I think I'm just a little bit evil...

I still have no internet at home, but I couldn't resist sharing these recently discovered book gems:

A couple of years ago I purchased Great Lies to Tell Small Kids by Andy Riley, who is best known as the author of The Bunny Suicides. Each page of the book contains a hilariously mean lie, coupled with a funny cartoon. Highlights include 'Milk feels pain' and 'If you grab the edge of your chair and pull as hard as you can you'll lift yourself into the air'.

This evening a coworker of mine, JS, brought a book to the counter, chuckling. Imagine my delight when I discovered that it was a follow-up, Loads More Lies to Tell Small Kids. (My favourite lie: 'When you change channels on the TV the presenter you were just watching dies instantly.') The following conversation ensued:

Me: Oooh, I have the first one! I have to get this!
JS: That's really bad, you know.
Me: What's bad?
JS: Your need to purchase things you see.
Me: I have the first one. I love it!
JS: Maybe I should order a copy for myself then.

I can't help it. I find the idea of telling outrageous lies to small children hilariously funny.

In the meantime, I am concerned that my coworkers are going to start worrying about me, because I have the following two books on hold for myself: Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, and Would You Eat Your Cat? by Jeremy Stangroom. The answer, if you're wondering, is no. I wouldn't. While the titles may make me look like an obsessive carnivore, Eating Animals is actually about vegetarianism, and Would You Eat Your Cat? is a brilliant intro to ethical theory which uses interesting ethical dilemmas. A philosophically sound introduction to an area as complex as ethics is a rare find, so I recommend the book highly to anyone with an interest in ethics.

A wonderful thing

I'm not quite back to blogging as normal, as I still don't have the internet at home. I have my fingers crossed for next week.

In the meantime, here comes another handful of stray bookish thoughts drifting across Christina's mind:

One of the most wonderful things about reading is that sometimes, sometimes, you are hanging out with a friend, and mention something you've read, and they know what you are talking about. Suddenly, you have just that much more common history, that many more esoteric references. This happened to me last week, and it was an absolute delight, but I'll get back to that.

Common interests in reading and film have always been important to me, but over the last few years I've become increasingly distrusting of other people's ability to judge my tastes. I have books recommended to me often. Friends, relatives and customers all think they know exactly what I want to read (usually, they think I want to read whatever they happen to enjoy reading). I don't very often come across people whose recommendations I trust. (V, I love you for your unfalteringly good suggestions!)

Last week I attended a philosophy conference in Sydney with a few friends. I've begun to think of the whole week as an exchange of ideas. The philosophical debates went back and forth, and I enjoyed that, but I equally enjoyed the conversations about the books, films and TV shows we loved. We exchanged must-sees and must-reads. For the first time in a long time, I'm actually looking forward to tackling some fiction that has been recommended to me.

That's what friendship is for.

I remember exchanging 'homework' with friends in high school- "I'll watch this if you read that..." I really must get back into the habit. Perhaps I'll even end up less niched.

An office!

As you will recall, I moved house last weekend. I don't have internet in the new place yet, so please forgive me if this blog flies under the radar over the next couple of weeks.

In the meantime, I will be enjoying having my own library/office/study area! Finally! The place is still a work-in-progress (pictures to go on the walls; a couple of pieces of furniture still need to be moved in) but my office is pretty much done. =D

Before:

After:

A bit of news and some wonderful links

For those of you who, a couple of posts ago, said "Huh? Who's Neil Gaiman?", I have this piece of news: Mr. G is now the only author to be awarded both the CILIP Carnegie Medal and the Newbery Medal for the same book. The medals are awarded in the UK and the US respectively, for the best children's book of the year. This year's winner for both was The Graveyard Book. You can read more here.

The picture shown here is one of my favourite illustrations from the book.

FYI, he has been the recipient of numerous awards in the past, including the World Fantasy Award (the first author to receive it for a comic) and the Hugo Award for Best Novel.

Also, I thought it about time that I shared a wonderful ebook link I've found: make sure you check out Inkmesh. It's a search engine for ebooks. It's invaluable for finding those ebooks which are difficult to track down- last night I finally found L.M. Montgomery's Emily trilogy in an electronic format. It also lists prices and available formats alongside each site which supplies the ebook, cutting down on time-consuming online searches.

It's so useful, in fact, that I've added it to my page of (Actually) Useful book links.

