHDs). Anyone know where I can get one??

A Pound for your thoughts

We were talking about Ezra Pound in my writing workshop last week, in particular, his observations on storytelling. One quote that stuck in my mind was this gem:
'The fundamental accuracy of statement is the one sole morality of writing.'
He recognised what many would-be writers overlook...that is: never underestimate your reader. You can't pull the wool over the eyes of your audience with convenient plot twists or character contradictions. Flimsy fluff balls.
Pound also happened to write one of my (many) favourite poems...

The Encounter
All the while they were talking the new morality
Her eyes explored me.
And when I rose to go
Her fingers were like the tissue
Of a Japanese paper napkin.

Back in blog-land

Literary meanderings through my mind during my last few weeks' hiatus from blogging:
On forgetting to pack my book when travelling: Sydney Domestic Airport's Watermark bookshop is always a treat. The initial disappointment of realising I'd left my book at home (Catch 22) immediately gave way to the delight of having to buy a new one. Picked up Hilary Mantel's 2009 Man Booker Prize winner Wolf Hall, having read screeds about how wonderful it is. I'm not disappointed - 217 pages in and I can't put it down. 
On the Sydney Writer's Festival: came and went in a flash with some great events that were not dampened by Elizabeth Gilbert's last minute no-show. Comment overheard from a gaggle of Goths on a pavement in Glebe at 10pm on the Friday night. "I reckon Erotic Fan Fiction would have been better if Damo hadn't been chucked out for trying it on the dude dressed up as Wonder Woman. He had good legs though, even in blue tights, so you can't say it was Damo's fault."
On finishing my writing course: Saturdays have become a treasured weekly sojourn into the world of books and writing. The eight week workshop has come to a close but the ink is flowing faster and the will remains strong. Nice to know there's 14 fellow souls out there feeling the frustrations and the fever of writing. Write, fingers write, let us find out what we know!
On dark horses: Turns out, one among us in my writing workshop happened to be launching a  book all along... Annette Stewart's biography of the writer and artist Barbara Hanrahan was published in May and sounds fascinating. (Gleebooks' Gleaner magazine has it advertised at $3995...hopefully it's a typo Annette, not sure I can afford it at that price!)  Barbara Hanrahan: A Biography is published by Wakefield Press. 
On blogging: Now that my temporary state of life-overload has passed, blogging will resume as normal :)