Mostly brainless

I've just finished reading Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's trilogy in four parts. Perhaps one day I'll move on to the fifth book, Mostly Harmless, but it's about Arthur's daughter and I have a general aversion to books containing revisited characters, especially if they've gone on to have children. I don't care to imagine their lives post-adventure; I like to leave my characters free in the big wide world with endless possibilities before them. (I know I'm preaching to the converted here, but this was my biggest problem with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.)

Whilst I'm sure Adams will have treated this altogether differently, I'm not sure whether I want to read the book. So, in the meantime, I'm searching for something to read next.

As I was packing my photo albums the other day, I flicked through one and came across a quotation from one of my favourite books, Emily Climbs: "To love is easy, and therefore common -- but to UNDERSTAND -- how rare it is!"

I started thinking about it. If there's one piece of advice this media-saturated world gives us, it's BE YOURSELF! I am myself. I am myself everywhere I go, but how often do I come across someone who actually sees me? It's one thing to 'be' yourself, it's quite another to have friends who know and understand that self. I'm blessed to have a few such friendships.

All this gave me an itch to read L.M. Montgomery's Emily trilogy again, but the books are packed away. Right now, with thesis-writing and house-moving upon me, I need two things from a book:

1. Brainless. I do occasionally read chick lit, but it doesn't give me the sucked-in, switched-off feeling I need, because I tend to over-analyse it. What I need is lad lit.

2. An ebook. Because pretty much everything I own is in boxes, but my ereader is still out.

I think I'll go download me some Nick Hornby.

The one where I gush about Neil Gaiman and think about the rebirth of the author

So if you don't already know that I'm a Neil Gaiman fan, welcome to my blog for the very first time. Those of you that have been here before will understand that when I bought tickets yesterday to seem him in Sydney in August I was BESIDE MYSELF. At work yesterday, I kept saying "I'm going to see Neil Gaiman!" to anyone who would listen (and quite a few people who wouldn't).

I'm not the sort to be star-struck. I think Neil is probably the only person on the planet who could send me into a fluster. I've already started stressing about what I will say if, for some reason, I have the opportunity to shake his hand at one of the events I'm attending. A man as talented as Mr. Gaiman hears strangers tell him how much they appreciate his work all the time.

If you haven't heard of him before, you'll have to take my word for it. His writing talent and his imagination are awe-inspiring, and he has a cult following of over a million fans worldwide. His creativity is matched only by a kind of intellectual rigour rarely found outside academia. When you read a work by Neil Gaiman, you know you are in the presence of a keen awareness of mythology and tales most of us have long forgotten. I think it's telling that a quote from his Sandman comics was recently misattributed to Shakespeare. I'd like to gush some more but I won't, because a.) I would probably bore you and b.) Charlie Orr has already said it anyway.

Instead, I'll just mention that I've been thinking a lot lately about the similarities between William Goldman's The Princess Bride and Neil Gaiman's Stardust.

Neil has said in interviews that Stardust was partly inspired by The Princess Bride- or by a lack of book similar to The Princess Bride. Both are fairy tales sold primarily to an adult audience, and they have a similar humour about them. Both were made into films with plotlines more romanticised than those in the original books.

There is, however, one significant difference: The Princess Bride is metafictional. Goldman continually interrupts the story to say what he thinks of it, and this is part of the story. He talks about his wife and son, their reactions to the text and the process of abridging the original text of The Princess Bride. This is all part of the fiction, though Goldman mixes in enough truth to confuse the reader a little.

I've been thinking about this because I'm writing my Honours thesis on a certain philosophical problem regarding fiction, and I'm using metafiction (specifically The Princess Bride) to illuminate the problem. It occurred to me the other day that while Stardust the text isn't metafictional, it was created in a postmodern world where we have access to authors' opinions of their work. Fans interact with Neil all the time, on Twitter or on his blog. They ask him questions about his work and his life and he answers them (though I've never seen him offer an authoritarian interpretation of one of his works).

It's a joy to read, mostly because it's well-written and he's such a nice guy. And it makes me wonder. There are lots of authors with blogs these days. How does this affect they way we see their work? Roland Barthes famously told us that the author is dead. Could it be that when authors enter our online communities and interact directly with the fans of their work, the author is reborn? Not as a authoritative figure, but as a member of the community discussing the work he happened to create.

Books that aren't overrated

As someone who enjoys fiction of the cult variety more than mainstream novels, I'm always wary of books recommended to me as 'must reads'. More often than not, when I read a universally acclaimed book I find myself disappointed. Every so often, though, somebody does convince me to read something generally acclaimed and I'm pleasantly surprised.

I've read a few of these lately, so in honour of these books I present to you:

Christina's list of books that aren't overrated.

1. The children's book:
The Finn Family Moomintroll is a gorgeous children's book by Finnish author Tove Jansson. The Moomin books are huge in Europe, and utterly charming.

2. The crime novel:

As discussed elsewhere in this blog, I've started reading the Sherlock Holmes books and have found them much more enjoyable than I expected. Who'd have thunk the famous detective would be so delightfully eccentric?

3. The science fiction series:

I'm currently working my way through Douglas Adams's The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (the trilogy in four parts- plus the other one). I was so sure these books would turn out to be overrated. They're not. They. Are. So. Funny. I keep attracting funny looks on public transport by (literally) laughing out loud whilst reading them on my ereader.

4. The romance:
How can you go past Pride and Prejudice? Yet so many people do- they assume this book is a sappy romance and pass it over. The men I know who have been brave enough to read it have loved its glittering satire. Go on, read it. I dare you.

When my desk goes, I go

You may remember from this post that I am awfully attached to my desk. Until this week, I didn't realise quite how much. It's a nice big desk, about two metres wide, with a return (a bit that juts out) on the left hand side which houses my laptop, dictionary and notebooks. (As pictured. I insisted on these paint colours when we moved in seven or eight years ago- now I can't wait to see the back of them!) Even though the desk is mostly used for study now, I still think of it as my 'writing desk'.

I mentioned earlier that I am soon to move. This is good: I am leaving behind my shoebox of a bedroom for significantly more space, including my own office area. I'm essentially going to be a boarder, so I have taken advantage of the fact that the space is already available and have started moving boxes over, bit by bit. My thought was that I would move in gradually, and eventually change home addresses once most of my things were in the new place. A casual, relaxed move.

It's not to be.

This week, I realised that my desk is too large to easily transport, so I'm going to need a few helping hands and will actually have to set a date for moving it. Then I realised that I can't bear to stay in my old place once my desk has moved. I simply cannot be without my beautiful desk, with all its space for thinking, writing and imagining.

So. The move date is set for the 27th. In the meantime, I promise I will blog about actual books soon.

22 boxes

I'm moving house in about a month, so naturally I've started packing. I started with my books, mainly because once I've cleared the books out of my room there will be much more space to move around and pack everything else! So far I've packed 22 boxes of books. There are another four or five boxes' worth that I can't afford to pack just now...

Yes, they are labelled by category. This is because I hope to have help unpacking and organizing them at the other end (HA, that means you!). I need it, because otherwise I will waste an entire week pouring over books I'd forgotten I had.

I already got distracted by my picture books whilst packing. (I collect picture books. I also collect perfume bottles and handbags. Contrary to popular belief, I do not collect shoes. I just happen to have quite a few of them.)

Language and the self

I’m a bit of an anglophile, much to the bewilderment of my parents, who brought me up to be keenly aware of my Finnish heritage. My interest in all things English, however, stems from a deeply-rooted conviction that culturally, I am a product of England as much as I am of Australia or Finland.

I ardently believe that language, far from being a simple tool for communication, is one of the strongest forces in shaping our consciousness. Even though Finnish was my first language, my whole education has been conducted in English. I first encountered the alphabet, that magical cluster of characters with the capacity to create worlds, in English. My obsession with the English language began then.

The folk tales I heard as a child came to me via England (did those adult storytellers ever really understand the power of Red Riding Hood’s cape or Cinderella’s shoe?). My dragons are dragons of flight and fire, they are not the Scandinavian crawling wyrms. The legends I read in primary school were English (are there any stories as wonderful as the Arthurian legends?). The fantasy I grew up on was written by Oxfordians. My sense of humour, even, is quite English (think Gaiman, Pratchett, Adams). In high school, I studied Shakespeare in three separate disciplines. The turns of phrase employed by the English, with their delightfully extensive vocabularies, have always made me proud to speak their language.

How can I begin to unravel this bundle of influences? How can I explain how King Arthur’s court shaped my impressions of the world more strongly than anything I ever saw on TV? How can I account for the fact that my imagination soared in response to black letters marching across the pages?

I’m not sure I can unravel it, and I don’t really want to. If you took away the influence of English, what was left wouldn’t be me anymore. I couldn’t tell you why it’s so important to me, it just seemed apparent from the start that the English language is one of the parameters of my universe. I am defined by this language and this literary heritage, by my responses to it and my passion for it, and I like it that way.